madz ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

He chuckles, and you hate how calm he is about it. Like this equation isn’t actively draining the soul from your body. His fingers gently pluck the pencil from your hand, and you let him, slumping against your chair in dramatic defeat.

“You substituted ‘a’ with 2 instead of 3,” he says, scribbling lightly on the paper. “That’s why your discriminant came out negative.”

You groan and flop forward, cheek pressed to the desk. “Just bury me with a calculator. I’m done.”

“Casio or TI-84?” he teases.

“Surprise me.”

His laugh is soft and warm, like it’s melting into the hoodie you’re currently stealing from him. You peek up at him when he nudges you.

“Hey,” he says, quiet now, more sincere. “You’re not stupid. You’re just tired and annoyed and possibly holding a grudge against algebra as a concept.”

You sigh again, but you lean into him anyway, his arm sliding naturally around your shoulders. “That’s because algebra is a crime.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “And yet I love a criminal.”

Your cheeks burn. You groan—but this time it’s more flustered than defeated—and you hide your face in the sleeve of his hoodie.

Peter smiles against your hair, pencil still in hand. “Let’s try it together,” he murmurs. “Just one problem. I’ll talk you through it.”

You peek up at him. “If I get it right, do I get a reward?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“A kiss.”

He pretends to think. “Dangerous incentive. You might start getting them wrong on purpose.”

“Try me.”

So he does. One problem. Then two. Then somehow the whole worksheet.

You complain. You sigh. You threaten to sue math as a concept. But you stay. And you get one right. And he kisses you.

And somehow, math doesn’t feel like such a crime anymore.

***

You’ve been staring at the same question for two minutes and the words are starting to look fake.

“Solve for x.”

Easy. Supposed to be, anyway. You did three of these last night. With Peter. Successfully. With very cute kisses as motivation. But now your chest is tight, your pencil feels too slippery in your hand, and everything inside you is buzzing—not in a good way.

You swallow hard and glance at the clock.

Five minutes in.

You’ve written nothing.

Someone coughs behind you. Another kid flips a page. The scratch of pencils on paper feels violent in your ears.

Your palms start to sweat. Your stomach clenches. Every equation on the test suddenly looks like it’s written in another language.

Your brain—loud, mean, panicked—starts up:

You’re not ready.

You suck at this.

You’re going to fail.

You’re going to let everyone down, again.

You blink rapidly. The words blur.

“Y/N.” A whisper. Familiar.

You look up.

Peter’s at the desk beside you, halfway through his own page already (of course). His brow furrows as he catches the look on your face. You don’t even realize your hands are shaking until he points subtly to his own lap—then reaches under his desk and taps his chest, right over his heart.

Breathe, he mouths.

You shake your head, almost imperceptibly. You can’t. Your throat’s closing up.

Then Peter picks up his pencil and writes something on the corner of his scratch paper. Angles it just enough for you to see:

“You already know how. Just do the first one. I’m right here.”

Then he looks at you again and smiles—that soft, crooked one he gives you when he knows you’re being too hard on yourself. His eyes hold steady.

You inhale.

Hold it.

Exhale.

Again.

You look back down. You force your eyes to the first question. Okay, you recognize it.

It’s just substitution. Like last night. Like the problem he kissed your cheek for. You know this.

Your pencil touches the paper. Slowly, carefully, you write down the first step. Then the next.

Your heartbeat is still fast. But it’s steadier now.

And when you glance sideways again, Peter’s already watching you—his lips twitch up when he sees you working.

***

You wait until the hallway clears a little before pulling the folded paper from your backpack, still warm from where your anxiety’s been baking it against your back all day.

You don’t even look at Peter yet. You want the moment to land.

“Okay,” you announce dramatically, stepping into his path and holding the test above your head like a trophy. “Prepare yourself. Are you prepared?”

Peter blinks at you, amused. “Should I be scared?”

You grin, all teeth and nerves and pride. “I—” you unfold the paper slowly, for effect, “—got a C+.”

He stares at it. Then at you. “Wait. That’s actually amazing.”

“I know!” you say, genuinely thrilled, because this is the first time math hasn’t made you feel like a walking disappointment. “It has a plus and everything.”

Peter grins—so big it crinkles the corners of his eyes—and pulls you into a hug right in the middle of the hall.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says into your hair, no hesitation, no teasing.

You press your face into his chest and mumble, “It’s probably the ugliest test grade you’ve ever seen.”

“Nope,” he says. “It’s beautiful. It has character.”

You pull back and squint at him. “Okay, now I have to ask. What’d you get?”

He hesitates, then shrugs and digs into his backpack, pulling out a crisply folded test with an unmistakable A circled in red at the top.

You narrow your eyes. “Try hard.”

He tries to look innocent. “What? I studied.”

“So did I!”

“You got a C+. That’s like… superhero-level improvement.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. “Whatever. Nerd.”

He shrugs again, looping his arm around your shoulder. “You still want to celebrate?”

“Duh,” you say. “I earned that mediocre grade.”

“Hard-earned and full of heart,” he agrees.

“And next time,” you say, bumping your hip into his, “I’m aiming for a B-minus.”

He grins. “That’s dangerously close to passing with confidence.”

You smirk. “Guess you better keep tutoring me. We’re going for the bare minimum excellence arc.”

Peter leans in close, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Minimum? Dude, you’re literally killing it.”

You roll your eyes again, but this time it’s just to hide the warmth in your face.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You made me take this road.”

“Okay, it’s scenic!”

“It’s straight out of Jeepers Creepers, Y/N. I’m waiting for some weirdo in a trench coat to start tailgating us with a rust bucket truck.”

You smirk. “You’ll survive.”

“You know we added like forty minutes to this trip, right? Because Miss Southern Belle needed the ‘real backwoods experience.’”

You roll your eyes. “Sorry for wanting you to see where I grew up. God forbid I share something meaningful with the human embodiment of a Twisted Tea.”

That gets a twitch of a smirk out of him. “You’re exhausting.”

“So are you.”

The car hits a bump and you flinch, pressing a hand to your stomach.

Tom glances over. “What?”

“I’m fine. Just—carsick.”

“Should’ve let me drive the actual highway.”

You groan, slumping lower in your seat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Silence settles again. The trees rush past. The light starts shifting — warmer, deeper. You sigh, resting your head against the window. Then…after a beat, you turn slowly, like you’re debating something.

“Tom?” you mumble, voice quieter now.

“Yeah?”

“…I feel like shit.”

You shift in your seat for the third time in five minutes.

Tom glances over. “Jesus. You good?”

“No,” she mutters, pressing her hand to her stomach. “I told you I was carsick hours ago.”

“I offered to stop.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere and I’m not getting murdered on some dirt road.’”

“I stand by it,” he says flatly, eyes still on the road.

You huffs, leaning your head toward the window again. But it’s hot and the angle sucks and the seatbelt’s digging into your collarbone.

You try resting your head on his shoulder again — lightly, hesitantly.

He stiffens. “Okay. No offense, but you’re all sweaty.”

You smack his arm weakly. “You’re such a baby.”

“I’m just saying. If you hurl on me, I’m leaving your body in the woods.”

You groan and slide down in the seat, kicking your shoes off and pushing your hair out of your face.

Tom glances at her. “What are you doing?”

“Trying not to die.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

You shoot him a glare. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with your guts doing somersaults on this bootleg rollercoaster you call a car.”

“My car is fine.”

“Your suspension is nonexistent, Thomas.”

“You’re nonexistent.”

“Oh my God,” you say, covering your face with both hands. “You’re like if a vape and a gym sock had a baby and gave it daddy issues.”

Tom blinks. “Weirdly personal.”

“I’m in pain. I’m allowed.”

He sighs and flicks the A/C up a notch. “Drink more of your soda.”

“It’s warm.”

He picks it up and holds it against your cheek without warning.

You jerk away. “That’s cold, asshole!”

He smirks. “You’re welcome.”

You kick the dashboard lightly. “I hope you get lost out here.”

“I am lost,” he mutters. “You made me turn off the goddamn highway for this Southern Gothic hellscape.”

You stare out the window. A crumbling church passes by. An old barn. Fields that stretch forever.

“…My dad used to take me this way when I was a kid,” you say, quieter now. “He said it was the only way to clear his head.”

Tom doesn’t say anything. Just drives. But he glances at you — the way you’re curled up now, eyes half-lidded. Still annoyed. Still a mess. But a little softer.

“…I didn’t know,” he says quietly. “About your dad. Or why you wanted to take this road.”

You don’t look at him right away. You give a small shrug.

“It’s okay.”

A beat passes.

“If you could just get to the nearest gas station so I can violently hurl, that’d be lovely,” you add, pressing a hand to your gurgling stomach.

Tom grimaces. “Oh my God, don’t say ‘violently hurl.’”

You glare at him. “You are the worst support system.”

“I just—I’m serious. I don’t do well with puke, okay? You know how I get.”

“Yeah. Useless.”

“I swear to God if you projectile vomit in this car—”

“Just pull over, Tom!”

He swerves onto the shoulder in a mild panic, tires kicking up dirt. Before he even stops fully, you’ve already yanked the door open and stumbled out onto the grass.

You double over, bracing your hand on your knee—and then it happens.

Tom leans out of the car, hovering uselessly.

“Ugh—gross, gross. Oh my God—are you—is it done?” he calls out, half-horrified.

You retch again in response.

Tom winces. “Jesus.”

But, to his credit, he gets out anyway. Slowly. Like you’re a ticking biohazard. He crouches beside you, arm stretched awkwardly to hold your hair up — from a distance.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” he mutters.

You cough and spit, wiping your mouth on your sleeve, voice hoarse. “Wow. Chivalry really isn’t dead.”

Tom glares. “You’re lucky I even got out of the car.”

“You’re standing like you’re performing a goddamn exorcism.”

“I feel like I am.”

You groan and sag back onto the grass, completely drained.

“…Can you at least pretend to be nurturing?” you mutter.

Tom stands over you, looking around at the middle-of-nowhere emptiness.

“I swear, if a scarecrow starts walking toward us, I’m leaving you.”

“You already did, emotionally.”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Let’s…sit here for a second. You good?”

You close your eyes, still holding your stomach. “Define good.”

Tom crouches again — closer this time, less dramatic about the vomit.

“…You’re lucky I’m hot,” he says.

You crack an eye open.

“You’re lucky I didn’t throw up on your shoes.”

He shuts up.

***

The air is cooler now. The sky’s a dusty indigo, the last of the sun slipping behind the trees.

The silence in the car is heavier than before — but not in a bad way. It’s… comfortable, in its own tired, raw-edged way.

You’re curled in the passenger seat, legs stretched out across the console. One bare foot rests in Tom’s lap.

Tom drives one-handed, his other arm resting near your knee, careful not to jostle you. You’re slumped against the door, hoodie bunched under your cheek, completely out cold.

Your phone buzzes once in the cupholder. you don’t stir.

Tom glances at you, then back at the road.

He doesn’t say anything, but he adjusts the vents to aim away from your face. Then he turns the music down even lower — something wordless and soft playing under the hum of the tires.

A few minutes later, you mumble something in your sleep — a breathy, indistinct sound — and shifts slightly. Your heel presses deeper into his thigh.

Tom tenses instinctively… but then just exhales through his nose.

“…You’re ridiculous,” he chuckles under his breath.

And when a bump in the road makes you jolt a little, he reaches over — like it’s nothing — and lightly steadies you so you don’t slide.

Your chest rises and falls. Crickets outside now. The occasional flicker of headlights from a passing truck.

Tom doesn’t say anything else.