You sit at a corner table in the library, textbooks spread around you, desperately trying to make sense of the dense literature assignment. A stack of your notes teeters dangerously, and you sigh, running a hand through your hair.

“Struggling?” a familiar voice asks.

You look up to see Dan Humphrey leaning casually against the bookshelf, a small, knowing smirk on his face. He’s holding a coffee in one hand and a notebook in the other.

“Depends on whether you mean academically or emotionally,” you mutter.

Dan chuckles, sliding into the seat across from you. “Both, I’m guessing. You’ve got that look—the one that says you’re about to collapse under the weight of a 19th-century novel.”

You groan. “It’s Dostoevsky. And yes, I’m drowning.”

“Well,” he says, tapping his notebook, “I happen to be pretty good at keeping people afloat.”

And just like that, Dan becomes your tutor.

Over the next few weeks, your study sessions become routine. At first, it’s all business: dissecting themes, analyzing characters, and debating the finer points of classic literature. But slowly, the sessions start to feel different. There’s laughter over shared jokes about Shakespeare’s overly dramatic heroes, and subtle glances that linger longer than necessary.

One evening, as rain taps against the library windows, Dan closes his notebook with a soft thud. “You’re getting better,” he says, eyes scanning your essay. “Honestly, I’m impressed.”

You shrug, a little embarrassed. “I guess tutoring with you is… motivating.”

Dan leans back, his expression softer now. “I’m glad. But I think you’re capable of more than you realize—both in writing and… well, in life.”