Chapter 1: The Sign-Up Sheet

  The campus always smelled like paper in the fall. Not crisp leaves or pumpkin spice or anything romantic—just paper. Stacks of handouts stuffed in mailboxes. Posters curling on bulletin boards. Half-finished essays rustling under trembling hands.

  Mira always thought that was oddly comforting.

  She walked quickly through the east wing of the humanities building, her bag bumping against her hip with every step. It was one of those days when nothing felt quite real—foggy brain, too much coffee, not enough sleep. The sun had dipped behind clouds hours ago, casting the halls in a sleepy, filtered gray.

  She had just bombed her literature quiz. She wasn’t entirely surprised, but still, the ache of disappointment sat heavy in her stomach.

  Her professor, a kind older woman who always wore corduroy skirts and smelled faintly of peppermint tea, had suggested something Mira had been dreading.

  “Peer tutoring,” she’d said, tapping her pen gently against the edge of Mira’s paper. “You’re smart, Mira. You just need structure. Someone to hold you to it.”

  Which was a gentle way of saying: You’re falling behind, and we don’t have time for you to keep floating.

  Now, Mira stood in front of the tutoring office, peering through the frosted gss of the door. Inside, a bulletin board was cluttered with flyers—some about study groups, others about stress relief yoga and free condoms. Very college.

  In the center of the board was a white clipboard beled Tutoring Requests. Mira hesitated before reaching for it, chewing her lip.

  “Structure,” she muttered to herself, then scribbled her name on the line and checked a box for literature support.

  She was about to turn away when she heard a chair scrape.

  Through the narrow sliver of gss in the door, she saw a figure rise from one of the chairs behind the desk. A girl—no, not a girl. A woman. Her figure was lean, tall. Her clothes were dark and neat: bck turtleneck, pressed scks, a pair of polished oxfords that made no sound as she crossed the room.

  She moved like she was used to being watched.

  Mira felt her breath catch. She didn’t mean to stare, but there was something... magnetic about her. Her hair was dark brown, swept back in a loose bun, a few strands softening the severity of her face. Sharp cheekbones, delicate mouth. She looked like she belonged in a painting. Or a dream.

  The woman gnced toward the door. For one heartbeat, their eyes met.

  Mira froze.

  The woman's gaze was unreadable. Not unkind, but distant—like she was already thinking five steps ahead of whatever Mira was about to say.

  Then, she turned away and disappeared behind a row of filing cabinets.

  Mira stood there a moment longer, her heart doing something inconvenient in her chest.

  She blinked herself back to life, turned around, and practically fled.

  ---

  The next day, she got an email.

  From: Peer Tutoring Confirmation

  You’ve been matched with Lena Mercer (Uppercss Literature Track). Your first session is scheduled for

  Thursday, 4:30 PM, Carnegie Library — west wing, back table.

  The name felt heavy in her inbox. She stared at it for longer than she should have, reading it again and again.

  Lena.

  Mira didn’t remember breathing when their eyes met, but she did remember the way Lena had looked at her—not quite through her, not quite at her. Like she was measuring something.

  Or waiting.

  ---

  Thursday

  The Carnegie Library was the oldest building on campus. Built in 1889. It had tall arched windows, ceiling-high bookshelves, and carved wooden details that creaked when you leaned on them.

  It also had a west wing that was almost always empty after 3 PM.

  Mira arrived five minutes early and wandered down the row of study tables, her steps soft against the worn carpet. Her palms were a little damp. She’d overthought her outfit—sweater tucked into jeans, a scarf she fiddled with too much.

  She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. A nice uppercssman, maybe a little bored, probably typing something on their ptop while waiting for her.

  But Lena was already there. Sitting perfectly still. A leather notebook open in front of her, pen poised, unreadable expression on her face.

  She looked up as Mira approached, and something about that one, simple movement made Mira’s steps falter.

  “Hi,” she said, trying not to sound breathless.

  Lena nodded. “Mira Lane?”

  Her voice was low, unhurried. Like a ke surface—still, but deep.

  Mira nodded quickly, slipping into the seat across from her. “That’s me. Um. Sorry if I’m te?”

  “You’re not,” Lena said, gncing at the small silver watch on her wrist. “You’re two minutes early.”

  “Oh.” Mira didn’t know what to do with her hands.

  Lena didn’t smile, but something in her eyes softened—just a little. She picked up her pen and clicked it once. “Let’s start with your course sylbus. I want to see what you’re behind on.”

  Mira reached for her folder, papers shuffling in clumsy motions, and handed them over.

  As Lena flipped through them, Mira caught herself staring again. Lena’s movements were so precise. Not stiff, but deliberate—like everything she did had been edited for elegance. Even the way she turned a page seemed composed.

  “You’re falling behind in comparative theory,” Lena said, scanning her notes. “And you’ve missed two assignments in close reading.”

  Mira winced. “I know. I’m... not great at time management.”

  “I can tell,” Lena murmured. Then, before Mira could flinch too hard, she looked up. “But your writing isn’t bad.”

  Mira blinked. “Wait—really?”

  “You have a strong voice,” Lena said simply. “Unfocused, but natural. There’s something raw in it. That’s hard to teach.”

  Mira flushed. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table.

  Lena didn’t say anything more. She just studied her again, eyes drifting across Mira’s face with unsettling calm.

  Mira shifted in her chair, looking away. “So... what do we do now?”

  Lena closed the folder and leaned forward slightly.

  “Now,” she said, “I teach you how to listen.”