Ethan almost said no.
He could see, as clear as the chalk on Mrs. Calloway's board, all the ways saying yes would make his life worse. Daniel and his clique would sharpen their jokes into knives. The corridor whispers would turn from curiosity to cruelty. Sitting with Aria would be another invitation for their laughter. He had spent so long learning how to make himself small; the idea of stepping into the spotlight—however small—felt like stepping off a cliff.
Aria watched him with that honest expression she had when she needed something. There was no flirtation, no coyness—only the raw, trembling kind of plea someone makes when their back is against the wall and hope has nowhere else to go.
"Please," she said again, quieter this time.
He thought of the times he'd been mocked for asking a question in class, of the nights he stayed up rereading a passage until the words stopped racing away. He thought of the way the blackboard had blurred before he got his glasses, the shame at failing despite trying. He thought, too, of the small, steady kindnesses he'd seen in Aria—the way she always returned a borrowed pencil, offered a hand to someone who'd dropped their books. There was a stubbornness in him, too—not pride, exactly, but a quiet refusal to stand by when someone else was drowning.
All that together tilted the balance.
"Okay," he said.
It was a simple answer, flat as the surface of a desk. But when she looked up, the relief that washed over her face was incandescent. She grinned like she'd won something, then immediately blinked, as if embarrassed to be so obvious.
"We'll start tomorrow," she whispered. "After prep."
"Prep?" he repeated, surprised.
She nodded toward the timetable on the wall where "prep" hours were posted—two hours after lights-out, a quiet stretch in the study hall reserved for those who wanted to keep working. "My parents won't be satisfied until I bring my average up. And Mrs. Calloway said you're the best in algebra. I need… your help."
That evening, Ethan found himself waiting outside the study hall like a ridiculous, nervous fool. He rehearsed what he would say—how he'd be patient, how he'd explain things step by step—but when Aria slipped into the room, backpack slung over one shoulder and cheeks still flushed from the walk over, all his rehearsed speeches scattered like loose paper.
They sat at a corner table beneath an old lamp that hummed like a tired bee. The study hall smelled of warm paper and lemon polish. Aria pulled out her notes with trembling hands, crumpled and scribbled, a testament to panic rather than neat study. Ethan laid his books out with the calm deliberateness of someone who'd organized his life around order.
They started small—basic problems, definitions, the kind of tiny victories that stack together into confidence. Aria's first attempt at an equation ended in that same panicked look she wore most afternoons; Ethan explained without condescension, drawing on a spare sheet until her forehead smoothed and she nodded. He didn't make a show of himself. He simply pointed and let the logic form in front of her.
"You make that look easy," she muttered finally, and it wasn't mockery. She sounded grateful—relieved, even.
"That's because I do it more than anyone else in this room," he said, which was a fact and a protection. He didn't want pity. He wanted to be useful.
They fell into a rhythm. Aria would ask, he would answer. When she grew flustered, he'd slow down and show her the same step again, different angle. When she understood, she would beam, and it felt, to Ethan, like sunlight finding a crack in an old wall.
Outside, the lamps began to flicker, and the study hall thinned as students drifted off one by one. The two of them remained, shoulders bending over the same textbook, whispers soft enough to be mistaken for concentration.
At one point, Aria pushed a stray lock of hair over her ear, embarrassed at how long it took her to grasp a particular theorem. "I hate failing," she said, almost conversational, the way the confession of a small, private fault slips out in the quiet.
"It doesn't mean you're failing at everything," Ethan answered. He could have added, it doesn't mean you're a failure, but there was something delicate about the space between them now; he didn't want to crowd it with the bluntness of speech.
She looked at him, and something like vulnerability pooled in her eyes. "My dad says I'm wasting our name if I can't get a scholarship. He thinks I'm lazy. He thinks I choose parties over books." Her voice faltered. "He doesn't know how hard I try."
Ethan understood more than she knew. His own family had never said it out loud, but he'd felt the weight of expectation, the disappointment measured in small looks and unasked questions. He kept his gaze steady. "Then show him how hard you can try," he said. "One problem at a time."
Aria smiled, a genuine thing that leaked warmth into her face. She leaned forward, pencil tapping, and for the first time since he'd met her, Ethan felt something loosen inside him. Helping someone didn't make him smaller; it gave him purpose. It meant his knowledge had value beyond the neat grades on a page.
The first week of tutoring passed in a blur of math and shared sandwiches. They studied in the corners of the library, under the oak by the fountain when the weather allowed, and sometimes in the common room where the fire threw a lazy glow against the curtains. Little rituals formed—Aria always brought too much tea, and Ethan always carried an extra pencil. They timed each other's breaks, and laughed when sleep made them both clumsy with arithmetic.
It wasn't just learning. They traded jokes, small slices of family stories, the kind of private anecdotes that stitch strangers into friends. Aria discovered that Ethan drew during the long summer holidays, sketches piled under his mattress. Ethan learned that Aria had a terrible sense of direction unless she had a book in her hand. He found himself looking forward to their sessions with the same eagerness that used to make him turn pages at midnight.
But nothing about the world outside their corner changed. Daniel still prowled the edges of the courtyard with the easy arrogance of someone who never feared consequences. If Aria left the study hall with Ethan, a few stinging laughs and whispers followed them—sharp, quick reminders that the world was paying attention.
One evening, as they packed away their books, a shadow crossed the frosted window panes of the study room. Ethan glanced up and saw movement—a silhouette lingering under the lantern light, watching. The figure's shoulders were broad, the posture familiar.
Daniel.
Ethan felt the air thicken. He couldn't tell if Daniel had come to gloat or simply to confirm that the rumor mill had teeth. He swallowed and kept his voice light. "Ready for a practice test?"
Aria met his eyes and nodded. "Ready."
They left the study hall together, their footsteps hushed on the stone. Laughter drifted behind them—two or three voices, too close for comfort. Aria's hand brushed Ethan's as they crossed the courtyard, a brief contact that sent an odd, warming jolt through both of them before they hurried on, pretending nothing had happened.
That night Ethan lay awake, replaying the small details he'd once dismissed as nothing. A laugh that lingered, a look that refused to drop. He thought about Daniel watching from the window, decided it was only a matter of time before whispers curdled into cruelty again.
But for the first time since Westbridge, Ethan didn't feel like shrinking. He had learned how to see with clarity, and now he could choose what to focus on. He could see the lines on Aria's notes, the way she chewed her lip when she was thinking, the fierce little determination that made her stay even when it was easier to leave.
He closed his eyes and let the quiet settle around him, feeling—unexpected and fierce—the tiny, hollow joy of being needed. He would face the whispers. He would face Daniel. For now, there were pencil marks and corrected equations and the soft sound of Aria saying, "Thank you," until it began to sound less like courtesy and more like something else.
Outside, the dorm lights blinked out one by one. Inside, their corner of Westbridge burned, stubborn and bright against the dark.