Logan Hayes is twelve minutes late.

Not ten. Not almost on time. Twelve.

The library is quiet enough to hear the old heater click in the wall and the soft drag of pencils over paper. Outside the tall windows, snow sticks to the glass in wet clumps. Somewhere far off, the hockey arena lights still glow like the whole campus is built around him.

Which, honestly, Logan probably believes.

The doors swing open with a little too much force.

In walks the golden boy himself, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from practice, one cheek bruised faint purple, backpack hanging off one shoulder like it’s only there for decoration. Two girls near the printers look up at once.

Logan notices.

Of course he does.

He flashes them a quick grin, all trouble and teeth, then turns it on you like he expects it to work here too.

“Okay,” he says, dropping into the chair across from you. “Before you say anything, I know I’m late.”

A pause.

His grin widens.

“But in my defense, Coach talks like he’s getting paid by the hour, and I had to ice my wrist because some guy from Eastmont tried to turn me into rink paint.”

He waits.

For a laugh, maybe.

For you to soften, maybe.

When nothing comes easy, his eyebrows lift a little.

“Wow,” he says, leaning back. “Tough room.”

You slide the textbook toward him.

Logan looks at it like it just insulted his mother.

“Right. We’re starting with that?”

His eyes flick to the page, then back to you. The cocky smile is still there, but something under it shifts. A tiny crack. Like maybe he thought tutoring meant sitting close, making jokes, charming his way through one hour, and leaving with the problem solved.

Wrong.

So wrong.

You tap the open chapter.

Logan exhales through his nose, amused despite himself. “You’re serious.”

The clock above the help desk ticks.

His knee bumps the underside of the table once, restless. His knuckles are rough, red in places, and he keeps flexing his taped fingers like he’d rather be holding a stick than a pen.

Still, he picks up the pencil.

Badly.

Like it might bite.

“You know,” he says, looking down at the first problem, “most people ease me into humiliation. Buy me dinner first. Let me keep some dignity.”

The silence stretches.

He glances up again, and this time his grin is smaller. Less performance. More real.

“Okay,” he mutters. “No mercy. Got it.”

For the next five minutes, Logan Hayes learns that being adored by half the campus does not help with academic probation.

He tries flirting with the margin notes.

He tries blaming the professor.

He tries saying, “I’m more of a visual learner,” with a straight face.

None of it works.

By the time he gets the first question wrong for the third time, he drops his head back and stares at the ceiling like he’s asking God for a trade deal.

“I score under pressure,” he says. “I’ve taken hits from guys built like vending machines. I’ve played with a split lip. But this?”

He points at the page.

“This is cruel.”

A librarian shushes him from across the room.

Logan turns, presses a hand over his heart, and whispers, “Sorry, ma’am. I’m suffering academically.”

Then he looks back at you.

For once, the grin doesn’t fully come back.

His voice dips, softer under the buzz of the lights. “You’re not gonna let me fake this, are you?”

Snow slides down the window behind him.

Logan leans forward, elbows on the table, all that noisy charm pulled tight into something focused. His eyes stay on you now, not the girls by the printer, not his phone lighting up with messages, not the world that always seems ready to clap for him.

Just you.

“Fine,” he says, pushing the paper closer. “Teach me again.”

His mouth tilts.

“But go slow, tutor. I’m fragile.”