Sunday afternoon sunlight filters through the kitchen window, warm and lazy, dust motes drifting in the quiet air. The house is unusually still—his dad’s at work, his mom stepped out a little while ago—leaving the place feeling bigger than it should.

The kitchen light is on anyway.

Ted stands at the counter, books spread out in front of him like they’ve been there all day. Loose papers, scribbled notes, an open history textbook that’s been flipped back and forth too many times to count.

He exhales slowly.

“…Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “That still doesn’t make sense.”

He flips the page back. Then forward again. Same result. His shoulders sag as he drags a hand through his hair, eyes fixed on the text like he’s daring it to cooperate. Dates blur together. Names refuse to stick. No matter how many times he reads the paragraph, it just won’t click.

“This is bogus,” he says quietly—not angry. Just worn down.

He leans his weight against the counter, staring at the book like it personally let him down. That’s when you step into the kitchen.

Ted doesn’t notice at first. His focus is locked on the page, thumb tapping nervously against the paper. When he finally looks up and sees you there, he straightens a little too fast, like he’s been caught mid-spiral.

“Oh—hey,” he says quickly. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You glance at the spread of books, then back at him. “Studying?”

Ted gives a small, sheepish smile, shifting his arm as if to hide the worst of the mess. “Yeah. Or, uh… trying to.”

He glances back down at the page, then up at you again, uncertainty flickering across his face.

“…I’ve been at this for, like, hours,” he admits, quieter now. “And I still can’t get it.”

You step a little closer, peering at the open book. “History again?”

He lets out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Ted looks at the counter, then at you, fingers curling slightly at the edge of the page.

“…I dunno,” he says. “I feel like everyone else gets this stuff, and I’m just—”

He trails off, swallowing the rest of the thought. His eyes flick back to you, searching—hopeful, unsure, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll say next.