Study Room B was smaller than Eleanor expected.
Two chairs. One narrow table. A whiteboard with ghosted marker stains that refused to disappear. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and old books, the kind of space meant for quiet desperation rather than breakthroughs.
Eleanor arrived ten minutes early.
She always did.
Her bag went on the chair closest to the wall. Laptop centered. Notebook opened to a clean page. Printed syllabus stacked neatly beside it. She checked the clock on her phone, then placed it face-down in her bag.
Control mattered.
She opened Xander Everhart's academic record again, scanning it carefully this time. Not for the first impression, but for patterns.
Missed deadlines, not failed ones.
Average exam scores despite inconsistent attendance.
Strong in-class responses when present.
This wasn't inability. It was avoidance.
The door opened at exactly four.
Xander stepped in without hesitation, helmet tucked under his arm, backpack slung loosely over one shoulder. He paused for half a second, eyes moving across the room like he was assessing terrain.
"So this is where my academic downfall gets fixed," he said.
"Sit," Eleanor replied, still typing.
He did, dragging the chair back and leaning into it comfortably, one arm draped over the backrest like this was a hangout spot.
She finally looked up at him. "Before we begin, there are rules."
He smiled slightly. "Knew it."
"No phones. No walking out halfway. If you don't understand something, you say it. If you don't do the work, I don't lie to lecturers."
"You lie to lecturers?" he asked.
"I don't," she replied. "Other tutors do."
He nodded slowly. "Fair."
She turned her laptop toward him, pulling up his last essay. "We're starting here."
He leaned forward, interest piqued despite himself. "I thought tutors usually go easy at first."
"I don't," Eleanor said. "Why did you choose this introduction?"
He scanned the paragraph. "Because it sounded intelligent."
"It doesn't."
He blinked. "Wow."
"It's vague," she continued evenly. "You repeat the question instead of answering it. You use complicated phrasing to avoid committing to an argument."
"So I'm lazy."
"No. You're cautious."
He scoffed lightly. "That's generous."
"You avoid depth because depth requires accountability," Eleanor said. "You don't like being wrong."
Xander's jaw tightened slightly. "You got all that from one paragraph?"
"Yes."
He leaned back, exhaling slowly. "You're different."
"Focus."
She pointed at the screen. "What is your actual argument here?"
"That—" he hesitated, frowning, "that the author critiques class division through character contrast."
"Good," Eleanor said. "Why didn't you say that?"
"Because it sounded too simple."
"Simple is clear," she replied. "Clear gets marks."
She handed him a pen and slid the notebook toward him. "Write the thesis again. One sentence."
He stared at the page. "Now?"
"Yes."
He hesitated, then wrote. Slowly. When he finished, he pushed the notebook back.
She read it carefully. "Better. Still unfocused."
He leaned forward. "You're brutal."
"I'm honest."
He watched her as she rewrote the sentence, tightening it, sharpening the language without overcomplicating it.
"You do this easily," he said.
"I do this often."
They worked through the essay section by section. Eleanor corrected structure, not content. She asked questions instead of giving answers. When he tried to deflect with humor, she waited him out. When he rushed, she stopped him.
At one point, he groaned and leaned back. "This is worse than practice drills."
"Because you can't rely on muscle memory," she said. "You have to think."
He rubbed his face. "I hate thinking."
"I know."
Outside the window, the football field began to fill. Players ran drills under the late afternoon sun, their shouts faint but rhythmic.
Xander glanced out. His expression shifted—not longing, not resentment, just awareness.
"You're risking your place on the team," Eleanor said quietly.
He looked back at her. "I know."
"Then why aren't you trying harder?"
He was silent for a moment. "Because failing quietly is easier than failing publicly."
Eleanor didn't respond immediately. She let the statement sit.
"Back to the essay," she said finally.
The session stretched longer than planned. Eleanor checked the time once and frowned.
"We're over."
He glanced at his watch. "I didn't notice."
"That means you were focused."
He smirked. "Or tortured."
She packed her things. "Tomorrow. Same time."
"Wait," he said. "Every day?"
"Yes."
"And if I miss one?"
"Then we don't continue."
He studied her for a moment. "You don't negotiate."
"No."
He stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "You don't act like someone who's intimidated by me."
"I'm not."
That surprised him more than anything else so far.
As Eleanor reached the door, voices echoed faintly from the hallway—students passing, laughter, someone mentioning his name without realizing he was inside.
He heard it.
She heard it too.
Neither commented.
She left first.
Xander stayed behind, staring at the revised essay on the screen, then at the empty chair across from him. He shut the laptop slowly, stood, and left the room without his usual swagger.