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Eventually, I shove the book aside and flop onto my back, arms splayed. I stare at the ceiling. The same one I stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to as a kid. Then at the wall. Then at my phone.

My thumb hovers over my messages. I don’t want to bother him. I don’t precisely know his views on texting and he was the one to initiate the other day.

I don’t want to need him. Need help.

But I also don’t want to fail this class, and he never makes me feel small for asking.

I open the app.

Me:

Hey… random question. Do you remember anything about calculating standard errors? Or z scores?

I regret it instantly. I should’ve just looked it up. Or tried harder. Should have eased into the message. Made some small talk. Given him something out of this exchange. God, what if he’s busy? What if he sees my text and thinks I’m too needy? Or worse—too dumb? Or—

Oh.

The little typing dots appear.

…

My phone buzzes.

I sit up straighter, cross-legged on my bed, trying to pretend like this isn’t the highlight of my whole day.

ólaffson:

Yes. What are you struggling with?

Do you have a specific question?

Or do you want me to walk you through something?

My stomach flips. He didn’t hesitate. No teasing. Just right into help mode.

Warmth spreads in my chest. My lips twitch, just a little.

Me:

Walk me through it? If you have time.

I’m sure you have better things to do.

ólaffson:

I have time for you.

Okay. That’s… unfair. And this basement is unseasonably warm. My skin burns as I stare and stare and stare at the printed letters on my phone screen. I should open a window. Or text him back.

Me:

Careful. You haven’t heard how dumb my question is yet.

ólaffson:

It’s okay Sadie. You can ask me anything.

Me:

You might want to find a hard surface. I’m sure you’ll need to bang your head against it more than once.

I expect some amused reaction to my self-deprecation. I can picture his face now—faint grin, that spark in his glacier-blue eyes when—suddenly, the numbers don’t feel so impossible.

Okay, they still feel impossible, but this time I think I might make it through to the other side.

ólaffson:

I won’t need to.

Now tell me what has you stumped and let me help you fix it.

I type back quickly, thumb fumbling against the screen as I explain the question.

It takes longer than it should. My brain can’t seem to process the numbers into anything coherent.

The scatterplot in the workbook blurs when I look at it too long, and every time I go to calculate the z-score, I forget which part goes where.

His reply is patient. Clear. He even includes the equation broken down with a simple walkthrough. Emphasis on simple. I want to be embarrassed about how badly I bungled a basic concept, but I can’t bring myself to care. Not with how warm Ragnar’s response makes me feel.

Not just because he helped me figure this out, but because he didn’t make me feel stupid for needing it.

I let out a shaky breath. My chest still feels tight from earlier. From my mom’s passive-aggressive voice and my dad’s confusion and the way my throat locked up when I almost—almost—blurted out that sometimes I wonder if they regret adopting me. That I’m not enough. Never was.

I press my palms to my eyes and swallow hard, trying to ignore the burn behind my lids. I am not going to cry.

One text. One helpful, no-pressure text from Ragnar, and I’m falling apart. What does that say about me?

My phone buzzes again.

He sends back a thumbs up and then a picture of Howl, sitting on a wide leather sofa. He looks like he’s giving the camera a major side-eye.

I grin.

Me:

I feel like he’s judging me.

ólaffson:

He probably is, but it isn’t personal. He does that to everyone.

A soft laugh escapes before I can stop it.

I want to tell him everything. That I’m drowning in numbers and family pressure and this horrible, sinking fear that I’ll never be enough.

That I’ll fail this class and lose the only job that made me feel useful.

I’ll lose the friends I’ve made there. That I’ll keep disappointing everyone, over and over, forever.

I clutch my phone to my chest for a second, like I’m fourteen and in the middle of my first crush. Which, frankly, is embarrassing. I’ve been kissed. I’ve had sex. I’ve lived through heartbreak.

And yet… I’m practically melting over a man who sent me a dog picture and helped me with my homework.Am I twelve?

Pathetic , but I don’t stop smiling.

I go back to the problem set, a little steadier now, and knock out three more questions before my focus splinters again. My eyes flick to the laundry basket in the corner.

I could fold those clothes. It’s been over a week.

And I have some new books that need a home on my bookshelf. Which means I need to reorganize my mini library.

I stand, stretch, and wander over to straighten a stack of papers that absolutely did not need straightening.

The mental itch for a different task is impossible to ignore.

Anything other than the next equation. Anything but returning to the stupid chart with the skewed distribution that I don’t understand.

Fifteen minutes later I’ve reorganized my pens by color, filled up my water bottle twice, and spent ten minutes rereading a sticky note Ragnar once left on my clipboard during rehab.

Thank you for the coffee. -R

I saved it. Of course I did. Even before he gave me butterflies. Before the curve of his jaw sent lava to the pit of my stomach. It’s like I saw this coming. These squishy, warm feelings.

A knock sounds at the basement door, and I startle. My dad steps in, looking awkward and unsure, like he used to when I was a kid and crying after a bad dream.

“I knocked,” he says, almost sheepish.

“I know,” I say, but I don’t look up. I save the photo of Howl. Now I have two. I kept that one of him with my scarf, too.

Dad sits on the edge of the bed and I keep pretending my attention is fully engaged elsewhere.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. I thought I was helping. I—math always made sense to me. I thought maybe…”

“That I was just being lazy?” The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.

He flinches. “No.”

But it feels like he meant to say, ‘yes.’

I don’t want to be mad at my dad. I know he means well. He and Mom always do. They love me. I know. But sometimes… sometimes meaning well isn’t enough. Sometimes it just makes it worse.

“I know you’re a smart kid,” he adds after a second, “and I know you’re trying. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you weren’t.”

I nod, still not looking at him.

He leans forward a little. “I worry. That’s all. You’ve always been so… good… at school. It’s hard to watch you struggle.”

Because they’re not used to it. I was supposed to be their smart, perfect miracle.

The one who made their lives complete. A lucky little baby, left abandoned by her biological family, plucked from nowhere, raised in white picket safety, expected to shine and make it all worth it.

When I was little, it worked. The stakes didn’t feel as high. Or as terrifying.

I’m the one who isn’t allowed to fail. And I think it might be killing me.

I nod again.

“Do you want help?” he asks gently.

I shake my head. “No.”

I don’t want him to see how broken my process is.

I don’t want him to watch me bounce from one half-started task to another, forgetting steps, needing reminders, getting things wrong.

I don’t want him to know how hard this is for me when it’s so easy for him.

It’s easier to make my brain work when no one is watching.

And I have Ragnar. For some reason my brain works just fine with him around.

Just fine for math. The rest I’m still a train wreck on.

“I’m okay, Dad.”

He pauses, like he wants to push again. But then he nods and stands.

Before he leaves, he turns, something churning behind the blue of his eyes.

“I just want you to be happy, honey. I love you. So does your mama. She just worries.”

My spine straightens.

She may worry, but not about me. Ragnar, my reputation, and the way it affects her. God forbid I lose my job and they lose an old friend.

He leaves, shutting my door behind him, and I’m alone.

Alone in my childhood room, paying rent to my own parents, drowning in numbers I don’t understand and shame I can’t shake.

But when I glance down at my phone, the screen lights up.

ólaffson:

Hey, Howl wants to know if you figured out that last z-score.

I press a hand to my chest and breathe.

Me:

Tell him I got it. Barely.

There’s a pause.

ólaffson:

We say that counts.

I smile.

Ragnar believes in me, even when I don’t believe it myself.

It’s past midnight, and the house had finally gone still. No more footsteps creaking above me, no more hushed conversations from my parents. The ones my brain insists are about my shortcomings.

My stats book lays abandoned on the floor along with a fluorescent pink highlighter, cap halfway off and bleeding fluorescent pink into the carpet.

I think about moving it, but there’s already a stain and I can’t make my body sit up and grab the cap.

My laptop screen has long gone black. But my phone sits lit on the pillow beside me, like it’s waiting for me to pick it up again. Text him. Again.

I’d been hovering for the last ten minutes, thumbs twitching, brain whispering reasons not to text him this late: he’s probably sleeping, he has practice in the morning, I’m the one who set the boundaries of our “agreement” and now I’m the one not respecting them…

None of that changes the fact that I want to.

Me:

Hey. Sorry it’s late. Just wanted to say thanks again for earlier. I don’t know what I’d do without your help right now.

…