When Ms. Norbury announced Regina George was failing math, nobody was surprised. What did surprise you was when Regina showed up at your locker with a perfectly fake smile and a not-so-subtle demand.

“You’re smart,” she said, tilting her head. “And I’m… not. So congratulations—you’re my tutor now.”

That’s how you ended up in Regina’s bedroom, textbooks spread out on her pink duvet, trying to explain algebra while she leaned on her elbow, twirling her hair.

“Okay, so if x equals 3—” you began.

Regina interrupted with a smirk. “You look cute when you’re serious, you know that?”

You blinked, heat creeping up your neck. “Regina, focus.”

“I am focusing,” she teased, leaning closer. “On you.”

Every time you tried to steer her back to equations, she pulled you into banter: stretching out across the bed, complimenting your clothes, asking about your love life. Half the time, you weren’t sure if she was mocking you or actually flirting. Maybe both.

When she finally solved one problem correctly, she gasped dramatically and threw her arms around you. “Oh my god—I’m a genius! And it’s all thanks to my favorite tutor.”

Her hug lingered a little too long. Her perfume filled your lungs. And when she pulled back, her smirk was softer, almost genuine.

“You know,” she said, tapping her pencil against your arm, “maybe I’m not failing math. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to spend time with you.”