POV: Valeria Cruz

I don't agree with things easily.

Not anymore. Not after learning the hard way that people don't always show you who they are upfront. Sometimes they wait. Sometimes they let you build something in your head. Then they take it apart like it was nothing. So no.

I don't just say yes to things. Which is exactly why I spend the entire walk home thinking about why I did.

Fine.

That's what I told him. Just one word. Like it didn't matter. Like it wasn't a decision. But it was.

And now I can't stop thinking about it. Not the studying. Him, something doesn't make sense. And I don't like things that don't make sense. I find him the next day after school. Same spot. Like we planned it. Like this is already something.

He’s leaning against the wall when I walk up, hands in his pockets, completely relaxed like he has nowhere else to be. Of course he does. But he’s here anyway. That says something.

"You're early,” he says.

"So are you."

He nods once. Like that confirms something for him. I don't waste time.

"Question."

His brow lifts slightly.

“Answer."

"How do you know I'm good at math?"

Straight to it. Because I'm not playing games. Because I want the truth. He doesn't hesitate.

"Elena."

I blink.

"That's it?" 

"That's it.”

I study him. Because that was too easy. Too direct

"And how does Elena know?" I ask.

He shrugs slightly

"She knows people."

"That's not an answer."

"It's enough of one."'

I cross my arms.

"No,” I say. "It's not.” Something shifts in his expression. Not annoyed. Interested. Like he expected this. Like he was waiting for me to push.

"She has a friend at your school," he says. That lands better. Because it makes sense. Because it's normal. Because it's not stalking.

"You asked about me?" I press.

"Yeah." No hesitation. No apology. Just yes.

"Why?" He tilts his head slightly.

"Because I wanted to know."

That shouldn't hit the way it does. But it does. Because it's honest. Because it's simple. Because there's no hidden meaning behind it. Trust intention.

"You always do that?" I ask.

"Do what?" 

"Decide people are worth figuring out after one conversation." He holds my gaze.

"Not usually."

That answer, that one stays. Because it means something. Because it's not casual. Because it's not something he says to just anyone. I look away first. Because I don't know what to do with that yet.

"Relax,” he adds after a second. "I'm not stalking you."

"That's exactly what someone stalking me would say." That gets it. A real smile. Quick. Unfiltered. And for a second. It changes his whole face.

“You're difficult,'' he says.

"You showed up asking for help with something you clearly don't need,” I reply, "What did you expect?"

"Less interrogation."

"You’re lucky you got this." He laughs under his breath. And something about that, feels easy. Too easy. Which makes me suspicious again.

"Let me see what you have,” I say, holding my hand out. He pulls his bag off his shoulder and hands me a notebook. I open it. Flip through. Pause. Then look up at him

"You're not bad at math."

"I didn't say I was."

"You said you needed help."

"I do." 

"No, you don't." He shrugs slightly. 

"I wanted a reason."

There it is. Finally, something real. I close the notebook slowly.

"And this was your best idea?”

"It worked." I stare at him. It should be annoying. It should make me shut this down immediately. But it doesn't. Because he didn't lie. Because he didn't pretend to be something he's not. Because he didn't try to manipulate the situation into something else. He just showed up. 

"I don't have time for games," I say. 

"I'm not playing one" 

"You made one up just to get me here." That stops him. Because he did. And he didn't like that I noticed. I look down at the notebook again. Then back at him.

“You're not wasting my time," I say. 

"I won't." 

"And if I find out you are?” 

"You won't." He doesn't even let me finish. Because he's that sure. And somehow, I believe him. I don't know why. But I do. 

"Fine," I say. Again. But this time it feels different. Less defensive. More decided. 

"Sit," I add, nodding toward the stops nearby. He does. No hesitation. No attitude. Just there.

I sit next to him, not too close, opening his notebook again.

"Start here," I say, pointing to a problem. "Show me how you'd do it." He leans in slightly. Close enough that I can feel the shift. Not uncomfortable. Not distracting. Just... there.

"I'd do it like this," he says, starting to write. And just like that, we fall into it. Not forced. Not awkward. Easy. And somewhere between explaining something simple and correcting a mistake he definitely made on purpose, I realize something. This isn't just about math. And it never was. And maybe, that's the part I should be more worried about. But for the first time in two days I'm not.