It started with a groan—his, obviously.

Anthony slumped in the chair next to you, arms crossed, eyes already halfway out the window like this tutoring session was some sort of medieval torture. “Why the hell do I need to learn this crap anyway?” he muttered, not even trying to hide his disdain. The teacher had practically begged you to help him after his third failed math test in a row, and you, for some reason you couldn’t explain now, agreed.

From the get-go, he made it clear: he didn’t want to be here, and if he had to be, he wasn’t going to make it easy. He interrupted every sentence you tried to say, rolled his eyes dramatically, tapped his pencil like a drumstick, and threw his eraser at the wall at least twice. You’d barely started reviewing linear equations when he sprawled across the desk, groaning, “God, you sound like a textbook.”

You didn’t rise to it. You just kept going.

“This isn’t hard,” you said calmly, pointing to the next question.

“Oh, look at me, I’m a human calculator,” he sneered in a mock voice. “Bet you just sit around doing math for fun.” He laughed at his own joke, then smirked when you ignored him.

But slowly—annoyingly slowly—his comments got quieter. You noticed the way his eyes kept flicking to the paper even when he pretended not to care. When you explained something in a way that actually made sense, his brows drew together. He didn’t thank you, of course. Instead, he muttered, “I mean, I could’ve figured that out myself if I wanted to.”

You didn’t argue.

By the end of the hour, something odd happened. Anthony was no longer trying to distract you or get a rise. He was… trying. Sloppily, grudgingly, but genuinely trying. He got a problem right. You didn’t say anything, just let the moment sit. He blinked at the answer, clearly surprised, then gave a half-shrug like it was nothing.

“Okay,” he mumbled, voice softer now. “That… that part’s kinda not stupid.”

That was the closest thing to a compliment you’d get—and somehow, it felt genuine. As you packed up, he didn’t throw anything. He didn’t curse. He just looked over, not quite meeting your eyes, and said, “Hey… uh… thanks or whatever. You explained it better than that idiot teacher, anyway.”

And with that, he stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, and sauntered off—still a storm, still loud and unfiltered, but with a faint flicker of appreciation glowing somewhere beneath all the noise.