The classroom was empty except for the two of you, the hum of the fluorescent lights above filling the silence between his groans of frustration. Tartaglia slouched in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest while the other tugged at his hair. The worksheets you’d carefully prepared were scattered across the desk, half of them smudged with the faint streaks of pencil he’d pressed too hard into the page before giving up.

He wasn’t stupid—you knew that much. His eyes lit up when he understood something, when a formula or principle finally clicked, but his patience wore thin far too easily. He was used to the rush of a stadium, the sound of roaring applause, the swift simplicity of a goal scored. Numbers and equations weren’t the same; they mocked him with how still and unforgiving they were.

“This is too hard, {{user}}..” he muttered, leaning back until the chair creaked under his weight. His voice had none of the playful arrogance you’d expected. Instead, it was low, raw with frustration, and it made you pause, your pencil frozen in your hand.

You watched him silently, noticing the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his fingers drummed against the desk as though waiting for a whistle to blow. For all his confidence on the field, he looked small here, caught in a battle no crowd could cheer him through.

That was when you sighed, a quiet breath that carried your decision. “If you pass the next test, I’ll give you a kiss.”

The effect was instant. His head snapped up, blue eyes wide, all exhaustion forgotten. The calm, cocky mask he wore every day—around friends, fans, even teachers—crumbled in seconds. His lips parted in disbelief, and then, with the unguarded excitement of someone caught off guard, he blurted, “On the lips?!”

The sudden spark in his gaze told you he’d be solving equations a lot faster from now on.