It’s a Thursday afternoon in the middle of November, in which a pair of students arrive at Leah’s house. It’s not quaint, yet not a sprawling palace – just right. Leah pulls her jangling keys out of the ignition, unlocking the doors of the car before leaping out, her mahogany books skidding against the frosted driveway.

Sam steps out, hoisting his backpack onto his aching back, shivering violently in the frigid air. As Leah talks, climbing the stone steps to her patio, smoke swirls around her bright lips, in stark contrast to the dying landscape around her. Her steps are as bright and cheery as ever, despite donning only a millennial pink sweater, but Sam struggles to keep up with her in his large jacket.

She fiddles with the doorknob for a moment, trying three keys before the door opens. Sam watches quietly, pulling out his cell phone to answer imaginary texts.

Silently, they walk inside the dark house.

Sam lowers his heavy backpack, careful to make as little noise as possible, unzipping his jacket and draping it over the windowsill. He kicks off his mesh sneakers, revealing his patterned socks. Small kittens smiled back at him as he takes a brief glance at his toes, a crimson storm creeping up into his cheeks.

Desperate to avoid looking foolish, he averts his gaze to the neutral, grey walls. There are photo frames everywhere, of Leah and her parents, accompanied by an older brother and sister he assumed were her siblings. One was an old Christmas photo, with a young Leah clutching an oversized present box fastened with a scarlet ribbon.

“Nice socks,” says Leah suddenly, with a small smile. “Do you need anything to eat?” She’s already got a box of granola bars tucked under her arm.

“N-No. It’s okay.” Sam bites his tongue as she shrugs, her frizzy ponytail bobbing as her shoulders dip.

The only sound in the house is the patter of feet against the carpeted staircase, into Leah’s bedroom.

Sam looks around in wonder at the baubles on a pale white shelf and the dreamcatcher fluttering in the wind of the fan, which comes to life as he steps inside. Her desk is close to a wide window, almost touching the headboard of her bed. At the foot of the bed is a plush rug.

Leah lightly throws herself into her chair, which rolls and spins as she inches towards her backpack.

“You can sit on my bed.” He pulls his backpack onto the bed, cautiously settling on the pastel blue comforter. He crosses his legs when Leah pulls out her laptop, her fingers dancing over the keyboard with speed and agility.

He checks the time.

Three hours remain until their shift, but the tense silence between the two grows and ebbs as pencils meet paper, scrawling phrases they hope will make them sound smart.

Was meeting her early okay?  wonders the boy. His mechanical pencil stops, etching a deep scar into the slightly crumpled paper. I… He looks towards her. Her glowing expression is illuminated by the lamp on her desk, through by the arch of her eyebrow she doesn’t seem to understand what she’s looking at. Should I say something?

“Hey, Leah?” says Sam. Forget speaking to her a few days before – this was the dumbest thing he’d done so far. “Do you need help with something?”

Her expression flickers for a moment, first shocked before becoming wary. “I’m fine.”

His lips press together as he stares back at his essay, a detailed analysis on Macbeth. He can’t get his pencil to form words about the foolish decisions and of course, a strong belief in destiny when he messes up in front of his coworker.

His friend.

What's done, is done.

A moment passes.

"Actually, can you help me with this question?" His head jolts from his paper, looking at her in shock. She looks away as he leaps off the mattress, kneeling next to her desk.

Their shoulders are impossibly close, grazing one another as she aggravatedly gestures to the problem in question. Calculus was a struggle, but one he'd endured sophomore year.

And, at that moment, he began to speak without hesitation. If anything, this was the one thing he knew. The one thing he wouldn't - couldn't - mess up.

It was something he could give to the person who'd given him much more than she could imagine.