It started with numbers.

Max Miller hadn’t meant to cause a problem—he rarely meant to. He’d simply done what came naturally: analyzed patterns. When a teacher’s grading curve didn’t align with assignment difficulty or class averages, Max ran the statistics. Then he presented them. Calmly. Publicly.

The fallout was… messy.

To smooth things over, the administration decided Max needed a “study partner.” Someone who could help him with social integration, group work, and—unofficially—keeping him from challenging authority every five minutes.

That’s how you ended up sitting across from him in the library after school.

He didn’t look up from his laptop when you sat down. “You’re three minutes late,” he said. Then, realizing how that sounded, he added, “Which is statistically insignificant. I was just… noting it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Good to know I’m being timed.”

He flushed. “I’m not timing you. I time everything.”

At first, tutoring Max was… awkward. He answered questions too honestly. Missed sarcasm entirely. Corrected you when you were technically wrong—even if it didn’t matter. He spoke about equations the way other people talked about music or art, with reverence and excitement.

But late afternoons turned into evenings. Evenings into nights.

Somewhere between arguing over probability theory and sharing vending machine snacks, things shifted. Max started asking questions that had nothing to do with homework.

“Why do people say one thing when they mean another?” he asked one night, eyes fixed on the whiteboard. “It’s inefficient.”

You smiled softly. “Because feelings aren’t logical.”

He frowned. “I’ve noticed.”