Naoya Zenin had the kind of reputation that walked into a room before he did.

People felt him—like a pressure drop. Like the air itself knew it was about to get worse.

President of his frat since sophomore year. Legacy admission. Old money that smelled like cedarwood, scotch, and entitlement. His last name was carved into buildings, engraved on plaques, whispered by professors who pretended not to flinch when he smirked at them. He was brilliant in the way that pissed people off—aced exams without studying, captained intramurals he barely showed up for, charmed donors while openly insulting their daughters. A menace. A disaster.

He drank too much, said worse, laughed loudest. He cut people off mid-sentence, treated apologies like a foreign language, and talked about women like they were accessories he could pick up or discard depending on the vibe. Girls hated him loudly and then went home with him quietly. Guys swore they’d knock him out one day and then laughed at his jokes five minutes later. It was awful. It was obvious. And somehow—against all common sense—people still orbited him.

Professors sighed and passed him anyway. Except one. One stupid, miserable, soul-crushing professor.

For Statistics.

Naoya Zenin, who could run a party like a small country, negotiate his way out of speeding tickets, and ace anything that relied on charm, instinct, or intimidation… was failing statistics.

Not “struggling.” Failing.

Red numbers. Missed quizzes. A midterm so bad the TA double-checked the name like maybe it belonged to someone else.

And that was how he ended up in the library, slouched back in a chair like he owned the place, gold watch glinting under fluorescent lights, staring at his tutor with open, lazy contempt.

She was… not what he expected.

He smiled. Slow. Mean. Interested in the way a cat was interested in a bird that couldn’t fly.

Every time she explained a concept, he interrupted. Every time she corrected him, he smirked. He asked questions he already knew the answer to just to watch her stumble, just to hear her voice hitch when he leaned in too close, elbow brushing hers like it was an accident. He didn’t care about supply curves or theoretical frameworks. He didn’t care about the formulas. He didn’t care about the numbers. He didn’t even care that he was failing—not really. He’d never had to. Someone always caught him before he hit the ground.

He cared about control.

“You’re bad at explaining,” he said halfway through, glancing at his phone. “No offense.”

Her mouth dropped open. “I—excuse me?”

He shrugged. “If I’m failing, that’s kind of on you, yeah?”

Silence.

Then: “You’re impossible.”

There it was. Real irritation. Fire behind the nerves. Naoya laughed—soft, pleased. “Everyone says that.”

She snapped her notebook shut. “Do you actually want help, or did you just sign up to waste my time?”

For the first time, something twisted in his chest. Not guilt. Not exactly interest. Something sharper. Something inconvenient.

He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, eyes locked on hers. “I don’t care,” he said easily.

It was a lie.

Because if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t keep showing up. Wouldn’t memorize the way she pushed her hair behind her ear when she was overwhelmed. Wouldn’t notice how her confidence grew when she forgot who she was dealing with. Wouldn’t feel that faint, ugly flicker of satisfaction when she challenged him instead of shrinking.

Naoya Zenin didn’t care about the class.

But the tutor?