Chapter Six: The Tutor
The results were a disaster. The red ink on her zoology and botany papers seemed to bleed across the page, a glaring testament to her failure. Amaya had been so preoccupied with her sociological study of one Aris Rowon that her actual academic studies had fallen by the wayside.
The fallout was swift and brutal.
"A thirty-two in botany? Amaya, what were you thinking?" her father's voice boomed, his face a mask of disappointment. "Your head is always in the clouds!"
"We sent you to college early because we believed in you," her mother added, tone sharp and worried. "This is how you repay that belief? With daydreams and faerie tales?"
In the background, her older brother Liam smirked, mouthing "I told you so" when their parents weren't looking. Typical sibling behavior—but it stung.
The scolding lasted a full, humiliating hour. Every excuse Amaya offered was torn apart with clinical precision. Every attempt to redirect the conversation toward her extracurricular achievements—the essay she'd aced in sociology, the research notes she'd meticulously taken on Aris's daily routines—was met with a flat, "That is not relevant to your grades, Amaya."
The verdict was final: she was getting a tutor. Immediately.
"But who?" Amaya moaned, slumping dramatically on the sofa. "Everyone in my class is just as clueless as I am."
It was her mother who voiced the inevitable. Her gaze flicked toward the house next door. "We don't need to look far. We have the perfect candidate living twenty feet away."
Amaya froze. "No."
"Yes," her father confirmed, tone leaving no room for argument. "Aris is a top medical student. If anyone can drill some sense into that head of yours, it's him. I'll speak to Elara tonight."
Panic clawed at her throat. Aris. Her tutor. The man who had just days ago held her in his arms, then coldly told her to leave. The man who had looked at her like she was simultaneously infuriating and fascinating. The thought of sitting under his gaze, forced to admit how woefully unprepared she was, made her stomach twist.
She spent the rest of the day in a state of dread, her romantic fantasies colliding violently with the mortifying reality of her own incompetence.
That evening, the deal was struck. Elara, ever gracious, had insisted it was a good idea.
"It will be good for Aris, too," she told Amaya's parents. "Teaching reinforces one's own knowledge. And we wouldn't hear of payment, of course. It's what neighbors do."
Amaya knew the truth. Elara's gentle insistence was less about charity and more about forcing her son into a semblance of human interaction.
The first session was scheduled for Saturday morning. Amaya sat at the kitchen table, her botany textbook open to a chapter on plant phylogeny that might as well have been written in ancient Elvish. Her palms were sweaty, and she was fairly certain her notebook was going to combust from anxiety alone.
A firm, confident set of footsteps approached the front door. The doorbell rang—a sound that felt like the drumbeat before a battle.
Her mother ushered him in. "Aris! Thank you so much for doing this. She's in the kitchen."
And then he was there. Simple black t-shirt, jeans, a few textbooks under one arm, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Businesslike, stern, impossibly composed. Amaya swallowed.
"Amaya," he greeted, voice neutral, and slid into the chair opposite her. He didn't acknowledge the events of the week prior, the almost-fall, the ridiculous proposal. To him, she was a student. And she would be graded.
"Hi," she mumbled, trying to summon some charm, some warmth.
He opened her result sheet. The red numbers glared at him. He didn't flinch, didn't sigh, didn't give her the mercy of expression. He was clinical, objective, the embodiment of professional disappointment.
"Right," he said. "We start with the basics you've clearly missed. Two hours. Try to keep up."
He slid a blank sheet toward her. "Notes. And Amaya? No propositions. No pet names. Just botany. Understood?"
She nodded, face flaming. This wasn't the beautiful, dramatic romance she'd imagined. This was torture—beautiful, terrifying, utterly necessary.
The session began.
"Tell me the difference between monocots and dicots," he instructed. Voice clipped, precise.
Amaya's mind raced. She remembered vaguely from the textbook: monocots—one cotyledon, parallel veins… dicots—two cotyledons, net-like veins… something about floral arrangements…
"I… I think monocots have one… seed leaf?" she ventured.
"Yes. One cotyledon," he confirmed, pen tapping rhythmically on his notebook. "Parallel venation in leaves. Examples: grasses, lilies. Dicots have two. Netted veins. Examples: roses, beans." He glanced at her, neutral, but his timing was perfect—enough for her to feel observed, accountable.
Amaya scribbled furiously. "Okay, okay. Got it."
"'Got it' is not an answer. Write complete sentences. This is college."
"Yes, sir!" she muttered, cheeks burning. She wanted to roll her eyes, but he was right.
An hour in, and Amaya felt her brain protesting violently. She had imagined tutoring would involve gentle explanations, maybe some smiles, maybe the occasional nod of approval. What she hadn't imagined was this: the full force of Aris's attention, his methodical drilling, the subtle judgment in his pauses when she hesitated.
"Why is the phloem important?" he asked.
"It… carries… water? Or… nutrients?" she guessed, hoping against reason.
"Careful." He leaned back, arms crossed. "Xylem carries water. Phloem carries sugar, mostly. Think of it like the plant's postal service. Without it, leaves starve, roots die."
Amaya swallowed. "Right. Postal service."
"Yes. Good. Use analogies. They help you remember."
Her eyes flicked up at him. "Wait… did you just—encourage me to think creatively?"
He raised a brow, expression neutral. "Yes. Creativity is allowed—within reason."
Her heart skipped. He smiled. Not broadly, not warmly, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth that meant… something.
Two hours later, her hand cramped, her notebook a chaotic mess of diagrams and notes, Amaya leaned back, utterly exhausted. Aris closed her textbook with a soft thud.
"Improvement is evident," he said. "You'll need more sessions. You can't skip these topics, and I expect you to review before each lesson. Understood?"
"Yes," she breathed. "I… understand."
"And no distractions. No phone. No doodling. Focus. Or we start over."
She nodded, cheeks red. "Yes, sir."
He gathered his books. "I'll be back next Saturday. And Amaya?"
"Yes?"
"Don't fall asleep on the kitchen table. It's unbecoming."
Her lips twitched into a small smile. "Yes, sir."
Once he left, she collapsed dramatically onto the sofa. Liam, who had been quietly observing from the hallway, leaned in, arms crossed. "Wow," he said. "That was… intense."
"You have no idea," she groaned, burying her face in her hands. "He's terrifying, and precise, and… and awful. But also… sort of amazing?"
Liam raised an eyebrow. "Sort of amazing? Are we talking about the same guy who pinched your ear for proposing marriage?"
"Yes!" she squealed. "Exactly that one!
He's… terrifying, yes, but he's also… he's in control. And I learned stuff!"
Liam shook his head, grinning. "You're insane. But fine, I'll admit it… I'm impressed. I think he actually scared some sense into you. That's new."
"I learned! But more importantly," she added, sitting up and grabbing his hand in sisterly solidarity, "I survived. And I have you to remind me that I'm not completely hopeless."
Liam smirked, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Always. Even when you're ridiculous."
For the first time that day, Amaya felt grounded, reassured. Aris Rowon might be the infuriating, impossible neighbor and her assigned tutor, but with Liam by her side, she knew she could survive anything.
And she would.