Head straight home after work.

You don’t go back to the office.

Yvette wouldn’t expect it, not after a Houston run. Once the package is dropped and you’re not riddled with bullets, your job’s officially done.

Instead, you drive straight home. The Volt creaks into the driveway and you silently thank it for another safe trip. As rough as it sounds, it's been the most dependable vehicle you've ever owned, and there's a reason you trust your life to it for your dead zone runs. The late afternoon light is soft and gold, a reminder of a better time when nothing was wrong with the world. You wish you didn't know better.

The front door creaks as you push it open, and you're greeted with warm air that smells faintly of soap and something lemon-scented.

Mariana appears in the kitchen doorway, one hand still holding a dishrag. Barefoot, hair tied back, your oversized flannel hanging off one shoulder like it belongs there.

"You are back?” she asks, more a statement than a question.

You kick off your boots. “Yeah. Just for a minute. I have to go to class soon.”

She tilts her head. “Class? You… study?”

“Community college,” like that explains anything.

Her brow furrows. You can almost see her trying to decode the words, flip them into Portuguese and back again. “Why?”

"Want to be a fireman.”

She frowns slightly, “Fireman?”

You pause for a moment and look up the right word on your pocketwatch.

“Bombeiro. Gotta get enough credits to start training at a firehouse. It’s kind of a loophole. I don’t want to do Civil Service.”

She tilts her head quizzically. You find it adorable but try to ignore it.

“Less brainwashing. Can get to the burning buildings part a little faster.”

She gives you a look, unreadable but not unkind.

“But you already have good job?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Maybe it’s stupid. But I want to do something that matters. More than what I do now anyway.”

She doesn’t laugh, but her eyes soften. “In Brazil… fireman is loud. Big man. Always shouting.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You saying I’m small?”

She shrugs, just a little. “No. Just… you look clean.”

You blink. “Clean?”

She searches for the word, brow scrunching. “Not… rough. Not like fireman.” She pauses again. “Smooth. Not loud, or hairy.”

That one makes you grin. “Smooth, huh?”

She looks you over again, eyeballing you critically. “Maybe too nice for fire.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “I didn't know that was a thing. I'll work on that.”

She leans on the counter a little, watching you, almost like she’s waiting to see what you’ll say next.

The silence hangs in the air for an uncomfortable length of time.

“I wasn't sure you’d still be here when I got back.”

She shrugs. “Was warm.”

You look her over, standing there in your shirt, hips just barely shifting under fabric that does nothing to hide the shape of her. And for a moment, the air does feel a little too warm.

She catches your look. Doesn’t shy from it, exactly, but her chin dips. Her eyes go soft and distant, like she’s backing into the shell again.

“I no stay forever,” she says, quiet.

“I know.”

You mean to leave it at that. You really do.

Your voice catches in your throat. You sound a little hoarse when you finally speak. “But you don’t have to go soon. I'd like it if you stayed for a while.”

She swallows. Looks up at you through her lashes. Then back to wiping the same spot on the counter.

“No?” she says.

“No.”

And there’s something about the way she doesn’t say anything else. The way she lingers right there, letting silence do most of the talking, that makes you want to throw her on the floor and see what else she’d let you get away with.

Instead, you clear your throat. “Anyway. I should go change.”

She nods, eyes still on the dishcloth.

You turn toward the hallway. Her voice follows you, soft and almost playful.

“You come back after class?”

You pause, look over your shoulder. She’s still facing the counter, but her voice had weight. Like maybe she didn’t mean to ask, but also kind of did.

“Yeah,” you say. “Unless I get hit by a truck. Then you’re stuck with the cats.”

She snorts. Barely. A breath of a laugh.

“Don’t joke.”

“Okay.”

You flash a crooked grin. Her eyes flick up just long enough to catch it before darting away.

You head down the hall. Behind you, it’s quiet again. But the silence feels different. There's a warmth there that wasn't there before.

---

The drive to campus is uneventful. You park under a tree that hasn’t been alive since the Second Dust Bowl and hoof it to class with your bag slung over one shoulder and your shirt collar still crooked.

ACC looks the same as always: a cluster of low-slung concrete buildings, a vending machine with three working options, and a student body made up of equal parts hopeful, exhausted, and stoned students, some looking for a better life, some there because they don't know what else to do.

Your first class is Statistical Reasoning for Non-Majors, which is exactly as exciting as it sounds. But the classroom has a decent air conditioner and nice scenery, so small victories.

You slide into your usual seat in the back. Speaking of nice scenery-

Irene’s already there.

She’s... a lot.

Half-Asian, half-something-else. Pretty in the kind of way that catches you off guard. Big brown eyes, full lips that always look a little too amused, and a figure that would make math professors everywhere start handing out extra credit just for showing up. Which, ironically, she barely does.

She’s hunched over her tablet like she’s trying to send it psychic **** threats.

“Hey,” you say, settling into the chair next to her.

She looks up, eyes bright. “You.”

“That’s me.”

“You’re the one who always finishes the quizzes in like, five minutes. Are you like, secretly autistic?”

“I’m just good at math.”

“Yeah, I figured. You have that vibe.”

“…Thanks?”

“Well, I hate numbers. Passionately. I think they’re smug.”

“They are.”

She sighs dramatically. “My mom says I used to be good at math when I was a kid. Then puberty hit and my brain was like ‘sorry, your boobs get the processing power now.’”

You blink. “That’s a theory.”

“Don’t laugh. I seriously think my IQ got transferred to my bust size.”

You glance down instinctively. Regret it instantly. She notices.

“Busted,” she says.

“Wasn’t looking,” you lie.

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“Not true. I’m great at it. I just didn’t try.”

She grins. It does things to your insides.

Class starts. Professor Mandell drones about distribution curves before passing out the quiz. Irene tries to stab her quiz into submission. You finish early, as always. Irene finishes... eventually, with visible emotional damage.

After class, you’re about to leave when Mandell waves you over with the weariness of a man who has dealt with too many emails and too few decent sandwiches.

“Ryan,” he says, steepling his fingers like a discount Bond villain. “You know who struggles the most in my class?”

You shrug. “You, grading our papers?”

“Close. Irene.”

You glance over your shoulder. She’s trying to get her backpack zipper unstuck with the grace of a baby deer on roller skates.

“She’s a golden retriever,” Mandell continues. “Sweet. Clumsy. Keeps running face-first into glass doors.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s… vivid.”

“I need you to tutor her.”

“I don’t need the extra credit if that's what you're offering.”

“And here I was, hoping you'd do it out of the goodness of your heart. What if I’m offering waived attendance?”

You pause. This is new. “Go on.”

“You show up for exams, help Irene pass the class, and you never have to sit through another one of my lectures.”

“And why do you care if she passes?”

He exhales slowly. “Her mom is an old friend. Very proper. Very Christian. She’s already the laughingstock of her church. Apparently Irene flunking out of community college would be the final nail in the reputation coffin.”

“So this is about church optics?”

“This is about a woman calling me in tears at 10:30 PM asking if it’s too late to transfer her daughter to cosmetology school.”

You glance back toward Irene. She’s still losing the fight with the zipper and starting to look rather distraught.

“Fine,” you say. “But if she hits me, I’m out.”

“She won’t,” he says. “She only flirts with you.”

You blink. “She flirts with everyone.”

“No,” he says firmly. “She flirts with you.”

Fair enough.

You manage to catch her just outside the classroom, trying to coax a granola bar from the vending machine and apparently failing miserably.

“Irene.”

She spins around, already suspicious. “Did I fail again? Oh wait, it's you. Hi.”

“Well, I mean... probably. It's actually kind of why I'm here.”

She groans and drops her forehead against the machine. “Is this about tutoring? Did Mandell rat me out?”

“More of a mercy intervention. Apparently you’re the first person he's seen do worse after switching to multiple choice.”

She scowls. “It’s rigged. My brain just doesn’t... absorb numbers.”

You lean against the wall. “He offered to waive my attendance if I help you pass.”

Her head snaps up. “You get paid in freedom?”

“Basically.”

She narrows her eyes. “What do I get out of this?”

“You get to keep your allowance? I don't know. Your mom was apparently pretty insistent. I can't imagine she'd be okay with you flaking on a chance to pass this class.”

She opens her mouth to protest, then pauses before stopping herself.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I'm going to kill my mom.” she mutters. “Fine. But I’m not doing like, homework on weekends. And if you try to mansplain statistics to me, I will die. Literally. My soul will leave my body.”

“Noted. We’ll study at the library. Wednesdays. After class.”

“Ugh. You’re serious.”

“I mean, yeah.”

She huffs and folds her arms, sulking in the way only someone hot can get away with. “Okay. Fine. I’ll show up. But I’m not promising effort.”

“Good. I’d be worried if you did.”

A beat.

Then, curious: “Do you even like math? Or are you just good at it?”

You shrug. “Not really. I just like solving problems. Math is clean. Predictable. Unambiguous. Unlike people. Like you, for example.”

She smirks. “Yeah, I’m more of a chaos-based learning model.”

“Yeah, you kind of give off that vibe.”

She shifts her weight, glancing at you sidelong. “Okay, so since we're getting to know each other now, what do you do for fun? Like, when you’re not being a math savant.”

“I box,” you say.

Her eyebrows lift. “Like... real boxing? With punching?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn. I guess I could see it. You certainly have the build for it.” She eyes your shoulders appreciatively and pauses for a moment before adding:

“I do the same, just in VR.”

You blink. “Fighting games?”

“Survival, too. But yeah. There’s this one that’s basically just physics-based street fighting. Very cathartic. I’m great at it.”

“I bet.”

“You should play with me sometime. I’d kick your ass.”

You grin. “Probably. I’ve got clumsy real-world muscles. You’ve got gamer instincts and zero fear of injury.”

“Exactly. Your slow human reactions are no match for my finely honed rage.”

You chuckle. “Name the time.”

She taps her chin. “After our first study session. If I don’t fall into a math coma and die.”

“It’s a date,” you say.

She gives you a sly look. “Oh no, it’s going to be a mercy killing.”

You chuckle and walk backward a few steps, pointing at her. “Wednesday. Don’t flake.”

She smirks. “I only flake on boring people.”

You tilt your head. “I’m deeply mediocre. Does that count?”

That earns you a small laugh. “Mediocre is still boring.”

“Ouch,” you say, hand over your chest. “Already cutting me down before I’ve even had a chance to impress you.”

She shrugs, like it’s just the facts. “Lower expectations. Won't get disappointed that way.”

You pause, pointing at her as you walk backward toward the door. “That’s… actually crueler than just calling me boring.”

Her grin lingers as she looks back to her tablet. “Then don’t be.”

It hangs there, a little sharper than you expect as you leave.