The inciting incident arrived in a crisp white envelope from the school district: the Sophomore mid-term report card.

Ryan and his mom sat at the kitchen table — a silent treaty zone.

She looked at the paper, her expression a mix of pride and gentle concern.

“Honors English… A. World History… A. Biology… A-,” she read, smiling. “Ryan, these are fantastic.”

She paused, finger landing on the final, damning line. “Algebra… C-.”

Ryan winced.

“Honey, what’s going on with math?” she asked, kind but curious.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled — which was a lie. Math involved logic and order; his brain, at the moment, was neither. “I just… get stuck.”

His mom tapped a thoughtful finger on the table. “You know,” she said, a slow, terrifying light blooming in her eyes, “Jude seems so smart and focused. I bet he’s good at math. Why don’t you ask if he can help you out?”

Ryan’s blood ran cold. No. Absolutely not, his brain screamed. The one place where my mind is pure static cannot be where I have to spend focused, one-on-one time with the literal walking sun.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she was already texting.

“It’s a great idea! I’ll message his mom. Settled.”

And so, his fate was sealed.

Saturday, 1:55 PM.

Ryan’s bedroom looked like a fashion-based crime scene.

The mission: appear effortlessly casual.

Sweater — too soft.

Hoodie — too try-hard.

Finally, the simple blue T-shirt. Perfect. Casually attractive. Effortless.

Five minutes of strategic hair-messing and one paranoid spritz of cologne later, the doorbell rang.

Be cool, he told himself. It’s just math. You are an intellectual, not a blushing idiot who forgets numbers when he smiles.

He opened the door.

Jude stood there, math textbook under one arm, sleeveless black shirt under the sun.

Ryan’s brain blue-screened. Abort mission.

“Hey,” Jude said easily, stepping inside. “Ready to solve for X?”

“X,” Ryan echoed faintly. “Right. The letter.”

Jude dropped his backpack on the floor, the small penguin keychain Ryan had given him swinging from the zipper.

Ryan’s heart did that stupid flutter thing again. It was ridiculous that a plushie accessory could make him weak, but seeing it there — carried, visible, like a quiet declaration — felt like being kissed without contact.

“You brought him?” Ryan blurted.

“Of course,” Jude said, setting the bag by his chair. “He’s my emotional-support penguin. Very advanced in algebra, too.”

Ryan rolled his eyes, but the smile betrayed him. “Yeah, well, tell him to keep it down while we work.”

“He only speaks when the math gets hot,” Jude said, perfectly deadpan.

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

The session actually started well. Jude was patient; Ryan, desperate not to look dumb, managed the first two problems flawlessly.

I am a genius, he thought. He’s reassessing everything he knows about me. I am his intellectual equal.

He was mid-fantasy when Jude stretched — long, slow, deliberate — the hem of his shirt lifting just enough to break Ryan’s brain.

The next problem involved a train leaving Chicago. His mind blanked.

All he could see was the line of Jude’s bicep.

Is he doing that on purpose? Of course he is. The monster. The beautiful, horrible monster.

Jude started tapping his fingers on the desk — a quiet, rhythmic beat. Ryan recognized it instantly: the drum pattern from his own demo.

This wasn’t tutoring. This was psychological warfare.

Then Ryan’s mom poked her head in. “How’s the brain trust doing? Need any snacks?”

They both snapped into character. Jude’s tone became professionally angelic.

“He’s making great progress, Mrs. Hayes,” he said smoothly. “Just struggling with the fundamentals of quadratic equations, but his attitude is fantastic. We just need to work on focus.”

He winked the second her back turned.

When the door closed, the façade dropped.

The next hour stopped being cute.

The flirting faded. The jokes slowed. Sweat replaced nerves.

Jude erased the board and drew a clean line of numbers instead.

“Okay,” he said, calmer now. “Forget letters. Think rhythm.”

Ryan blinked. “Rhythm.”

“Yeah. Equations want balance,” Jude continued. “Like a chord. You change one side, the other side has to answer or it sounds wrong.”

He tapped the desk twice. Once. Once.

“This side,” tap, “equals this side,” tap. “X isn’t a mystery. It’s the note that makes the whole thing resolve.”

Ryan frowned, then rewrote the problem.

He got three wrong. Then one right.

Then another.

His wrist ached. His brain buzzed.

But the static thinned.

“Oh,” Ryan said quietly. “It’s not about solving it fast.”

Jude looked over.

“It’s about keeping it… even.”

Jude smiled, softer now. “There you go.”

Ryan looked down at his paper — a battlefield of half-finished formulas.

With a sigh, he handed it over.

Jude studied it, trying to stay solemn.

“Wow, Ash,” he said gravely. “This is… really something.”

He uncapped a red marker, drew one elegant X across the page, and held it up.

“I’m afraid you’ve failed,” he said. “And you know the punishment.”

Music swelled in Ryan’s head.

Time slowed.

Jude leaned in, eyes sparkling… closer, closer—

A quick, smug peck on the lips.

He pulled back with a victorious grin.

Ryan just blinked, rebooting from the sheer audacity.

Jude always won.

Ryan glanced at the red X, picked up his pencil, and drew one small, perfect O beside it.

This battle was over.

The war — far from it.

Ryan had just started explaining the math proof again — something about isolating variables, something Jude was pretending to listen to — when Jude’s phone buzzed on the desk.

Once.

Jude didn’t move.

It buzzed again.

Ryan frowned. “You gonna get that?”

Jude’s eyes were locked on the screen. His expression had drained of color so fast it startled Ryan. No teasing smile. No clever comeback. Just… stillness.

The phone buzzed again. Harder. Persistent.

Ryan leaned closer and caught the words at the top of the screen.

RESTRICTED CALLER.

“Oh,” Ryan said quietly.

Jude swallowed. His jaw tightened like he was bracing for impact. “I’m not answering,” he said — too fast, too flat, like he was reciting something he’d practiced.

The phone kept vibrating.

Ryan watched the change happen in real time. The confident boy who stretched on purpose, who joked his way through everything, was gone. In his place was someone smaller. Cornered. Scared.

“You okay?” Ryan asked, softer now.

Jude didn’t answer.

So Ryan reached out.

He placed his hand over Jude’s phone, stilling it against the desk. The buzzing stopped.

He kept smiling and talking, but Ryan watched his hand; it was curled so hard around the penguin keychain the plastic squeaked and his knuckles were white. Jude rubbed at the inside of his wrist like a tic. It was one of those small betrayals—what the face hid, the body told.

“Hey,” he said, gentler now. “You can block it. If you want.”

Jude blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Like the idea hadn’t occurred to him.

“Block it?” he repeated, uncertain. Almost confused.

“Yeah,” Ryan said, shrugging like it was obvious. “You don’t owe anyone access to you. Especially not in my room.”

For a second, Jude didn’t move.

Then, slowly, he picked up the phone. His fingers hovered. Hesitated.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

He tapped the screen. Once. Then again.

Done.

He exhaled — shaky, but real.

Ryan nudged the penguin plushie toward him. “Your tutor says that was the right move.”

Jude huffed out a weak laugh and curled his fingers around it.

“Thanks,” he murmured. After a beat, softer: “For saying that.”

Ryan shrugged again, heart thudding. “Anytime.”

The phone stayed silent.

The room stayed safe.

Chapter Word:

Distraction (n.): An external stimulus that prevents one from giving full attention to a task. Can take the form of a TV show, a good book, or, most potently, a boyfriend in a sleeveless shirt who is exceptionally good at finding reasons to stretch.