𝄢 and sebastian, who usually has opinions about every musician he meets, just stares at you for a second too long before remembering how words work. that’s the replacement singer?

𝄢 “you know jazz?” he asks cautiously, still halfway expecting disappointment because he’s spent years dealing with people who say they understand jazz and then proceed to butcher it. you just smile softly. “i know good jazz.” that should annoy him but instead, it completely derails him.

𝄢 rehearsal is supposed to be quick. just one song, maybe two or three. just enough to survive the evening. but then you step up beside the piano and ask: “what do you want to hear?” sebastian studies you carefully before playing a few opening notes from “is it a crime?” almost experimentally. because how can you fuck that up? it’s a classic.

𝄢 most singers oversing it. push too hard and mistake restraint for lack of emotion. but you don’t. you sink into the song slowly like smoke filling a room. low velvet voice and perfect timing. no unnecessary dramatics. and sebastian— for the first time in his life, sebastian completely misses his next chord because he’s too busy staring at you.

𝄢 because suddenly the club sounds exactly like the version he’s carried around in his head for years. it’s intimate, it’s warm. late-night golden. it’s alive.

𝄢 when the song ends, there’s silence for a second. you glance over at him curiously. “well?” sebastian just blinks, then: “where the hell have you been?”

𝄢 the first performance is supposed to be forgettable. background music while people drink overpriced whiskey and pretend to understand coltrane. then you start singing and the entire room changes. not dramatically at first. quietly. all conversations slowing. glasses lowering. people turning in their seats without realising they’re doing it. because your voice doesn’t sound forced or theatrical. it slips through the room slow and warm and intimate, like smoke curling through dim light. smooth in that impossible sade kind of way. effortless. sensual without trying to be.

𝄢 sebastian’s standing by the bar when he realises he’s completely stopped moving. he’s just staring because suddenly the club sounds like the version he’s had in his head for years. not polished. not commercial. not obnoxiously drunk and loud. it’s full of soul.

𝄢 and the worst part is that you catch him watching halfway through the set. your eyes meet across the club while he’s frozen beside the piano and you smile slightly into the microphone.

𝄢 sebastian almost misses his cue entirely. after the performance the crowd applauds harder than they ever have before in that club. and sebastian, who normally acts deeply emotionally constipated about praise, immediately corners you backstage. “you free tomorrow night?” you raise an eyebrow. “for another emergency?”

“for employment.”

𝄢 from that point onwards, the club changes completely. because people become obsessed with the two of you. not just the music. you and sebastian. the chemistry is visible from the stage immediately and neither of you are subtle enough to hide it properly. sebastian watching you while he plays piano like he’s witnessing divine intervention.

𝄢 you leaning against the mic stand smiling at him knowingly during solos. the quiet little conversations between songs that feel far too intimate for an audience to be witnessing. people start coming back specifically to watch the dynamic unfold. entire tables placing bets on whether you’re secretly together.

𝄢 sebastian doesn’t call it “being attracted to you” at first, he calls it as “professional curiosity” which is his favourite lie to himself. he tells himself he’s just fascinated by how you bend timing, how you sit behind the beat like you’re refusing to be chased by it

𝄢 you notice him noticing you before he ever speaks properly. it’s not obvious attention, it’s worse: quiet attention. the kind that lingers too long on your phrasing after you’ve finished a line, like he’s trying to reverse-engineer you

𝄢 the first real shift happens when you start changing small things just to see if he reacts. a held note slightly longer. a lyric twisted into something more playful. he reacts every time, even if it’s just a micro-expression in his jaw. you start playing to him specifically without meaning to. not in a performative way, more like your instincts adapt. you lean into certain phrases because you know he’ll recognise them as a challenge

𝄢 there’s a night where you hold eye contact during a long instrumental break and neither of you looks away first. after that, everything changes slightly. not dramatically, just enough that it can’t be undone

𝄢 sebastian starts doing small, unnecessary acts of care that he immediately tries to rationalise: saving you a seat near his piano during your breaks without acknowledging it. adjusting the stage light so it doesn’t hit your eyes directly. rewriting the set order so your hardest song isn’t first

𝄢 he watches you more than he means to. not in a staring way at first, more like his attention just keeps drifting there. when he catches himself, he looks away too quickly and pretends he was listening to the band. you start catching him at it. sometimes you pause mid-sentence just to see if he’s paying attention. he always is. he just looks like he isn’t.

𝄢 he starts walking you out without announcing it, like it’s obvious. he takes your coat off the back of a chair without asking and holds it out. when you look at him, he says: “you’re slow when you’re cold.” and refuses to elaborate. you begin timing your exits so you meet him in the same corridor after shows. neither of you admit this is planned.

𝄢 sebastian starts getting protective in very quiet, socially unacceptable ways. if someone interrupts your set, they mysteriously don’t get booked again. if someone talks over you, the sound balance “accidentally” shifts so they can’t hear themselves properly. if someone flirts with you after a show, sebastian suddenly appears beside you with a question about “logistics”

𝄢 he never acknowledges jealousy. he reframes it as professionalism. “they’re distracting the room.” “they’re not respecting the music.” “they don’t understand timing.” you call him out once: “you don’t like people talking to me.” and he replies, without looking at you: “i don’t like people wasting your time.” that lands harder than he intends. he goes quiet for the rest of the night.

𝄢 he begins adjusting the club’s rhythm around you. not in big changes. just tiny edits that make your presence feel inevitable rather than scheduled. you start leaning into him emotionally in small ways without naming it: “was that set alright?” “you’d tell me if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you?” and he always answers honestly, which surprises both of you.

𝄢 sebastian becomes slightly worse at pretending he doesn’t care. people notice before he does. someone says: “you’ve got favourites now.” and he replies: “i’ve got standards.”

𝄢 you start noticing he only fully relaxes when you’re still in the building after your set. not speaking, just present. one night, you ask: “do you ever go home?”and he says: “eventually, but not when you’re still here.” he immediately regrets it. you don’t let him retract it. you just nod like it makes perfect sense.

𝄢 sebastian is falling in love and he feels like control he regained after mia is slowly failing in very precise ways. he starts waiting for you to arrive because it’s the best part of his day. he begins smiling slightly when he hears your voice before he sees you. and your falling in love looks like familiarity turning into dependency. you look for him first in any room. you sing differently when you know he’s listening. you start staying longer just to see what he’ll say when the crowd leaves

𝄢 neither of you define it, because if you do, it stops being something you can hide behind work. and right now, the work is the excuse that lets him stand close enough to you without falling apart.

𝄢 bar goers openly complaining about the way sebastian looks at you. band members hanging around after hours just to witness whatever strange romantic tension keeps happening onstage.

𝄢 because sebastian wilder, chronic snob and professional emotional avoider, becomes ridiculously obvious about you. he’s impossible. introducing you every night with increasingly lovestruck descriptions disguised as professionalism. “and now, the reason any of you people actually showed up tonight…” or: “if you talk during her solos i’ll have you removed physically.”

𝄢 meanwhile you stand beside the piano trying not to laugh while the audience loses their minds over him. he starts dressing even better than he already does too. not intentionally at first. but suddenly his nice button ups are nicer. his shoes extra polished. his hair actually brushed perfectly instead of loosely.

𝄢 because you complimented one outfit once and sebastian has apparently decided to build his entire self-esteem around that interaction forever.

𝄢 the rehearsals become unbearably intimate. all dim lighting and old records and lingering eye contact. sometimes you stay after closing while sebastian plays piano softly just for you, tie loosened, whiskey abandoned somewhere nearby while the city glows outside the windows. and he talks more around you. that’s what surprises everybody most. because sebastian usually keeps people at arm’s length emotionally. he hides behind jazz trivia and pretentiousness and sarcasm. but around you? he softens completely.

𝄢 suddenly he’s telling stories about childhood records he used to play. talking about music like it still hurts him a little. looking at you after songs with this open vulnerable expression like he forgot how to hide for a second. and you always notice.

𝄢 one night during rehearsal you quietly tell him; “you only tap your fingers like that when you’re nervous.” sebastian looks genuinely alarmed. “you can tell?” you smile, “i can tell everything with you.” he spends the next hour completely unable to make eye contact.

𝄢 the audience notices that shift too, because your chemistry evolves from flirtation into something softer and infinitely more dangerous. suddenly there are moments onstage where you look at each other too long after songs end. little smiles meant only for each other. sebastian adjusting the microphone for you with absurd tenderness before performances start. and the crowd eats it alive every single night.

𝄢 articles start appearing about the club. “the jazz revival hidden in downtown la” “the impossible chemistry keeping audiences returning weekly” sebastian pretends to hate the attention. meanwhile he keeps every article folded carefully beneath the counter in his office.

𝄢 after shows the two of you always end up sitting together in the empty club long after everyone leaves. exhausted. half-drunk on whiskey and adrenaline. music still humming softly through the speakers. sometimes you sit on top of the piano while sebastian talks nonsense beside you at three in the morning. sometimes he plays quietly while you sing only for him. those are his favourite moments. no audience, no applause. just you in the dim golden light sounding like true love and velvet.

𝄢 sebastian falls first obviously, catastrophically too. because you understand music the way he does. you make jazz sound intimate again, human again.

𝄢 and sebastian looks at you like you saved something inside him he thought had died years ago. one night after a packed show, you find him alone at the piano after closing, absentmindedly replaying one of your songs. he doesn’t notice you immediately but he feels you there. he’s smiling to himself softly while playing. completely gone. “you know people think we’re sleeping together,” you tease lightly from the doorway.

𝄢 sebastian glances up. and the look on his face is so fond it almost catches you off guard. “yeah?” he says quietly. “they’d probably lose their minds if they knew i’m actually worse than that.” you lean against the piano curiously. “worse how?”

That’s why he’s so relaxed when he steps into the office – towel slung over his shoulder, sweat cooling on his skin, heart rate still humming pleasantly from drills. He’s already got a joke ready about how pathetic the other guy’s serve was, but then the door swings shut behind him, and his coach doesn’t sit down.

Instead, he leans against the desk, meets Patrick’s eyes, and sighs. “You’re failing your classes.”

Patrick blinks, smile still plastered to his face despite his confusion. “That’s dramatic.”

“Your GPA is below eligibility,” his coach replies, dragging a hand down his face. “If the semester ended today, you wouldn’t be allowed to play.”

Patrick laughs once, the sound echoing sharply in the office. “It’s March.”

“And you’re already behind.”

Silence settles, heavy and unfamiliar. Patrick shifts his weight, irritation prickling under his skin. “I’ll fix it,” he says, shrugging. “I always do.”

The coach finally looks at him then, disappointment in his eyes, and Patrick feels his mood sour. “You’ve missed half your classes.”

“I’m here to play tennis, not to listen to some old guy tell me about Hemingway–”

“You’re here to be a student-athlete.”

Patrick scoffs. “Semantics.”

His coach exhales, slow. “This isn’t a warning, Patrick. This is the line.” He taps a folder on his desk. “We’ve arranged a tutor for you. Mandatory. Once a week. You miss sessions, you don’t play. You fail, you don’t play. You don’t agree–” He shrugs. “You don’t play.”

Patrick feels it then – the tight, sick pull in his chest. Not out of fear of failure, or worry for his grades or future, but anger – at being cornered, at being told what to do. 

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” He snaps.

“No, you need to pass,” Coach says, crossing his arms. “So. Decide.”

Patrick stares at the folder like it’s an insult. He thinks about his parents, who threatened to cut him off if he didn’t go to college. He thinks about Art, effortlessly disciplined, happy to juggle both tennis and his classes, and about Tashi, always watching, always the best. 

About the court – the only place he’s ever felt untouchable. 

“Fine,” he huffs. “Whatever. When do we meet?”

The coach nods once. “Good choice. The first meeting is scheduled for tomorrow. And Patrick? Don’t fuck this up.”

Across campus, you sit in a large, oak-panelled office, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you wait for the two administrators across from you to speak. 

Correction – as you wait for them to revoke your scholarship and kick you out.

Your file rests between the two of them, thick with top-mark transcripts and glowing recommendations – and the one mistake you’ve ever made that’s going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Do you understand why you’re here?” The older woman asks, glasses perched low on the bridge of her nose, and you swallow thickly as she peers down through them at you.

“Yes.” You nod, knowing there’s no protesting the claim now.

They exchange a look. The younger man sighs, scanning one of the papers in front of him. “We have evidence that you’ve written academic papers on behalf of other students for compensation.”

You don’t bother to correct their wording, don’t try to explain the nuances – that it started small, that you never cheated on your own work, only did it for others when your account balance got really low or a student loan bill came in.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, any form of academic plagiarism is grounds for suspension,” the man continues. “Potentially expulsion.”

Your hands are steady where they lay in your lap, but your pulse isn’t. 

“But,” the older woman says, and you look up suddenly. “Considering that there were exceptions made for some of those that employed your services, we are willing to consider an alternative.”

You’d already heard that the students with recognizable last names and moneyed families had gotten off with basically a slap on the wrist, but with no rich angry parents of your own, or campus buildings named after your family, you’d already written off the chance of that happening for you.

“There’s a student-athlete whose academic performance has become… A concern,” the man starts, opening up a file and frowning down at it. “He’ll need a tutor to get him back on track.”

“Now, since you’ve always been at the top of your class, and you have previous tutoring experience, we’re prepared to make a deal with you.” The woman pushes her glasses to the top of her head, and folds her hands together on the table.

You’re already nodding, desperately grabbing at whatever lifeline they’re willing to throw at you. You can’t get kicked out, can’t let this one mistake ruin everything you’ve worked towards.

“If you agree to tutor him for the remainder of the semester,” she continues, “And his grades improve to acceptable standing, we’re prepared to overlook this violation.”

“Yeah– yes, I’ll do it.” You find your voice, nodding almost fervently. There’s a pause, before the burning question finally comes out. “And, um, if I can’t? Improve his grades, that is.”

The pause that follows feels heavy, deliberate, and the man looks at you with sympathy. “Then this incident will have to go on your record.”

You nod. Of course it will. It doesn’t matter – you can do this. You have to do this. It occurs to you to ask, “Who is he?” 

The woman pulls her glasses back on and peers down at the file. “Patrick Zweig.”

The name rings a faint bell – he plays tennis, you think. You’d heard girls from your philosophy seminar giggling about him and his ‘cute friend’ earlier in the semester.

You sit back, spine straight, already calculating schedules and syllabi and the thin margin for error. “Okay. When do we start?” You ask.

They look very relieved. It almost makes you feel sick.

As you leave the office, the weight of it presses in, equal parts relief and worry. It isn’t just the risk, but the unfairness of your future being balanced on the whim of a stranger – a stranger who, completely unbeknownst to you, is already deciding exactly how much of a nightmare he’s going to be.

One day later, you get to find out.

Patrick Zweig is late – not egregiously so, not enough to make you give up or go report him, but just enough to make a point.

When he finally shows up, twenty-three minutes into your scheduled hour-long session, he looks like he’s come straight from practice – his dark hair is damp, a loose sweatshirt thrown on over athletic shorts, tennis bag slung across his torso. 

He scans the room with a blasé expression, his eyes half-lidded yet sharp, and a smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth as he collapses into the chair across from you, dropping his bag at his feet. 

In another life, you could have found him attractive – probably could have swooned over him, like the other college girls who turn up to all the Stanford tennis matches with no real interest in the sport.

But this is not that life.

You straighten slightly, smoothing a hand over your notes, schooling your expression into something neutral. Professional.

“Hi,” you say. “Patrick, right?”

He hums, like he’s amused you asked. “That obvious?”

“You’re twenty-three minutes late,” you reply mildly, eyes sliding between him and the clock. “I assumed.”

That earns you a smirk – wider now, entertained. He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him like he’s settling in for a movie.

“So,” he says, eyes raking over you. “You’re the tutor.”

“Yes,” you say evenly. “I am. And we only have about half an hour left, so I’d like to get started.”

You glance down at the bag at his feet, then back up at him. “Did you bring your book? And your syllabus?”

He watches you for a long moment, taking in the display of neatly organized stationery and papers in front of you, smirk slowly spreading into a full grin. “You’re serious.” He observes, cocking his head at you like it amuses him.

“Yes,” you say, still trying to be polite, though something in your chest tightens. “I am.”

He shrugs, slow and unapologetic, leaning back into his seat and folding his hands behind his head. “I figured we’d ease into it,” he says, relaxed. “Get to know each other first. Feels rude not to know the name of the person I’m supposed to be spending so much one-on-one time with.”

You give it to him and exhale slowly through your nose, the patience you arrived with already thinning at the edges. “But I don’t really think we have time for easing into anything, Patrick. Your coach was very clear. We need to focus on your English Literature course–”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand. “He can be very dramatic.”

“This isn’t–” You inhale deeply, your tone sharpening just a fraction. “We need to make sure you actually pass your classes.”

That finally gets his attention – not concern, exactly, but interest. He sits forward just enough to show he’s listening.

“And if I don’t?” He asks lightly.

You ignore his question, infuriated by the easy smile that remains plastered to his face, and flip open your folder anyway, sliding him over the schedule for your sessions, explaining your course plan, attendance requirements, minimum GPA, etc. 

He nods along, but never once looks down at the paper, doesn’t ask anything, and when you finish speaking, he leans forward, braces his arms on the table, and jerks his head towards the big clock.

“How much longer do we have to sit here?”

You look up, patience evaporating as you flick the folder shut. “If you’re not going to take this seriously then there’s no point of me even being here.”

It’s all theatrics – you can’t afford to leave, to let this go. You need it, desperately, but you can’t admit that to him, can’t let on how much this matters to you.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that.” He pouts.

“Do you think I want to be sitting here, wasting my time babysitting you?”

Sharp eyes snap to yours, his attention caught, though not in the way you want – not scolded, or admonished into compliance, but challenged. “I don’t know, do you?”

You hold his gaze, unimpressed, and he rolls his eyes. You slide the paper you were given toward him. “You’re failing your English Literature requirement.”

He glances at the page, then back at you. “I read.”

“That’s not the same thing as doing the work for your class.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Semantics.”

You ignore that, looking down at the sheet. “You completely missed the midterm. You failed the last quiz. You haven’t submitted a single response paper.”

“Those are a lot of words to say that the class is boring.”

You keep your voice even. “What are you reading right now?”

Patrick leans back, rocking the chair onto two legs. “The Sun Also Rises.”

“Okay,” you say. “Tell me what it’s about.”

He grins. “What, you didn’t get it? Should I tutor you?”

You wait him out, eyes narrowed. Eventually, he sighs like he’s indulging you. “A bunch of miserable rich people, drinking too much in Europe because they don’t know what to do with themselves after the war.”

You pause, brow lowering over your eyes. “So you did read it.” 

Patrick grins, immediate and unrepentant. “Never said I didn’t.”

“Then why aren’t you doing the work?”

He tilts his head. “Why would I?”

The bluntness of it irritates you more than if he’d lied. “Because you’re failing,” you say. “Because if you keep this up, you won’t be eligible to continue with your tennis.”

He scoffs. “Save it, okay, Coach already gave me the speech.”

“So…?” Your expression scrunches in confusion, glancing up at him and then back at your notes, entirely baffled.

“...So?” Patrick mimics you almost mockingly. 

“So, what the fuck is your deal?”

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. You clearly don’t need a tutor, so why are we both here pretending you’re incapable when you just need to get your head out of your ass?”

For the first time, something sharp flashes across his face – irritation, maybe. Or interest.

“You’re taking this way too personally, Professor.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, pushing back from the table a fraction. “Some of us take our jobs seriously.”

Patrick’s mouth twitches, like he’s deciding whether to laugh. “Relax,” he drawls. “You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm.”

“I look like someone who doesn’t want their academic record tied to a guy who’s had everything handed to him his entire life and is only now realizing there are consequences for his actions.” The words spill out of you, irritation provoking you. 

“Wow,” he says, infuriatingly unphased, looking almost impressed. “You always this intense?”

You don’t answer that. You flip another page in your folder instead, eyes glued to the table.

“Ooh,” he coos, leaning forward again, closer, elbows on the table, voice dropping into a dramatic hush. “Let me guess. Straight A’s, color-coded notes… You get a rush from being right.”

You don’t look up. “Let me guess – you think that’s supposed to bother me.”

That finally does it. He blinks. It’s quick, but it’s real – the brief stutter of surprise when his usual rhythm doesn’t find anything to hook into. “I’m just trying to make conversation.” He says, tone light, but there’s a new edge there now – he’s curious.

“This isn’t a social call.” 

He smiles charmingly anyway, raking his eyes over you. “Could be.”

You meet his gaze then, flat and unyielding. “It won’t be.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet. Patrick studies you, like he’s recalibrating, like he came in expecting you to fold, or quit, and is only now realizing you won’t. And that, more than anything else so far, seems to throw him.

“So,” he says instead, glancing down at your notes. “English Lit. What do you want from me? The themes? The symbols? Do I have to tell you all about the metaphors for masculinity or whatever?”

“Close,” you say coolly. “You have to do your work. On time. And go to class.”

He groans softly. “You’re killing me.”

“You’re killing your GPA.” You’re annoyed to find you suddenly have to suppress your own smile. 

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “You know, you could be a little nicer about it. Maybe you’ll even earn a tip.”

“I didn’t realize you needed me to coddle you through this.” You snap, irritated by the insinuation that this is about money for you, or that you should be any nicer to this man who’s done nothing so far but disrespect you and your time.

There’s another long pause where Patrick leans back, his eyes narrowing. He doesn’t seem annoyed, or amused, but interested. “Huh,” he murmurs. “You really don’t care.”

“No,” you say. “I do care. About your grades. Just not about you.”

That earns a low whistle. “Ouch.”

You slide a blank sheet of paper toward him. “Write a paragraph. Anything. One claim about the novel. I don’t care if you believe it, just give me something to show that you’re trying.”

He looks at the paper, then at you, then back at the paper.

“Or,” he says, grin lazy and unmistakably practiced. “I could take you out sometime and we call it even. Make it worth your while….” His tone suggests he already knows exactly how that usually goes.

You pause, clenching your jaw. “Not a chance.”

The words land clean. Final.

Patrick stares at you for a second, clearly waiting for the follow-up – the smile, the fluster, the softening that usually comes after.

It doesn’t.

“Pick up the pen or don’t, Patrick,” you huff a sigh, already turning back to your notes. “I don’t control you. But if you walk out of here without doing anything, I go right to your coach.”

Something shifts, his interest in you sharpening. He rolls the pen across the table, fidgeting with it, eyes still on you.

“You know, you keep threatening to walk.” He states mildly, and you can see him watching you in your peripheral.

You don’t look up. “Because I will.”

“No,” he says, almost conversationally, “You won’t.”

That makes you pause.

He gestures lazily toward the door. “I was late. You could’ve packed up. Written me off as a no-show.”

You lift your eyes to him, wary now. “I waited because it’s my job.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Or because you want the paycheck.”

You pause, taken about that that’s what he thinks this is about – that you’re putting up with him for money. While you don’t want to let on how critical this is for you, you still hate the implication that you’re just in it for a check. 

“That doesn’t mean you can just–”

He laughs softly. “Relax. I’ll show up, do the bare minimum, and you'll still get your paycheck. Everyone wins.”

The sudden ring of the bell marking the end of the hour is punctuated by his gleaming smile as he stands up, hooking a hand around his bag and slinging it over his shoulder and heading for the door.

He pauses just before leaving head poking back into the room with a cheeky grin. “See you next week, Professor.”

The door closes behind him, leaving you staring at the empty chair, irritated, unsettled, and uncomfortably aware that he just won whatever game the two of you were playing. And furious at yourself for your lack of a clever comeback.

Over the next week, you learn more about Patrick Zweig than you’d ever admit to wanting to know.

It starts innocently enough – a couple overheard conversations, his name dropped in passing, nothing more. 

You look him up on the Stanford tennis page once, purely for context, and then again to narrow your eyes at the photo they used. You ask around about him in what you hope is a casual way, like you’re just being thorough. Responsible. A good tutor.

The picture that forms is annoyingly consistent.

Patrick Zweig is talented, insufferable, and apparently incapable of celibacy. His reputation as a playboy precedes him, sometimes even eclipsing his skill on the court. He’s always mentioned in the same breath as his best friend, Art Donaldson, as well as Tashi Duncan – campus royalty, tennis prodigy, It Girl of Stanford.

You tell yourself that you’re just gathering useful information, knowledge that can help shape your tutoring sessions. You also tell yourself that’s why you refuse to go to the match that weekend. On principle.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop everyone else from talking about it. For days. Patrick won, apparently, not that you care.

By the time your next session rolls around, all the scattered details have condensed into one irritating, inescapable truth – Patrick Zweig is exactly the kind of person who has never had to want for anything, and somehow that makes the fact that he’s failing English Literature feel personal.

You gather your things and brace yourself as you head to the library to meet him, grimacing when you enter and realize just how quiet it is today.

Your usual room was in use, you couldn’t find a replacement in time, so the study section of the library it is – but you’d miscalculated just how empty it would be, how silent, how immediately tense it is between the two of you. 

Patrick is only fifteen minutes late this time, slouching into the chair across from you, chewing gum, eyes flicking over the spines of books with an air of amusement.

He spends the first ten minutes of your session asking stupid questions, telling you he didn’t bring his book, didn’t read the chapter, and trying to get under your skin. 

It works. You finally snap, telling him to cut it out, and he smirks as you finally engage with him. His eyes flick over your face, lingering just a beat too long. “But you look so good when you’re annoyed at me. Very serious. I’m into it.”

Heat licks up the back of your neck. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He asks, all mock innocence.

“This isn’t–” You stop yourself, glance around to check if anyone could possibly overhear him. You drop your voice further, just in case. “This is not the place for whatever game you think you’re playing.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really tense.”

“Shocking.” You mutter, narrowing your eyes.

He hums, smirking. “I could help with that.”

You stare at him. “Patrick.”

He shrugs, like he hasn’t just crossed a line. “I’m just saying. You’re wound really tight, you probably just need to destress. Maybe then you’ll get off my dick about my grades.”

“That is not–” You cut yourself off, breath sharp. “This is about you passing your class.”

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “And you getting paid.”

Your mouth thins. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m not judging. Everybody’s got a price.”

Something in you goes very still, and then snaps – not dramatically, just clean and final. This can’t be worth it. There has to be something else you can do, some other way you can plead with the administrators to let you stay at Stanford. But you can’t do this anymore. 

You close your notebook. “Okay,” you say, quietly. “We’re done.”

He blinks, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“I’m not doing this,” you say, already standing, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You didn’t bring the book, you didn’t do the reading, you’re not putting in the work, and you clearly don’t intend to.”

“Come on,” he says, half-smiling like this is still a joke. “You’re really gonna leave?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you were a professional.”

You turn back to him, anger flaring hot and sharp. “I’m not going to sit here and let you waste my time or talk to me like that. I’ll tell the coordinator you’re not engaging and they can deal with it.”

That’s when rises to his feet and steps forward so your back hits the shelf behind you. It’s not aggressive, just calculated, inserting himself into your space. 

The shelves are narrow, and he angles his body between you and the exit, deliberately not touching you, but still close enough that you’re forced to lean back into the shelves, your eyes wide.

“Whoa,” Patrick says lightly, as if he’s not suddenly caging you in with his body. “That feels extreme.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, heat immediately blazing in your cheeks at the sudden proximity. 

“Move.” You manage to say, deliberately looking past him at the exit.

He doesn’t. He leans closer instead, hand braced on the shelf behind your ear, close enough that you can smell the mint on his breath as he hums.

“No,” his eyes flick over your face, a lazy smile spreading across his lips. “I think you like it.”

You swallow thickly, eyes darting down to his lips for the briefest moment, before your brain catches up to itself. “You’re disgusting.”

“Mmm… Maybe,” he tips his head to the side, smile widening as he considers you. “But then so are you.”

You balk at him. “I’m not the one–” 

“Staring at my lips?” He makes a ‘tsk’ sound, and you feel the surge of heat in your body at the absurdity of it all, definitely not feeling anything about the proximity of your skin to his, or how his eyes are raking over you, or how if you leant forwards just a little bit–

You blink, snapping yourself out of it. “Zweig, if you don’t step back in the next five seconds I’m actually going to hit you.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, but doesn’t move back. “Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that–”

“Three… Four…” You keep your voice even.

“Are you serious?”

“Five.”

Your palm comes up, fast, and makes contact with his cheek. It’s lighter than you could have done, but effective, the sound echoing sharply around the quiet library. Patrick’s head snaps to the side, and you step around him.

“I fucking warned you.” You huff, irritated to find that you actually feel a little bad for him, but that dissipates when you catch a glimpse of his expression as he turns to face you.

He’s fucking laughing. “Wow, Professor, I didn’t know you had that in you.”

You’re genuinely at a loss for words, just staring at him while your eyebrows pinch together.

He rubs a hand over his cheek, eyes bright and mouth split in a shining grin as he watches you. He holds his hands up in surrender, expression softening slightly. “Don’t go to the coordinator, alright? I’ll try.”

You realize that your mouth is hanging open, and you snap it closed as you try to come up with a response. “O–Okay.” You swallow, nodding, still stunned. 

“Okay.” He nods in return, still grinning as he grabs his bag. 

Your heart thunders in your chest, the whiplash of your anger and your shock making your head spin as you watch him gather his things.

As Patrick slides past you to leave, he leans close to your ear as he slips behind you and whispers under his breath, “That was hot.”

You spin around to scold him, brow furrowed, but he’s already disappeared into another row of shelves, leaving you alone and utterly confused in the study section.

Even as you leave, you’re not really thinking about the session – you’re too busy cataloguing the warmth in your face, the way your pulse sings under your skin, the way the skin of your palm tingles from the impact.

You’re still thinking about him, long after you’ve shoved your books into your bag with more force than necessary and left the library.

For the rest of the week, you very deliberately do not think about Patrick Zweig.

You absolutely don’t think about how close he’d stood, or how easily he’d unsettled you. You certainly don't replay the moment at all – not the way his hand brushed past your cheek, not the way his eyes darkened under the fluorescent lights. 

Mostly, you’re just pissed that he managed to get under your skin like that, as if that isn’t exactly what he wants.

By the time your next scheduled session rolls around, you’re fine. Completely fine. So fine, in fact, that you arrive ten minutes late – if he can make a habit of strolling in whenever he feels like it, you can afford to be a little careless too.

The door creaks loudly as you push it open, the sound echoing down the corridor, and you wince – and then freeze.

Patrick is already sitting at the desk, his book laid out in front of him, and at the sight of you he uses his foot to push the opposite chair out for you. 

“You’re late.” He points at you with a pen, accusingly. 

“You– What?” You can’t help the question, shock evident on your face, and he grins at your reaction as you move to put your bag down, brows still pulled together in confusion. 

“I’m not a complete asshole, you know.” He shrugs, watching you carefully as you move to sit.

Right before you make contact with the chair, he uses his foot to tug it toward him, pulling you into your seat at the table, and your eyes go wide at the sudden movement. 

Once you’re over your shock at the motion, you clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, schooling your face into a neutral expression. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Ouch.” He places a hand over his heart with a wounded expression. “You’re mean, you know that?”

You level him with a cool stare in response, tamping down the smile that threatens to tug at your lips, and he grins. “Yeah, exactly, just like that.” 

The rest of the session goes shockingly smoothly. He gives you his latest test, which is marked with a big fat FAIL in red ink across the top, but only because there’s nothing even written on the paper.

You go over the last few chapters of the book, and you’re stricken by how intelligent Patrick actually seems to be, underneath all the showy confidence and charm. 

It’s near the end of the session when he brings it up, casual as anything, leaning back in his chair as he glances over at you. “So… I need you to talk to my coach for me.”

You look up slowly, eyes already narrowed. Ah. The being on time and actually seeming to give a shit makes sense now. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” he exhales a laugh and leans forward, his chair making a clunk sound as the front legs make contact with the ground again. “You didn’t even ask why.”

“I don’t need to,” you say, closing your book. “I already know why.”

Patrick huffs a dramatic sigh, tipping his head back towards the ceiling. “He thinks I’m not taking this seriously.”

“...And?”

“And I am,” he says, glancing back at you. When your expression doesn’t change, he raises his eyebrows. “More than I was.”

You exhale through your nose. “That’s not the same as doing well.”

“It will be,” he says easily, shrugging. “I just need him off my back until then.”

Your gaze sharpens. “I’m not going to lie.”

“You won’t be.” Patrick shakes his head, leaning forwards on the desk and bracing on his forearms. The sudden proximity makes you blink, and you swallow thickly, immediately reminded of the library. “Come on. I am trying.”

You frown, cocking your head. “You want me to lie and tell him how great your grades are now? How dedicated of a student you’ve become?”

“I want you to confirm I’ve been showing up,” he corrects, leaning even closer. “That I’m reading. That I’m not blowing this whole thing off.”

You study him for a long moment. He meets your gaze without flinching, something uncharacteristically serious there.

“I’ll ace the next test,” he says, and somehow, you can tell that he means it. “Not just pass. Like–” he lifts a hand, palm flat, pushing it upward. “–Impressively.”

You snort despite yourself, thinking of the last few tests of his you’d seen. “You can’t promise that.”

He shrugs, confident. “Sure I can.”

You decide to entertain it. “And if you don’t?”

“Then you get to slap me again.” He smiles teasingly, and you scowl, though part of you relaxes at it being brought up so casually.

You weigh it – the risk, your own personal ties, the irritating sympathy you feel for him.

“…Fine,” you say after a long moment. “I’ll talk to him. That’s it.”

Patrick grins, leaning back. “Knew you’d come around, Prof.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, but can’t help the small smile that curls your lips after.

When his match that weekend rolls around, you make good on your promise, showing up to the tennis courts with only a little bit of apprehension, weaving through a sea of red Stanford t-shirts to get there. 

You find the coach near the benches and introduce yourself nervously. He listens carefully as you explain Patrick’s attendance, his engagement, the improvement you’ve observed – no embellishment, no lies, just… No mention of his less-than-favourable moments, either.

When you finish speaking, the coach nods, hands braced on his hips. “I’m glad to hear it,” he smiles at you, and then, after a beat, “Hey, you should stick around.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“For the match,” he says, gesturing toward the court. “Context matters. You’ve put all this effort into making sure he gets to stay here and play for us, you might as well see what you’re working towards.”

“Oh– no, I really don’t need to–”

But he’s already turning away, conversation apparently over, hand hovering over your back as he guides you to the stands. You go with him, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do, all the way until he’s deposited you in a seat.

You don’t realize Patrick’s already on the court until you hear your name being called distantly, and it takes you a minute to place it and find him below. He’s staring up at you, racket hanging loose in his hand, eyebrows lifted like he’s caught you doing something embarrassing.

What are you doing? He mouths.

You lift one shoulder in a helpless shrug, jerking your chin toward his coach. His confusion melts into something bright and smug almost immediately. 

You flip him off without thinking. He laughs, the sound carrying all the way up to the stands, before he’s called away to the court, and you try to ignore the little flutter in your chest at the sound.

And that should be it. You should check out, stare at your shoes, take one of your textbooks out of your bag to do some reading.

Instead, the match starts, and your attention is caught.

Patrick serves, the ball cracking against his racket with a sound that carries across the court, and you feel it low in your chest.

Oh.

He’s good. Obviously. Precise, fast, ruthless, like the court belongs to him – controlled, almost cruel in how effortlessly he dismantles his opponent. You hate how compelling it is. 

Halfway through the set, he glances up again and finds you immediately. His grin widens, unmistakably pleased now that he knows you’re watching, and he plays the next point like he’s showing off on purpose, stretching for a shot he doesn’t need to chase, sending the ball down the line with unnecessary flair.

The crowd eats it up.

Oh, you are so not doing this. You are not going to sit here and think about how the sun drapes over his toned arms and legs, or how his jaw sets when he’s focusing, or the way his curls cling to his forehead as he begins to sweat.

He wins the point, and the crowd goes wild. Patrick looks up, his eyes finding you instantly. He grins victoriously, squinting through the sun, and then he winks.

You glare back, heat crawling up your neck, and tell yourself he’s being smug because this is just the deeply irritating reality that Patrick Zweig is talented, arrogant, and unfairly attractive when he’s doing the one thing he’s good at.

Still, your pulse doesn’t settle for the rest of the match, and by the time it ends (and Patrick wins, because of course he does), you’re no longer thinking about syllabi or response papers.

A weird sort of panic claws at your throat, and you don’t wait for the applause to die down. The moment the final point is called, you’re up, bag already on your shoulder, slipping sideways along the row like you might be able to vanish if you move fast enough. You refuse to give Patrick the satisfaction of catching you lingering.

You make it three steps down the aisle before a voice cuts in from your right side.

“Hey– Sorry, hi.”

You turn, half-expecting the coach again, and find yourself face-to-face with someone you recognize immediately from your internet stalking as Art Donaldson.

“I’m, uh, I’m Art,” he greets, offering his hand in an endearingly formal gesture. “You’re the tutor, right?”

You hesitate, then take it. “Unfortunately.”

Art laughs, loud and genuine. “Yeah, that checks out. You came to see him play?”

“Oh, no– I didn’t–” You say suddenly, because it feels important to clarify. “I just came to talk to his coach, who then insisted...”

“Of course he did,” Art’s lips curl into a wry smile, glancing toward the court almost shyly. “Coach loves showing off.”

There’s an awkward beat, where you’re very aware of Art’s eyes on you, as if he’s trying to figure you out. “Do you have a game soon?” You ask just to break the silence, readjusting your bag strap. 

“Uh…” Art’s brows pull together slightly and he huffs a half-laugh, ducking his head a little, and you realize your mistake.

“Fuck, sorry, a match. I’m sorry, I don’t– This isn’t normally my thing. Sorry.” You stumble over your own words as you try to apologize, grimacing.

“No, no, you’re fine. It’s honestly kind of refreshing.” Art shrugs slightly, and you smile.

Before he can say anything else, a voice cuts in from your other side. “You were in my seminar.”

You turn to find Tashi Duncan (the Tashi Duncan, the tennis prodigy from the Adidas posters you’ve seen everywhere, quite possibly the most beautiful girl on campus) watching you with frank curiosity, her head tilted slightly as she studies your face. 

“Comparative Lit,” she continues. “You argued with the professor about the unreliable narrator.”

You blink, both a little starstruck and also genuinely confused. “…I asked him a question.”

“You corrected him,” she pauses for a moment, before her lips curl. “I liked it.”

You feel heat creep up your neck despite yourself. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

She hums, turning to scan the crowd before focusing on you again. “So, is Patrick going to get kicked out?”

“Oh, no, he’s– Well, I don’t–” Jesus Christ, get it together. “Not on my watch, at least.” You finally say, readjusting your bag again.

“Oh, so you’re a miracle worker.” Art laughs, sharing a knowing glance with Tashi, and you shrug, unsure how you could possibly explain the strange mutual understanding you’ve formed with Patrick.

Speak of the devil.

“You guys stealing my tutor from me?” He appears then, stepping into the loose circle like he belongs there, still flushed from the match, hair damp, energy crackling just under his skin.

He takes in the scene quickly – Art smiling at you, Tashi watching you almost hungrily – and something prickles at the back of his neck.

“What are you still doing here?” He asks, eyes slanting over to fix on you, pleased to find you already looking at him.

“I talked to your coach,” you say evenly. “Like you asked.”

“Yeah, and then you stuck around,” he adds, a cocky grin spreading across his face. “You wanted to watch me play.”

“I didn’t want to,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “Your coach made me sit and practically blocked me in.”

Art’s eyebrows lift, smile tugging at his lips as he ducks his head shyly. “Oh.”

Patrick looks at him sharply. “What?”

“Finally found someone who you can’t charm into doing what you want, huh?” Art quips, still grinning, and Patrick shoves him gently. 

You watch in amusement as Art shoves Patrick back, and Patrick subsequently drops his stuff and fully tackles Art – there’s such a playful easiness between them, an almost childish side you haven’t yet seen in Patrick. 

Tashi scoffs beside you, watching the boys mock-wrestle on the ground, before she makes eye contact with you, making a face like ‘men, am I right?’. 

“There’s a sports mixer happening at one of the frats tonight,” she folds her arms elegantly in front of her chest, eyes narrowing slightly, almost like a challenge. “You should come.” 

You blink. “Oh, no, I’m not–”

Popping up beside you, Patrick scoffs as he helps Art stand up again. “Nice try. I’ve never seen Professor over here outside of a classroom or the library.”

A flash of irritation tugs in your chest at the dismissal.

“Oh, come on, you’ve gotta tell me how bad his grades are getting, I’m dying to know.” Art pipes up, smoothing his hair and putting his hat back on as he claps his friend on the back. “Just come for a little bit?”

You’re aware of the fact that a sports mixer at a frat house sounds like your actual worst nightmare, that you barely know these people and you’ll definitely end up feeling left out, but you’re also aware of Patrick’s eyes on you, and for some reason, you nod.

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Something flutters in your chest at the way Art’s face lights up at your answer. “But only for a little bit.”

Art is already pulling his phone out, enthusiasm bright and uncomplicated. “Awesome. I’ll text you the address.”

You hesitate, then take the phone when he hands it to you, thumbs hovering for a second before you type your name and number in, acutely aware of Patrick’s eyes on you.

You can feel the way his posture stiffens, the easy looseness bleeding out of him. When you glance up, you catch his expression mid-shift – mouth set in an easygoing smile, but his eyes are dark and fixed on Art’s screen like it’s done something personally offensive.

You finish typing and hand the phone back.

Art grins down at your number. “Alright. Nine o’clock. No pressure.”

“Just for a bit.” You reiterate, already regretting your decision.

“Of course.” He replies, sincere, and you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Seriously. I’ll even walk you home myself.” He offers, and you smile. 

You don’t look at Patrick when you say your goodbyes and turn to leave, but you feel the weight of his gaze all the way as you walk away, aware – absurdly – of having crossed some invisible line.

When you finally do glance his way, his expression is unreadable, smoothed back into something careless.

But somehow you know the damage is already done.

The party is even worse than you expected it to be.

People spill out of the front of the frat house, all toned and lean and obviously athletic, and you stand at the edge of the lawn for longer than you’d care to admit, trying to psych yourself up enough to go inside. 

When you finally venture in, it’s loud, and packed, and you’re forced to squeeze past multiple couples eating each other’s faces before you even catch sight of Tashi – near the wall in the living room, hair draped loose over her bare shoulders, gaze sharp as she scans the room and a smile lighting up her face when she spots you.

“You came,” she rakes her eyes over you appraisingly, voice raised above the pounding music. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I almost didn’t.” You admit sheepishly, searching the crowd for a familiar head of dark curls.

She hums, considering you. “Because of Patrick?”

You frown, startled. “What? No, not– Why?”

“Nothing,” she narrows her dark eyes, shrugging nonchalantly. “It just seemed like he got under your skin earlier.”

“Oh, no– Well, maybe a little. I don’t know. He can just be an asshole sometimes.” You shake your head, stepping to the side to avoid the flailing arms of some guy ‘dancing’.

She studies you for a moment and you prickle slightly under the scrutiny before she leans in close, her voice raised to make sure you hear her. “He’s only acting like that because he wants you, you know.”

You choke a little, shaking your head. “Wh– No, he doesn’t.”

Tashi’s smile turns sharp and knowing. “He wouldn’t act like such a child if he didn’t.”

Before you can respond, Art appears, already mid-sentence. “–And I swear, the ref was blind, like fully blind– Oh!” His face lights up when he notices you. “You made it!”

“You’re here.” Patrick appears next to Art, glancing between you and Tashi with narrowed eyes, and you nod.

“Yep.” You smile despite yourself, Tashi words still worming their way under your skin.

“He said you wouldn’t come, but I had faith.” Art pipes up, taking a sip of his drink, and you arch an eyebrow.

“He did, did he?” You slide your gaze accusingly over to him, taking in the way the flashing neon lights paint his face in shades of purples and blues.

“Oh, like I had any reason to think you would show.” Patrick defends, and you make a humming sound, somewhat comforted by the routine back and forth.

“Ignore him!” Art shakes his head. “I usually do.” You hum, smiling, as Patrick scoffs and disappears back the way he came. 

Tashi gets called over by some friends and disappears as well, and then it's just you and Art, shifting closer to the kitchen so that you can actually hear each other. He asks you about your major, your interests, and the tutoring gig, only deflating ever so slightly when you refuse to tell him just how badly Patrick has been doing.

Someone appears and hands you both shots, which you take, and then another, and eventually, Art brings you a drink in a solo cup to sip on. 

Talking with him is… Nice. Easy. He asks you what you enjoy reading, not what you were assigned for class, and his expression lights up when you mention a book he likes. He listens to you, properly, and you find yourself laughing brightly more than a few times at his stories.

You don’t notice Patrick for a while, caught up in your conversation, but then you feel it – a little prickle at the back of your neck. 

When you glance through the crowd to the other side of the room, he’s leaning against the wall and watching you over the rim of his solo cup. Your heart stutters when you see him, your eyes meeting, but he looks away casually, smiling wide at something someone else says.

You tell yourself you imagined it and go back to your conversation. What you don’t see is that every time Art leans in to hear you better, or makes you laugh, Patrick looks away, then back again, like he can’t help himself, his jaw tightening.

Someone tops off your drink. Then again. And again. The room feels warmer, edges blurring just enough that your irritation floats closer to the surface, laughter coming easier, your words slipping out looser, less guarded.

Patrick finally drifts over, inserting himself into the space beside you without asking, and when you dimly note the smudge of white powder under his nose, you can’t help but scoff. Of course. 

“Having fun?” He asks loudly, tone casual but eyes sharp.

“It’s a party,” you shout back. “That’s usually the idea.”

Art grins, leaning closer to his friend. “I’m being schooled on 19th-century novels. Turns out I’ve been wrong about basically everything.”

Patrick snorts, rolling his eyes. “Wow, sounds riveting.”

You bristle. “You could try listening sometime.”

“You could try having fun sometime.” He retorts, eyes trained on you now.

Art senses the shift happening and glances between the two of you, his smile faltering. “Uh, I’m gonna grab another drink.” He glances at you to check in, but you don’t look at him, won’t take your eyes off Patrick.

As soon as he’s gone, the space feels too tight, the crowd around you pushing in, the alcohol in your system making your nerves thrum under your skin.

Patrick says something, but it’s right as the music swells, and you squint at him and lean closer. “What?”

He rolls his eyes, but leans in as well, his breath ghosting over your neck as he raises his voice over the crowd to speak. “If you want him, I could set you up. He’s pretty easy.”

You blink, pulling back. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “Seems like you’re into him.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, incredulous, ignoring the weird ache in your chest at his words. “Is that what this is? You’re sulking?”

“I’m not sulking.” He scoffs.

“Yes, you are. Oh, my god, I can’t believe you.” You’re too caught up in the notion that he doesn’t like you talking to his friends, that it doesn’t even occur to you that he could be jealous.

He leans closer, raising his voice as the crowd begins to sing along to the song. “You don’t even like this sort of shit.”

“And you don’t even like our sessions,” you snap back. “Yet here we both are, showing up for things we don’t like.”

His smile sharpens. “Careful. I don’t have to keep showing up.”

“Why?” You cock your head, alcohol buzzing hot under your skin. “You gonna blow off another responsibility? Do another line of coke in the bathroom?”

That gets him – his easy smile falls away, jaw clenching. “You gonna keep acting like a fucking narc all night?” He snaps.

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

He scoffs, irritation bleeding through now, smile turning mean. “You act like you’re so above it all, but I’ve heard some very interesting things about you recently.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“You little side business,” he says, casual, almost bored, and ice slides down your throat into your lungs. “Writing essays for cash – heard a couple guys from the rowing team talking about it the other night.”

“That’s not–” You falter, suddenly feeling cornered.

“So get off your high horse,” he cuts in. “Because you’re not exactly the morality police.”

Something cold settles in your chest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shrugs. “I know enough. I can’t believe you had me fooled this long, thinking you were all high and mighty about academic integrity.”

“I don’t–”

“You know, maybe I’ll just have you do my essays for me, skip the middle man.”

“Patrick.” You warn, panic clawing at your throat.

“Do the people who set up our tutoring sessions know?” He’s too caught up in it now, his words turning sharp and mean. “Because I’m sure they’d be very interested in your little side hustle if I told–”

“Fuck you.” You spit, anger and disappointment wrapping around your throat. He doesn’t actually have any leverage on you, but he doesn’t know that, and the idea that he would threaten you like this feels so wrong, so cruel, it catches you off guard.

You stumble back, knocking into someone, and shake your head, turning on your heel, desperate to find somewhere quiet, somewhere you can breathe. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Patrick’s voice calls after you as you enter a hallway, and you resist the urge to groan out loud.

“Out. Away. I don’t know.” You fire back, not turning around, continuing to march forward, squinting at the bright overhead lights.

“Oh my god, relax, it isn’t even that serious–” 

The air shifts, something brittle snapping into place between you – and suddenly you’re not joking anymore, not teasing, not dancing around it.

“It is that serious, you fucking asshole, so stop acting like none of this matters,” you snap, spinning to face him, the words tumbling over each other now. “Like it’s not my ass on the line too.”

Patrick scoffs, sharp and reflexive. “Oh, please. Sorry I don’t give a shit if you get a slap on the wrist and a docked paycheck for not fixing your idiot student.”

Something in your chest twists hard. “A slap on the wrist?” You laugh, breathless and ugly. “You seriously think that’s all this is to me? If I can’t help you, they’ll–”

You cut yourself off, mouth snapping shut as the last of the alcohol-soaked courage drains away. Too far. You’ve gone too far, admitted too much.

Patrick catches it instantly. His expression shifts, the easy hostility faltering into something tighter, more focused. “They’ll what?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly. You turn your face away, heat crawling up your neck. “Whatever. Just stop being a fucking dick about it.”

“No.” He steps closer, and you’re suddenly aware of the distant noise of the party in contrast to the quiet that surrounds the two of you. “Not nothing. What the fuck is your stake in this?”

“Seriously, Patrick,” you mutter. “Leave it. I’m not in the mood–”

“What are you talking about?” His voice is lower now, no longer teasing, no longer amused.

You swallow, throat thick. “They’ll take away my scholarship,” you say, the words tasting bitter and final. “And I’ll get kicked out.”

Silence. Patrick stares at you like the ground just shifted under his feet, and whatever he had braced himself for, it wasn’t that.

“Happy now?” You snap, because the quiet feels unbearable, because standing there exposed feels worse than being cruel. “That enough pressure for you? Or do you want me to spell out exactly how badly you’re about to fuck my life up?”

For once, he doesn’t have anything clever to throw back. His jaw works as he searches for the right angle to come at this from, like he always does, and comes up empty.

“They didn’t tell me that,” he says finally, voice tight and clipped. “You never told me that.”

“No,” you reply, voice gone thin. “Because you’re the golden athlete, and I’m just… Leverage. And it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, would it?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice climbing despite yourself. “Do you want fairness? Because I’ve been sitting in a library for months watching you blow off work you could do, knowing every missed assignment drags me closer to the edge.”

“You didn’t have to agree to tutor me.” He defends, slipping back into the familiar territory of the back and forth.

You flinch, and then bristle. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.” 

He pauses. “I didn’t think–”

You laugh again, bitter. “No. You don’t do that a lot.”

That lands harder than you expect it to. His mouth opens, then closes, something flickering across his face – not amusement this time, or deflection. Frustration. Guilt. Maybe both.

“Jesus,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. “You think I want this hanging over you?”

“I don’t know what you want,” you bite back, taken aback by his reaction. “You treat everything like a game.”

His eyes lock onto yours. “This isn’t a game to me.”

“Then stop acting like it doesn’t matter,” you snap. “Stop acting like you don’t care.”

The words hang there, raw and unguarded, and suddenly the air between you feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with anger anymore.

You suddenly realize how close he is, though when that happened, you’re not sure, but Patrick’s close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath, his cologne, the cigarette he smoked earlier.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t gentle, it’s abrupt and imperfect and messy, as if he decided a split second ago that this was the only way to shut both of you up. His hands come up, warm and steady as they slide into place at your jaw and the back of your neck.

You freeze for half a beat, and then you kiss him back.

It’s a bad idea. You know it is – even as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, even as the anger in your chest melts into something dizzying and bright. He makes a surprised sound against your mouth as his back connects to the wall, like he didn’t expect you to meet him there, like that was never part of the plan.

Clarity dumps over you like a bucket of ice.

You pull away, shoving him against the wall again, your eyes wide as you reel back in shock, his hands falling away from you as you step back a full pace. 

Shock melts into anger. “What the fuck was that?” You demand, brows tugging together.

“What was what?” He blinks, and you could just about kill him.

“What was– you just kissed me!” 

Patrick scoffs. “You kissed me back!”

You sputter, unable to refute that one. “I didn’t–”

“Oh, okay, so I just pushed myself into the wall, I guess.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“You’re such a dick.” You spit, the alcohol in your system setting your rage alight.

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were such a prude–”

He catches your wrist right before your hand can make contact with his face, head cocked as he narrows his eyes at you, and that’s when Art chooses to reappear. 

“There you are–” Art takes in the scene in front of him. “…Am I interrupting?”

You tug your hand free, heat flooding your face so fast it’s almost painful. “No,” you say, chest still heaving. “I was just leaving.”

You don’t wait for a response, don’t look at Patrick again, you just turn and bolt, heart hammering, the ghost of his mouth still burning on yours.

You’re trying to find somewhere quiet when you stumble out onto the back porch, and you manage one deep inhale of clean air before you notice the other person out there. It’s Tashi, because of course it is, perched against the railing, red solo cup in hand. 

She looks up at you, her gaze sharpening, and you suddenly feel very scrutinised. 

“You okay?” She asks, eyes narrowed, and you nod, trying to shove the surge of emotions down as much as possible and act unbothered.

“Yeah.” You say immediately, too fast, then swallow and add, softer, “I just needed some air.”

Tashi hums, neither believing you nor calling you out on it. She takes a small sip of her drink, eyes flicking past you toward the glow of the house. “There’s too much testosterone in there.” She says mildly.

You nod, grateful for the out as you step up to the railing beside her and rest your forearms on it, letting the night air cool the heat in your face. Your pulse is still too fast, to the point where you can feel it in your throat, as well as the feeling of his hand on your neck, his lips on yours–

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable earlier,” you glance over sharply to find Tashi studying you from the corner of her eye as she speaks. “When I said that thing about Patrick.”

Your stomach drops, wondering briefly if you’re that transparent or if she can read minds.

“I saw him wink at you on the court, earlier. I just didn’t know if you knew what you were in for.” She continues.

You fix your gaze on the dark stretch of lawn beyond the porch, the scattered shapes of students cutting across campus in the distance, and force your voice to come out light and dismissive. “He’s like that with everyone.”

A small smile curves at the corner of Tashi’s mouth. “That’s true.” She tilts her head, considering. “He’s kind of a manwhore.”

The words land softly, casually, and somehow they still knock the air out of your chest. You swallow, forcing out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Tashi takes another sip, still not really looking at you. “I just mean – don’t read into it. Patrick will sleep with anything that moves. It’s kind of his whole thing. He’s been trying it on with me since last spring.”

Right. Of course he does. Something tightens low in your chest, sudden and sharp, like you’ve missed a step on a staircase. 

You nod, too quick. “Trust me,” you say, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere brittle. “I’m not.”

Tashi glances at you then, something curious flickering in her expression, and if she sees the way your shoulders have gone rigid, the way your fingers curl tighter around the railing, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sweeps her hair off her shoulder and shrugs.

“I mean,” she says lightly. “Do what you will, just don’t get attached. He’s pretty good in bed. But don’t ever tell him I said that, his ego’s too big already.”

Your stomach plummets then, the insinuation sharp and targeted. You suddenly get the sense this isn’t you being looked out for, this is Tashi staking her claim, making sure she’s still in control, in charge.

You manage a half-smile, even huff out a laugh that echoes wrongly in your ears. “Of course not.”

The music spills out into the night as someone behind you opens the door, sees that the porch is occupied, and slips back inside, shutting the sounds of the party out alongside them, leaving the two of you alone again.

You stand there for a little while, nodding along dutifully as Tashi starts saying something about the match earlier, how Patrick needs to work on his backhand, something about his opponent’s footwork. You tune out, responding when you’re supposed to, smiling in the right places, while all the while, your mind is busy rearranging the memory of the kiss as your stomach churns.

You tell yourself it was just drunken embarrassment, not some devastating thing. He’s a prick, you hate each other, you’re fine. Then why do you feel so hurt?

After a minute, you straighten. “I’m gonna head out,” you make the easy excuse, gesturing awkwardly towards the yard. “Early morning.”

Tashi nods, disinterested. “Okay.”

You step off the porch and into the dark, keenly aware of her eyes fixed on your back as you leave, your chest aching, your head swimming.

You don’t make it far before you smack into someone and reel back, head snapping up with an apology poised on your lips.

“Woah, woah,” the guy laughs, steadying himself – he’s tall, broad, unmistakably an athlete of some kind.  “What’s the rush?” 

“Hold on, do we know you?” The guy behind him asks, and it’s then that you notice there are three of them clustered together, jerseys abandoned but still draped in entitlement.

You shake your head weakly, desperate to just leave. “No, I just– I was just–”

“I just– I was just–” The second guy mimics mockingly. “You just what? Just thought you’d sneak in?” 

You’re already shaking your head, but then the third guy pitches in. “Who are you here with?”

“Tashi.” You frown, glancing back towards the house, to the porch, but it’s empty now. 

“Tashi Duncan?” The first guy repeats, snickering. “Yeah, right. And we’re on the badminton team.”

For all you know they could be, but you choose not to say that. You open your mouth to respond, but the third guy squints at you harder, head tipping. “Wait,” he says slowly. “I do know you.”

Your stomach drops.

“You write essays for people,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Right? You wrote that midterm for my roommate last month.”

“No, I–”

“Oh shit,” the second guy grins. “Yeah, it is you.”

“Well that explains it,” the first guy says, amused now. “You did our work for us and now you think you get to be one of us?”

“Admit it,” The second guy steps closer to you, cruel smile on his face, and your heart thuds in your chest. “You snuck in, thought it would be cool to hang out with the sports teams–”

Someone yells one of their names (of course it’s fucking Chad) and they all turn, and you seize your opportunity, pushing past them, the sound of their brash laughter echoing behind you as you all but flee the scene. 

Your heart hammers in your ribcage as you walk, a swirl of emotions choking thick in your throat. You just… You can’t believe you fell for it. Can’t believe you let them sway you into coming to this stupid party with these stupid athletes, can’t believe you told him about your scholarship, can’t believe you kissed him–

You stop when you realize you’ve made it all the way back to your dorm building, but you don’t want to go back inside, don’t want to go sit in your dorm alone, so you sit down on a low stone wall and rest your elbows on your knees, your head in your hands.

Fuck. You’re so stupid. You can’t believe you care. To top it all off, the voices of the Asshole Trio from earlier keep ringing in your ears – they were right, you didn’t belong there, you shouldn’t have even gone in the first place. 

Oh, God, no, you’re not going to cry over some idiot frat boys– but the tears come anyway, hot and humiliating. 

You’re scrubbing at your face when you hear footsteps pounding on the pavement, echoing against the buildings, and then a voice breaks the quiet. A very familiar voice, out of breath, like he’s been running.

“What the fuck?”

Oh, God. Like this isn’t already the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to you.

You don’t even glance up, can’t, can’t let him see the shine of tears on your face. “Go away, Patrick.”

“No, seriously,” his voice sounds closer now. “What the fuck? I’ve been looking everywhere– What happened?”

You scoff down at the ground, grimacing at how wet it sounds. “I’m not in the mood to be made fun of any more, okay, so just–”

“Are you crying? Wait– Made fun of?”

There’s something in his tone that makes you look up.

He’s standing a few feet away, hands braced on his thighs as he catches his breath, brow furrowed more deeply than you’ve ever seen. His face is scrunched in confusion – and underneath it, unmistakably, anger. Not the performative kind he wears so easily, but something sharp and real.

It makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Who,” he says slowly, standing fully, “Was making fun of you?”

You laugh weakly, wiping at your cheeks. “It doesn’t even matter.”

“Yeah, it does.”

You shake your head. “It was just some guys. From some team... I don’t even know.” You scoff at how stupid it all is. “They asked who invited me, and then they didn’t believe me.”

Patrick frowns. “They didn’t believe you…?”

You shrug, miserable. “That you guys invited me.”

Something dark flickers across his face, interrupting his easy-going facade. His jaw tightens like he’s trying very hard not to do something stupid.

“Were they assholes to you?” He asks quietly, looking down the road.

“That’s kind of their whole thing.” You mutter, swiping at your cheeks.

“Fucking Christ.” He exhales sharply through his nose, pacing like a caged animal before stopping in front of you again.

You swipe at your eyes again, exhausted now more than anything. “Can you just– Not make this worse?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately. “I’m–” He makes a face, visibly recalibrating. “I’m not trying to.”

You glance up at him, surprised despite yourself. For once, Patrick looks completely out of his depth. He frowns, glances down the street again, and winces.

“Look, I said a lot of stupid shit, earlier, and I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, or whatever. I didn’t mean anything by it, alright, I was just–” He makes a face, obviously not sure how to say what he wants to. 

“It’s fine, Patrick.” You shake your head, just wanting this night to be over.

“It’s not, but. Okay. If you’re sure,” he gives you an odd look, inhaling deeply. “I also just wanted to say–”

“Was this all just some game to you? See how long it takes to get into my pants?” The words bubble out of you before you can stop them.

His face goes slack, eyes wide and then narrow, nose crinkling in disgust as he digests your words. “Jesus, no, what the f–”

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have even said that,” you know you’re the one who brought it up, but you suddenly feel sick at the idea of discussing it right now, at having to listen to him justify it, at even reminding yourself of it. “Can we just not? Okay? I’m just– I just want to go to bed.”

“You just–!” Patrick blinks, mouth opening, then closing, still indignant but shockingly, he listens to you. “Yeah, we can– Okay. Sure. Yeah.” 

You stand, glancing towards the door of your dorm, sniffling slightly. “...Go home, Patrick. Goodnight.”

“Yeah. Uh.” He frowns, spins on his heel, and walks away, before pausing and turning back. “Night, Professor.”

That stupid fucking nickname nearly makes you smile at him. Nearly. You turn around and go to bed instead, trying not to cry as you lie in your darkened dorm room.

You wake up with embarrassment lodged in your throat and a dull, punishing throb behind your eyes, burying your face in your pillow for a moment and considering letting it suffocate you. It doesn’t, so you accept defeat and get up.

It’s late morning on a Sunday, so the dining hall is thankfully crowded with people who look just as wrecked as you feel. You grab the biggest coffee available, sit down, and immediately spot Tashi’s face blown up on a poster across the room.

You’re back outside in seconds.

The sun is warm on your face, at least, as you wander with your book and look for somewhere quiet to read. You don’t realize where you’ve walked to until the familiar thwack of tennis balls cuts through your thoughts. Of fucking course you’re here. 

You curse the sky as you spin around, heading literally anywhere else, and you’ve almost reached the edge of the tennis courts when you hear your name called, sharp and breathless.

You turn just in time to see Patrick jogging off the court, racket still in hand, shirt darkened with sweat and clinging to his chest. His dark curls are a mess, escaping everywhere, face flushed in that way that makes it obvious he’s been moving hard for hours. He looks unfairly good like this. 

“Hey,” he says, slowing to a stop in front of you, hands braced on his knees for a second before he straightens, and you get flashbacks of the night before. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was looking for somewhere to read,” you say, immediately defensive. “You’re practicing this early?”

“Uh… Yeah.” He says like it’s obvious, glancing back at the court, which is when you notice Art trying and failing to look like he’s not paying attention to your conversation. You offer him a small wave anyway, and he ducks his head with a thin smile, caught.

You look back to Patrick as he flips his friend off, then turns back to you, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I– uh. I’m glad I caught you.”

Something tightens in your chest and you fold your arms almost protectively. “Look, if this is about last night–”

“It is,” he cuts in quickly, then exhales, almost looking nervous. “But it’s not a big deal, relax.”

You find yourself smiling despite it all. “Okay, well, you’re the one who chased me down, so.”

That earns a crooked smile, and something in your chest loosens at the sight of it, your eyes tracing along the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Please, I didn’t chase, I just… Jogged a bit.”

You roll your eyes, but suddenly, you no longer feel like your heart is a lead weight in your chest. There’s a pause where Patrick rocks back on his heels, clearly searching for the right tone, and he lands, as always, on casual to the point of denial.

“So,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. “We made out.”

You stiffen, the easygoing mood from before disappearing. “You kissed me.” You correct, because you can’t help it, but when he opens his mouth you hold up a hand. “It’s fine, Patrick. We were drunk,” you dismiss immediately, like you’ve rehearsed it. Which. Maybe you did. “It’s not like it meant anything.”

Patrick blinks once, watching you carefully as he quirks an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, seriously. There was a lot going on last night, and– And tensions were high, so. It’s fine.”

“Tensions were high, huh?” He mimics, obviously mocking you, and you level him with a glare, to which he shrugs. “Yeah, okay, whatever. We were drunk. Didn’t mean anything.”

His tone makes you pause, your eyes raking over his face in an attempt to discern his expression. He shrugs, deliberately loose, twirling his racket in his hands. “I mean, you were yelling at me. I’m pretty sure that’s not how people usually flirt.”

You bristle, frowning. “You fucking started it, and then you kissed me–”

“You kissed me back. And pushed me against the wall.” He counters smugly, eyebrows raised.

You open your mouth, something sharp and indignant poised on the tip of your tongue, but at the sight of the glimmer in his eyes you take a deep breath instead and hold up a hand. “I’m so not taking the bait from you right now.”

He laughs, nodding, hands held up in surrender. “Yeah, okay, you got me. Sorry. Didn’t mean anything.”

You watch his face as he says it – the easy smile, the way his eyes slide away just slightly, like he doesn’t want to linger too long on the moment, and not for the first time this conversation, you feel like he’s putting on an act. 

“Okay. Good,” you nod, clearing your throat. “Because I don’t want this to get weird.”

He huffs a laugh. “Trust me, the last thing I need is my tutor falling in love with me.”

“Trust me, you do not have to worry about that.” You deadpan, rolling your eyes.

That gets a real laugh out of him, and something in your chest sings. “So we’re good?”

“We’re good.” You echo, though even as you mean the words, you can feel something shift irreparably between the two of you.

Another pause passes, the warm sun beating down on the back of your neck, his eyes on yours, the space between you humming with something.

Patrick’s eyes linger on yours for half a second too long. “Look, I’m not gonna– Just– After everything last night, uh, are you good?”

You hesitate for a split second, flashes of your conversations with Tashi, those guys last night, the feeling of his lips against yours– and then you nod. “‘Course.”

He studies you like he might call you on it, but doesn’t. “Whatever you say,” he says, stepping back. “See you on Tuesday.”

As he turns to leave, you call out, “Patrick.” He looks back, eyes wide and almost hopeful, and your stomach swoops. “Don’t be late.”

He grins, a sharp flash of white teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Professor.”

And then he’s gone, jogging back toward Art on the court like nothing happened, like he didn’t just knock your equilibrium sideways again.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, heart doing something stupid in your chest as you watch Art say something and Patrick smack him on the back of the head, and then you turn and walk away, telling yourself the knot in your stomach is relief.

Patrick is, predictably, late to your next session.

Twelve minutes this time – you’ve just about convinced yourself he’s not coming at all when the door swings open and he strolls in like he owns the place, hair still damp at the nape of his neck, tennis bag slung over one shoulder.

“Yeah, I know, sorry.” He says as he drops into the chair across from you.

You level him with a look. “You’re late.”

“I said I know,” he rolls his eyes, unbothered. “My fucking dad called.”

You pause, blinking at the mention. He’s never brought his family up before, never talked about his home life, but you can see the way his shoulders are curled inwards, the tension thrumming through his body, the pinch of his expression.

Whatever that phone call was, it left Patrick in a foul mood. You nearly ask about it, weirdly unsettled at seeing him so tense and upset, but delving into personal lives is a line you have yet to cross. 

You purse your lips together instead, watching him for a moment, before reaching for your notes, trying to switch tracks. “Did you get your last essay back?”

Instead of answering, he reaches into his bag. You’re bracing yourself for excuses when he slides the paper across the table toward you, and your eye immediately catches on the bright red handwriting in the corner. 

‘A+. 98%. Well done!’ Your stomach drops.

You flip through the pages, scanning the text, brow furrowing more and more as you read. It’s… Good. Sharp, focused on an issue, with supporting quotes and engagement with the text. Compared to the last essay, this is a miracle.

You look up at him sharply. “Patrick.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, pleased smirk already tugging the corner of his mouth. 

“You got a ninety-eight.”

He scoffs. “Don’t look so shocked, Professor. I told you I’d ace it.”

You stare at him, something between disbelief and irritation bubbling up in your chest. “How?”

“I’m not completely hopeless.” He says lightly, shrugging as he pulls his book out of his bag.

You should be overjoyed, but something nags at you, something unsettling about how easily it had been for him to make the leap to such a perfect grade.

“I never said you were, I just– This is a crazy leap from your last essay.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m better than you think I am. You’re not the only smart person on campus, Professor.” The nickname comes out harsher, more pointed, and you frown, hurt now, confused as to why he’s acting like this.

“I’m sorry your dad pissed you off, but–” It was the wrong thing to say. You know that immediately, but before you get a chance to backtrack, Patrick’s expression has gone cold, smile turning into more of a sneer. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he says, voice flattening. “And I definitely don’t need someone who thinks I’m too stupid to figure it out.”

“I never said that.” You defend, holding a hand up. 

“You didn’t have to.” He scoffs, raking his eyes up and down you in a pointed way. “And I don’t need your help.”

“Then why was I hired to stop you from fucking failing?” It slips out, and you know you’ve gone too far.

“Okay.” His jaw clenches, a brief smile devoid of humour flicking across his face. “I think we should just call it.”

You frown. “Call what?”

“This. The sessions.” 

You laugh once, short. “What, because you wrote one decent essay?”

His mouth tightens. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” You lean back in your chair. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re finally starting to try – which is great, by the way – and now you want to quit.”

He shakes his head like you’re deliberately missing it. “That’s not why.”

“Then tell me why!”

He hesitates, and you see it flicker across his face – something uncertain, almost restless – and then it hardens, pushed away, expression slipping back into casual annoyed arrogance. 

“You’ve got other classes to worry about,” he says, almost casually. “You don’t need me wasting your time.”

Something about the phrasing sits wrong, and you pinch the bridge of your nose, exhausted by the sudden conflict. “You’re not wasting my time, Patrick, we just– We need to make sure you do well in the final.”

He gives you a pointed look, gesturing at the paper on the table. “I think I’ve got this.”

You squint, searching his face for humour, waiting for the punchline of the joke, but it isn’t there. He’s serious. “You did well on one essay, that doesn’t mean you’ve–”

“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “I know you want to fix me, but I’m serious, I–”

You scoff. “Fix you? What are you even talking about?”

He stands up abruptly, snatching the paper off the desk, and you gape up at him. “We can pretend we’re still meeting, they won’t kick you out and you’ll still get paid–”

“Are you fucking kidding me?“ you snap, heat flooding your face. “Do you seriously think that’s all this is?”

He pauses, watching you carefully, expression guarded, posture tight.

“Money?” You continue, standing up, planting yourself in front of him. “Or babysitting? Or whatever narrative makes you feel less guilty about bailing?”

“I’m not bailing,” he snaps. “I’m telling you I don’t need this anymore.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” You shake your head.

He laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “Right. Of course it’s not.”

“You’re on probation,” you say, your voice rising despite yourself. “You don’t get to just decide you’re cured because you managed to string together a coherent paragraph.”

His eyes flash, and he steps back. “See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

“What?” 

“You don’t think I can do it.” He accuses, eyes dark and stormy.

Your jaw drops. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says, stepping closer, his face inches from yours. “You think if you’re not keeping watch over me, I’ll just fall apart.”

“I think,” you bite out, letting your eyes trace down his face, heat rising to your cheeks at the proximity. “That if you screw this up, I’m the one who gets screwed too.”

There it is. It lands between you, heavy and ugly.

“You know what?” He says, stepping back suddenly. “Forget it.”

“Patrick–” You find yourself reeling at the sudden space between you and his sudden coldness, trying desperately to stop this conversation from careening towards disaster.

“No, you’re right,” he cuts in, anger snapping back into place because it’s easier. “I don’t take things seriously. I don’t care. I’m just the idiot athlete you got stuck with, right?”

“That’s not true.” You can’t believe he would think something like that.

“Relax,” he says coldly. “You’re off the hook. I’ll pass. You’ll keep your scholarship. Everybody wins.”

“Can we just–”

“I said I’ve got it.” He repeats, eyes narrowed, lips curled, and something sinks in your chest.

“And I’m supposed to just trust that?” Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

He gives you a hard look. “Yeah,” he says, darkened eyes flicking down to your lips, hesitating, and meeting your eyes again. “You are.”

You open your mouth – to throw an insult at him, to placate him, to stop him, you’re not even sure – but he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“We’re done,” he says flatly. “I’ve got it from here.”

And then he leaves, the door of the classroom slamming shut behind him harder than it needs to. You’re left in the empty classroom, reeling, staring at the door for longer than you mean to.

You don’t schedule the next session. He doesn’t either.

You log the last session as completed, add neutral notes to his file to pretend you had the meeting, and wait for him to schedule the next one.

He doesn’t.

At first, you tell yourself it’s temporary – you’re both upset, it’s a busy time on campus, he’s probably studying… He’ll cave. Right?

He doesn’t.

Finals week arrives before you know it, a sickening anxiety filling your chest as you attend your exams, agonized with the overarching worry of whether or not any of it will even matter in the end.  When grades are released, you don’t reach out to him – you’ll find out soon enough.

An hour after grades are released, your inbox pings with an email titled Academic Review Board – Mandatory Attendance.

Your stomach drops, and you just stare at the screen, pulse pounding. Of course. You close your laptop, already furious – at him, at yourself for trusting him even a little, at the fact that you left your future up to fate because you found yourself falling for your insufferable tutee.

You grab your bag and head for the administrative building. If he failed, after all that– You don’t let yourself finish that thought, pushing through the doors instead and bracing for impact.

The conference room is too bright.

Two of them sit on the other side of the table, files stacked, laptops open, polite, unattached smiles already in place.

You brace for reprimand.

“Thank you for coming in,” the department chair says, folding her hands neatly. “This won’t take long.”

That’s never a comforting sentence. You sit, your spine rigid, fingers laced in your lap to keep them from shaking.

The chair slides a folder across the table toward you. It’s thick. Heavier than it should be.

“You were assigned to Mr. Zweig at the start of term,” she says. “At that point, he was on academic probation.”

You swallow. “Yes.”

“We were very pleased to see,” the chair continues, and her tone becomes a little warmer, “That those concerns have been resolved.”

You blink. “Resolved?” 

She tilts the file toward you, and your breath catches in your throat. A. Across the board. You can see further comments written beneath, but your eyes are stuck on those grades.

“He demonstrated measurable growth across all written components,” the advisor says. “Particularly in the latter half of the semester.”

The latter half. Your fingers tighten against the edge of the folder, trying to make sense of it all.

“We attribute a great deal of that to your intervention,” the chair adds. “Your reports indicated steady engagement, even when progress seemed incremental.”

“I–” You clear your throat. “He did the work.”

“Yes,” she says. “But consistency doesn’t happen in a vacuum.” There’s a faint smile exchanged between them.

“And to think,” the advisor adds lightly, “His father was just calling, threatening to pull him out entirely.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m sorry?”

The chair waves a hand. “Just posturing. He was concerned about performance, I imagine. But clearly, Mr. Zweig made the decision to stay the course.”

You stare back down at the pages. He hadn’t scraped by – he’d crushed it. Without you. Or maybe because of you. You can’t tell which is worse.

“We consider this a success,” the advisor says gently. “You should be proud.”

Your throat feels tight. “So… I’m not–” You force the words out, almost lightheaded from the sudden relief and confusion. “There’s no issue with my position here?”

“On the contrary,” the chair says. “Your scholarship remains in excellent standing. We’ll be recommending you for advanced placements next year.”

“I see.” You manage, the pieces clicking together.

“If you have any questions–”

“I don’t,” you say quickly, standing before you quite mean to. The two of them blink at your abruptness. “Thank you,” you add, voice thinner than you’d like. “For… Everything.”

You gather the file without thinking, then realize it isn’t yours to take and set it back down awkwardly. They smile at you again, and your blood rushes in your ears.

You don’t even remember leaving the building.

One minute you’re listening to words like growth and intervention and improvement, and the next you’re pushing through glass doors into the afternoon sun with your pulse in your throat and your hands shaking.

Patrick Zweig, top marks across the board, and yet all you can think about is that motherfucker could have done this the whole time.

The courts are loud before you even see them, the rhythmic crack of a ball against a racket carrying across the quad, sharp and punishing, over and over again like someone trying to beat a thought out of their own head.

He’s alone when you find him, no coach, no Art, no cheering audience in the stands.

Just Patrick, moving through drills with brutal precision – serve, recover, sprint, return – sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched, focus so tight it looks like it hurts.

You don’t slow down, you don’t announce yourself, you simply walk straight onto the edge of the court and call out, loud enough to cut through the echo. “Patrick.”

He startles, the ball sailing wide as he turns, blinking like he’s been dragged back into his body.

“What the fu–” He squints at you. “Jesus. Do you ever pick a normal moment?”

You laugh, short and sharp. “I just came from my meeting.”

His shoulders tense immediately. He doesn’t bother asking which one.

“Congratulations,” you add. “You’re officially an academic miracle.”

He exhales through his nose, already defensive. “If you’re here to yell at me–”

You don’t let him finish, already crossing the remaining distance and shoving him. “You fucking asshole.”

“Okay– what the fuck?” He stares at you as he stumbles back a pace, genuinely bewildered now. 

“You got top marks, Patrick.”

“And?”

“And you don’t think that’s worth mentioning?” Your voice cracks on the edge of fury. “You don’t think maybe I deserved to know you were always capable of doing the work you spent months pretending was beneath you?”

His mouth opens, closes.

“You think this is funny?” You press. “You think I enjoyed sitting across from people today listening to them praise me for something you clearly could’ve done whenever you felt like it?”

“That’s not–”

“You know what?” You laugh again, ugly this time. “No. I don’t even want to hear it.”

Something in his face hardens. “Okay, you don’t get to come down here and–”

“I spent months terrified,” you cut in, stepping closer again, hands clenched. “I thought I was one bad grade away from losing everything, and you were fucking bored.”

He goes very still. “You want to know why I didn’t try before?” He asks quietly.

You narrow your eyes. “Enlighten me.”

“Because it didn’t fucking matter.”

You stare at him, chest tight as he speaks. 

“But it does now,” he adds immediately, sharper. “So don’t storm out here and look at me like that.”

“Why?” you demand. “Because someone finally threatened your tennis?”

“No.” His jaw tightens. “Because you came along.”

That knocks the air out of you.

He scoffs, trying to recover, rolling his shoulders like he can shake the moment loose, but your heartbeat is already thundering in your ears, his words echoing in your head as you gape at him.

“Fuck you, Patrick.” The words slip out of you, biting.

He grins, but there’s something sad there, defensive – like he’s baring his teeth, backed into a corner. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

You grab him by the front of his shirt and he flinches, expecting you to hit him. You close the distance and kiss him instead.

It’s hard, and messy, all frustration and instinct. His body locks up for a split second out of pure shock, and then instinct kicks in, and he leans in, hands coming up to your waist and digging in. 

You pull back just as suddenly, your heart slamming against your ribs. You just stand there, looking at him, watching as he blinks at you. 

“...Holy shit.” He mutters, licking his lips, and you can already see the smirk creasing the skin of his cheek.

You swallow, suddenly aware of his hands still on your waist, something like fear sitting high in your throat. “Don’t.”

The growing smirk drops. “What?”

“Don’t… Don’t make a joke,” you voice shakes slightly. “Just– Don’t.”

He shakes his head lightly, eyes narrowing as he searches your face, and for once, he listens to you, and doesn’t say anything. 

You grab him again, fingers fisting in his shirt as if you’re still angry, clutching desperately at the familiar emotion, unsure what to do without it. 

Patrick makes a small sound of surprise as you kiss him this time, rougher, mouths colliding instead of just meeting, teeth clicking before he adjusts, his hands coming up to cage your face as he slots himself against you. It’s all heat and breath and the sharp tang of adrenaline, and it feels less like a decision than a release, an inevitable collision. 

You walk him back without breaking the kiss, crowding him until his back hits the chainlink fence. The impact knocks the breath out of him, and it draws a lower, rougher sound from his throat – a laugh.

“Jesus–” he pulls back just enough to mutter against your mouth.

“Shut up.” You breathe, annoyed at how much you want him, annoyed that he’s letting you kiss him like this, but you realize with a jolt that you’re smiling, too. 

You kiss him harder for it, like you’re trying to make a point you can’t articulate, and he lets you, lets you crowd his space, lets you set the pace, before he pulls you firmer against his body and flips you so that your back is the one against the fence now, smirking at your surprised yelp that escapes against his lips.

His mouth softens even as the kiss stays hungry, like he’s trying to meet you where you are without overwhelming you, like he’s paying attention.

When you finally pull back, it’s only because you have to breathe.

You’re close enough that his forehead bumps yours, his breath warm and uneven against your cheek. His hands are still on you, not gripping, just there – present.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then, quietly, like he’s afraid to spook the moment, Patrick says, “For the record, I meant it. About… It mattering now.”

Your chest tightens.

He swallows, thumb brushing your side in an unconscious, almost tender gesture. “I didn’t know how to say that without fucking it up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, well, you managed not to fuck both of our academic careers up, so you’ve got that going for you.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Professor.” Patrick muses teasingly, lips brushing against yours as he speaks, and you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, you could.”

He pauses, pulling away very slightly. “...Okay. Yeah, I could, but I wouldn’t have.” 

He kisses you again, gently, like he’s asking instead of taking something. It’s softer, careful in a way that feels more intimate after everything else. You don’t know what to do with that softness.

You pull away, expression twisted into another frown. “But seriously, you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier–”

“Oh my god, would you just shut up,” Patrick scoffs. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

Your eyes widen indignantly. “Oh, I’m the p–”

“carter,” her small whine echoed against the pallid walls of the empty resident room. john was hunched over a thick textbook, his head in his hands. without looking up he muttered, “yes?” she took a few steps closer and dangled her bloodied extremity in front of his face.

he shot up out of his seat, “what the hell did you do?” he cradled her hand between the two of his like a broken baby bird, gently inspecting it.

“got in the way of benton’s scalpel,” she huffed. lifting poorly packed bandage, john could see the laceration was deep. gaping with an almost perfect incision. rbenton’s steady hands were a blessing, otherwise the resulting scar would be quite unsightly. at the loss of the makeshift clot, blood pooled around the wound and dripped into carter’s palm.

“were you in on a surgery?” his jealousy was thinly veiled. still, he turned her hand to look for any other scrapes. she smirked, “it was just a truama. i excised a bullet. no big deal or anything.” her voice was dripping in an unadulterated pride. she didn’t have much to be proud of, really. immediately after removing the bullet she got in the way and missed an opportunity to pull out another one for the sake of saving her own hand. but john didn’t need to know that.

“you’re kidding,” he drops her hand in surprise, or anger, she wasn’t sure. she yelped at the movement. john’s eyes widened as he hurried to softly pick it up once more, “sorry, sorry,” he winced. “benton said you’d doctor me up. now doctor me up.” she shoved her hand against his. he hurriedly nodded.

john sat her down on the bed and snapped on blue latex gloves. he rolled between her legs with a suture kit. he softly placed her hand upon the overbed table, which was dressed with protective blue paper. he scooted a little closer to her. his legs were spread wide, knees pressing against her dangling claves.

finally he began to remove the clumsily clad ace wrap. she hissed as it pulled against her skin. a soothing thumb rubbed over her knuckles as he shushed her like a child. “jesus,” he whispered.

she felt a rapid wave of nausea wrack her body. so she made a point to look at carter’s face rather than the open flesh of her limb. “how’s your day going? any fun stories?”

the apples of his cheeks swelled as he smiled, “someone’s been hogging all the fun.” one hand laid beneath her’s - warm and comforting - as he searched the kit for saline.

she snorted, “yeah open wounds are real exciting.” he shook his head, gap toothed grin still prodding at his cheeks despite his better judgement. that smile made her face all hot. every time she made him laugh at one of her jokes, or he threw her a lopsided smirk, without fail, her heart skipped a beat. she would have to rasp her next breath, heat flooding her chest.

he placed a small metal bowl beneath where he held up her hand. she had never noticed just how big his hand was compared to her own. he was so big. tall. “this is gonna burn,” he warned. she nodded. fluid flooded the gash. she whimpered, flinching away at the pain but john’s grip was unrelenting.

with wide doe eyes he whispered, “sorry.” she bit her lip, “it hurts like hell.” john dabbed at the blood on the surrounding skin with a tissue. “need me to kiss it better?” he teased, flashing those pretty teeth. she rolled her eyes. “shut up and fix me.”

john pushed the metal tray to the side and began to prep his needle. “any deeper and youd’ve been out of surgery for weeks.” his nimble fingers steady against the back of her hand. “i bet you’d like tha-” she cuts herself off with a sharp gasp as the first stitch goes in, “fuck.”

before she can apologize carter lightly squeezes her fingers, “it’s okay.” she screws her eyes up tight and twists her neck as if looking away would make the pain go away. “we can’t have you out of comission, i think the whole place might go up in flames.” she bit back a smile, “yeah right.” he nodded, “no, really. who would wrap all the sprains and do the paperwork?” that made her giggle.

a calm quiet settled over the two. he made quick work of sewing her back together. intermittently he would give her a gentle squeeze of encouragement to fend away the hurt. after tying off her stitches he wrapped her up neatly as an extra precaution.

finally he sighed “all better,” in the sickly sweet voice he put on for little kids and dementia patients. it made her stomach flutter. he haphazardly threw his reddened gloves into the metal pan.

“thank you.” her uninjured hand floated above his head to pick at his hair idly, “next time there’s a bullet to pull out of a guy’s ass i’ll let you have at it.” her hand fell to her lap, though his head distractedly followed the motion in desire for more of her doting touch. head dipped, big eyes flickering about her face he muttered, “his… his ass?” he had processed her words seconds late.

she nodded and with a shared look they both laughed. john was closer now, he had pushed the table away. “you lost your hand for ass surgery?” he hadn’t let go of that injured hand since he had removed his gloves. both hands enveloping her smaller one.

“it was for a noble cause,” she giggled. his thumbs gently traced over the bandaging. he snapped back into doctor mode. “i’ll take them out next week. if they snap let me know.” she hummed in agreement.

“you’re good with your hands, doc,” she teased, leaning down toward him. soft silence befell them. he played with her small fingers, pad of his thumb running over every one of her polished nails.

john shot her a distant look, “your nails are pretty.” he seemed much giddier than normal. it was a tad unsettling but she was in no hurry to get away from him. his kindness made her heart swell. it took everything in her not to grab him by the hair and shove her tongue in his mouth.

“carter?” she poked her toe into the side of his thigh. he finally fully met her eye, “hm?” his cheeks were bright red. her smile hurt her cheeks, “you okay?”

he shook his head. her brows knotted together in concern. but he was leaning up toward her. it didn’t take much to close the space. and suddenly his soft pink lips were so close and her head felt fuzzy and concern for him was the last thing she felt.

“john.” she warned breathily. the tip of his nose brushed her cheek, “you’ve never called me that. don’t start now.”

“carter - i -“ her sputtering was cut short by his lips crashing into her own.

john was gentle. slow. his big hand cupped her cheek, the other on her shoulder. afraid she may disappear if he got too eager. she was the one who became all excited and sloppy. her fingers threaded into his messy hair and tugged him closer, though it wasn’t possible to get any closer. her tongue grazed his lower lip and his breath quickened.

he wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, pulling her to the very edge of the bed so they were chest to chest. spit swam messily between their mouths, teeth clashed, and as he pulled away for a taunt gasp of air a string of drool pulled between them.

forehead resting against his, she snorted, “ew,” and wiped at the dribble. a pager screeched a blaring chorus of beeps making them both jump. john patted his lab coat.

“it’s me,” he huffed in frustration, showing her the face of the device. she wiped at her mouth, “go on,” she motioned to the door.

he began to stand up, “but - but you’ll be here, right?” she laughed, “john i’ll be here for another eight hours. yeah.” he looked around, shy as an alter boy despite his kiss-chapped lips.

“i… i like you,” he muttered. she nodded, “you know, i think i’ve put that together now.” outside the door someone shouted his name in a deep, gruff voice. he instinctively made for the door but stopped clumsily in the doorway. she watched him in childish delight.