Tyler had been my boyfriend for three years, and I went to the back-to-school party expecting ten quiet minutes with him before senior year swallowed us whole.

Instead, I found him kissing Brianna Cole by the pool.

I stopped before either of them saw me.

Then Tyler laughed with his friends and said, “Avery's great. Dating her just feels like homework.”

That hurt more than the kiss.

I had built our senior-year calendar, edited his college essay, and assumed we would still walk into Prom together.

Apparently he wanted the benefits of dating the valedictorian candidate without dating the girl herself.

So I did not make a scene.

I opened our shared college planner, removed his access, deleted three years of photos, and blocked his number.

One message reached my laptop before the block synced.

Did you seriously remove me from everything?

For the first time in three years, Tyler finally noticed what my “boring” work had been doing for him.

I closed the screen.

Senior year had just become mine.

***

The heavy bass from the living room speakers rattled the floorboards of Liam Foster’s house, vibrating straight up through the soles of my sneakers. It was the annual back-to-school party, the chaotic, sweaty kickoff to senior year. I squeezed past a group of cheering lacrosse players in the narrow hallway, carefully balancing two plastic cups of lukewarm soda to keep them from spilling onto the rug.

I hated these huge, crowded parties, but I was looking for Tyler.

Three years. We had been together since the first week of freshman year. We had navigated awkward school dances, brutal midterms, and endless family drama as a team. I had our entire senior year mapped out in my head, right down to the matching college apparel we were going to buy on our joint campus tours in October. We were supposed to be the stable couple. The ones everyone else looked at and said they would make it all the way.

"Hey, Avery!" Chloe, a girl from my AP Calculus class, bumped into my shoulder, nearly sending my drinks flying. "Watch the cups!"

"Sorry," I laughed, steadying my hands. "Have you seen Tyler?"

"I think he headed out toward the pool cabana a few minutes ago," she yelled over the deafening music. "Mason was looking for him too."

"Thanks," I said, offering a quick smile before pushing my way through the heavy sliding glass doors leading to the backyard.

The air was cooler out here, thick with the sharp smell of chlorine and spilled beer. Strands of yellow fairy lights were strung up in the trees, casting a dim, romantic glow over the rippling water.

I navigated around the edge of the pool, dodging a couple making out on a plastic lounge chair. I kept my eyes peeled for Tyler's familiar dark jacket.

I stepped around the corner of the wooden cabana, the words already forming on my lips. I got your drink, but they were out of ice—

My sneakers stopped dead on the wet concrete.

Tyler was there. But he wasn't waiting for me.

He had Brianna Miller pinned against the wooden lattice of the cabana. His hands were tangled tightly in her blonde hair, his mouth pressed hard and hungry against hers.

A sharp, physical ache hit my chest, knocking the wind out of my lungs.

The plastic cups slipped from my numb fingers. They hit the ground with a wet smack, soda splashing over my ankles and soaking into my socks.

Neither of them noticed the noise. The music blaring from the house was too loud, and they were too busy.

Tyler pulled back, breathing heavily. He laughed low in his throat as Brianna traced a manicured finger down the front of his shirt.

"You're bad," Brianna teased, her voice sickeningly sweet and breathless. "What about Avery? Isn't she inside waiting for you?"

Tyler scoffed. He leaned back against the wooden post, running a hand through his dark hair. It was the same way I used to run my fingers through his hair when he fell asleep studying on my living room couch.

"Avery's great," Tyler said. His tone was casual. It lacked any hint of guilt, hesitation, or regret. "But honestly? Dating her just feels like homework."

A guy standing a few feet away in the shadows stepped forward. It was Mason, Tyler’s lacrosse co-captain. He let out a low chuckle, taking a sip from a red plastic cup. "Damn, man. Cold. She practically runs your life."

"It's just the truth," Tyler shrugged, not missing a beat. "She's always on my case. Application deadlines, schedules, SAT prep. It’s exhausting. I need to actually live a little before we go off to college. I can't be tied down by someone who treats our relationship like a group project where I'm always the one getting graded."

Brianna giggled, stepping closer to him again and resting her hands on his waist. "Well, I don't give homework."

"Thank God for that," Tyler murmured.

He pulled her in for another kiss.

I didn't scream. I didn't march over there and throw the rest of the spilled soda in his face. I didn't demand an explanation or cause a scene for the entire party to witness.

My vision blurred, the fairy lights turning into smeared halos of yellow and white. I forced the tears back, refusing to let them fall. I turned around and walked away, my wet sneakers squeaking faintly on the patio tiles.

I navigated blindly through the crowded house. People bumped into me, laughing and shouting, but I couldn't hear them anymore. The thumping bass now felt like a physical hammer against my skull. I pushed out the front door and hurried down the driveway, the cool night air hitting my burning face.

I leaned against the side of my Honda Civic, parked three houses down the street.

My hands were shaking violently.

Part of me—the pathetic, naive part that had loved him unconditionally for three years—wanted to believe it was a stupid mistake. An impulse. Just the alcohol talking. I stared down the dark street toward Liam’s house, waiting. Waiting for the front door to fly open. Waiting for Tyler to come sprinting down the sidewalk, panicked, realizing I had seen him, begging for my forgiveness.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.

The street remained empty. Laughter echoed from the backyard, undisturbed.

My phone buzzed in my back pocket. My heart leaped into my throat. I yanked it out, desperate for the apology, the frantic, terrified explanation that he had messed up.

It was a text from Tyler.

Hey babe, did you finish editing my Stanford supplement essay? The portal closes Friday. Also, remind me what time my counselor meeting is tomorrow morning?

I stared at the glowing screen, my eyes tracing the words over and over again.

He didn't know I saw him. He didn't care to check on me. He wasn't worried about where I had gone.

Dating her just feels like homework.

The words echoed in my head, loud and clear. They stripped away the initial shock, stripping away the heartbreak, and leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity.

He thought I was boring. He complained to his friends that I was exhausting. Yet, here he was, fully expecting me to fix his grammar, manage his schedule, and guarantee his future.

He didn't want a girlfriend. He wanted a free assistant.

He hated the "homework," but he was fine letting me do it all for him while he kissed another girl in the dark.

I unlocked my car and climbed into the driver's seat. I slammed the door shut, cutting off the distant, muffled noise of the party.

The interior of the car was dark and silent.

I unlocked my phone and tapped on the shared College Planner app on my home screen. We had set it up six months ago when the college panic first started. It held everything. Application deadlines, shared essay drafts, scholarship portals, teacher recommendation trackers, and campus tour itineraries.

My thumb hovered over the settings icon in the top right corner.

For three years, I had held his hand through every difficult class. I had covered for him when he forgot our anniversaries. I had organized his life so he could focus on sports and having fun. I had made his life effortless.

No more.

I tapped 'Manage Users'.

A list popped up. There was my name, and right below it, Tyler Evans.

I swiped left on his name.

A red trash can icon appeared.

Remove user from shared workspace? the prompt asked, a small warning triangle flashing on the screen. This action cannot be undone. User will lose access to all shared documents and calendars.

I hit Confirm.

The screen loaded for a fraction of a second, and then his name vanished. Just like that, he lost access to the master calendar. He lost the essay drafts I had spent hours revising. He lost the spreadsheet of application fees and the scholarship links I had sourced specifically for his major.

Next, I exited the app and opened my photo gallery.

Three years of memories stared back at me in a neat grid. Prom photos. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Tyler smiling at the camera. Tyler kissing my cheek at a football game. Tyler holding me on the beach last summer.

I tapped 'Select All'.

The system paused, calculating the number of files.

Delete 1,402 items?

My thumb didn't even tremble this time.

Delete.

The screen cleared instantly. The album was empty. The colorful grid was replaced by a blank gray screen.

I opened my contacts. I navigated to his name. The guy who was supposed to be my future. The guy who was currently tasting strawberry lip gloss off Brianna Miller in a backyard cabana.

I scrolled down to the very bottom of his contact card.

Block this Caller.

Right before my finger tapped the red text, a banner notification dropped down from the top of my screen.

It was a text from Tyler.

Did you seriously remove me from everything?

I stared at the message. I could picture the exact look on his face right now. The confusion. The sudden, creeping panic as he opened the planner app to check his essay, only to find himself locked out of his own future.

He expected me to reply. He expected an argument, a negotiation, a tearful paragraph he could easily dismiss with a half-hearted apology. He expected me to cave, to fix it, to go back to managing his life.

Instead, I pressed the power button on the side of my phone.

The screen went black.

For the first time in three years, Tyler was going to have to do his own homework.

Three days.

That was exactly how long my phone had been vibrating with Tyler’s texts. First came the confusion, then the demands, and the poorly masked panic. He was locked out of his own life, and he wanted his free assistant back. I hadn’t answered a single message.

Instead, I was sitting in a stiff leather chair across from Principal Laura Pierce and Athletic Director Grant Sullivan. The air conditioning in the administrative office hummed loudly, doing nothing to cut the heavy tension across the mahogany desk.

"Avery, let’s be honest," Principal Pierce began, folding her hands neatly over a stack of thick files. "You have the highest GPA in the senior class. But more importantly, you have a reputation for keeping things structured. You manage schedules better than most of my faculty."

Sullivan leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. "We are launching a new initiative this week: the Student-Athlete Academic Mentor Program. We have four captains in four sports. Three are close enough to academic trouble that one bad grading period could cost them eligibility. The fourth has a college-admissions problem he treats like a national emergency. Either way, we need them stable before midterms."

"And you want me to tutor them," I said, keeping my voice neutral.

"Manage them," Sullivan corrected, tapping a thick finger against the desk. "Tutors just help with homework. We need someone to make sure they actually do the work, turn it in on time, and pass their exams. We need someone who will not put up with their usual excuses."

Principal Pierce slid a manila folder across the polished wood. "If you keep all four of them academically on track through spring review, I will nominate you for the Westbridge Scholars Award, the largest scholarship our school foundation offers. I will also write your principal recommendation for any university you choose."

My eyes locked onto the folder. The Westbridge award would take a brutal chunk out of college costs, and a recommendation from Principal Pierce could strengthen every application I sent. For once, all the scheduling and academic triage I was good at could build my future instead of Tyler's.

"I am in," I said, reaching for the folder.

The designated study room in the library smelled like old paper, floor wax, and impending frustration. I sat at the head of a large oak table, arranging my highlighters, printed syllabi, and a fresh master calendar.

The wooden door swung open, hitting the rubber wall stopper with a loud thud.

Jace Brooks, captain of the football team, walked in first. He dropped an oversized gym bag onto the floor, the metal clasps clanking against the linoleum. He scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "This is a waste of time. I have passing drills in twenty minutes, and Coach is already breathing down my neck. Tutoring is just going to wreck my practice schedule."

"Then you should have paid attention in English," I said, not looking up from my roster. "Your essay on Gatsby was plagiarized from a website that hasn't been updated since 2014."

Jace opened his mouth to argue, but a low whistle from the hallway cut him off.

Cam Dawson, the basketball captain, leaned against the doorframe with a lazy smirk. He strolled into the room and dropped into the chair right next to me, propping his chin on his hand. "Well, aren't you a surprise. If I knew the school hired a Pretty Professor to run this little club, I would have failed my classes a lot sooner."

"Flirting will not raise your History grade, Cam," I said, sliding a thick textbook toward the third guy walking in.

Ethan Cole, captain of the baseball team, didn't even look at me. He just stared at the cover of the chemistry book like it had personally offended him. He pulled a crumpled AP Chemistry syllabus from his pocket and dropped it on the table.

"I need an A in Chemistry," Ethan said, his voice tight with stress. "I do not care about the rest of this program. Just tell me what I am missing."

"I haven't even seen your grade report yet," I said. "Sit down. You can explain the emergency when I get to your file."

Before Ethan could complain about my assessment, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

Noah Reed stepped through the doorway.

He didn't swagger like Cam, and he didn't complain like Jace. He just stood there, tall and imposing, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing squarely on me.

Noah was the hockey captain, and more importantly, he and Tyler despised each other. It wasn’t a secret. They had almost gotten into a fistfight in the cafeteria last spring over a disputed gym schedule, and the bad blood had only escalated since.

Noah's gaze felt too heavy. He looked at me with this quiet, piercing intensity. It was the exact look of someone who knew things. He looked at me like he knew I had spent the last three years playing the role of a devoted, naive girlfriend, only to get publicly humiliated. I hated that look. I hated that he might know exactly why Tyler and I were over, and I hated that he was judging me for it.

"I am not participating in this," Noah said. His voice was flat and cold, carrying a finality that demanded obedience. He didn't even bother taking a seat. He just turned his shoulder, ready to walk right back out into the hallway.

"Then you can explain to Director Sullivan why you are sitting out the rest of the season," I replied, keeping my tone even.

Noah stopped. He slowly turned back around, narrowing his eyes at me. "I do not need a babysitter, Avery."

"Good. Because I am not here to wipe your tears," I shot back.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. I placed both hands flat on the oak table, leaning forward to address all four of them. I was done being the quiet, helpful background character in someone else's story.

"Let's get one thing straight," I said, my voice cutting through the silence of the room. "I do not care about your practice schedules. I do not care about your egos. And I definitely do not care if you think this mandatory study hall is beneath you."

I tapped my fingernail sharply against the stack of printed grade reports.

"If you want to play, you show up," I stated firmly. "You do the work, you pass the tests, and you stay on the field. That is the deal."

Jace scoffed, kicking the wooden leg of the table. "And what gives you the right to boss us around?"

I didn't blink. I met his glare head-on. "The gradebook already did."

Total silence fell over the room. Cam raised an eyebrow, a genuine spark of amusement replacing his lazy smirk. Ethan just sighed, opening his chemistry book with a defeated rustle of pages.

Noah held my gaze for a long, tense moment. The hostility in his gaze didn't vanish, but something else flickered there—a faint, begrudging respect. He didn't say another word. He simply pulled out the chair at the far end of the table and sat down, dropping his backpack onto the floor with a thud.

All four of them were seated. They were mine to manage now.

"Open your laptops," I instructed, sitting back down and pulling up the master calendar. "We are starting with Jace's English essay, and then Cam is going to rewrite his history citations until they actually make sense."

For the next forty-five minutes, the room was surprisingly productive. I projected a shared schedule on the whiteboard, color-coding their upcoming deadlines and missing assignments. Cam tried twice to charm his way out of a worksheet, but I simply handed him a red pen and pointed at his paper until he gave up. Even Noah silently typed away at his laptop, ignoring the rest of the group.

"Wait, so the thesis statement goes at the end of the first paragraph?" Jace asked, squinting at his glowing screen, genuinely confused.

"Yes," I said, leaning over his shoulder to point at his document. "Right here. It anchors your entire argument. If you do not state what you are arguing early on, the teacher assumes you do not know the material."

"Got it," Jace muttered, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

I straightened up, reaching for my water bottle.

That was when I noticed the movement in the hallway.

Through the large glass panel of the study room door, a familiar figure abruptly stopped in his tracks.

Tyler.

He was wearing his dark lacrosse jacket, his phone gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles were white. He had probably been marching through the library looking for me, ready to demand an explanation about the deleted planner app and the blocked number.

But he wasn't marching anymore.

He stood frozen in the doorway, staring through the glass.

He looked at Jace, his own teammate, nodding along to my instructions. He looked at Cam and Ethan, heads bowed over their textbooks. And then, his eyes locked onto Noah. His biggest rival, sitting quietly at the end of my table, following my rules.

For three years, Tyler had been the center of my universe. He was used to me waiting on him, managing his schedule, and making sure he shined. He expected me to be crying in my car, or begging him to talk, or at the very least, waiting for his apology.

Instead, I was sitting at the head of a table, unbothered, commanding the attention of the four most untouchable guys in school.

Tyler's eyes slowly moved from Noah, back to me. They met mine through the glass.

For the first time since I met him, that arrogant, smug smile was gone.

I tapped my yellow highlighter against the edge of the oak table, watching the digital clock on my laptop screen flip to 6:15 PM.

Jace Brooks was exactly forty-five minutes late for his private Calculus session. Again.

This was the third time this week he had blown past our agreed start time. I shoved my textbook into my backpack and zipped it shut with a sharp, satisfying sound. I was done. I wasn't going to sit around in an empty library waiting for a guy who couldn't respect my time.

Tyler had cured me of that pathetic habit permanently.

If Jace wanted to fail out of his senior year and lose his football eligibility, that was his problem. I reached for my car keys, fully prepared to march into Principal Pierce’s office tomorrow and drop him from my roster.

The wooden door to the study room swung open, hitting the rubber stopper with a dull thud.

Jace stumbled inside. He looked wrecked.

Grass stains smeared the front of his gray practice shirt, and sweat made his dark blonde hair stick flat against his forehead. He dropped his oversized gym bag onto the floor. It hit the linoleum like a bag of bricks.

"Don't pack up," he breathed, leaning heavily against the doorframe. "I'm here."

"You are forty-five minutes late," I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. "Our session is over, Jace. I'm canceling your private slot. You can join the group study on Thursdays, but I am not wasting my evenings waiting for you."

Jace pushed off the doorframe, his jaw tightening. "You can't cancel. Director Sullivan will bench me for Friday's game."

"Then you should have looked at a clock." I stepped around the table, ready to walk past him. "I am not your personal assistant. I don't exist just to fix your mistakes."

"I didn't make a mistake!" Jace snapped, his voice echoing sharply in the quiet room.

I stopped, turning back to face him.

The anger in his eyes faded almost instantly, replaced by a hollow, bone-deep exhaustion. He sank into the nearest chair, dropping his head into his hands. His broad shoulders slumped forward, devoid of his usual locker-room swagger.

"I didn't forget," he muttered, his voice muffled behind his hands. "I just couldn't leave."

I crossed my arms, keeping my distance. "Practice ended at five."

"Team practice ended at five," Jace corrected, looking up at me. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to ignore up close. "I have morning weights at five a.m. Then school. Then team practice until five. And then, my dad has his private conditioning coach waiting for me on the back field until six."

I frowned, loosening my grip on my backpack straps. "Every day?"

"Every single day," Jace said bitterly. "My dad treats every college recruiting visit like it's a preview for the NFL draft. If I'm not running drills until I throw up, I'm not working hard enough. He stands on the sidelines with a stopwatch, Avery. If I walk off the field a minute early, he loses his mind."

He gestured toward the open Calculus book still sitting on the table.

"I'm not stupid," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I know how to find a derivative. I understand the formulas. I'm just... I'm so damn tired I can't see straight."

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was his heavy, ragged breathing.

I looked at the Golden Boy of the senior class. The guy who smiled for the local newspaper, who threw the winning touchdowns, who always looked untouchable in the crowded hallways. Right now, he just looked like a teenager crumbling under the weight of an impossible expectation.

Before I could respond, the overhead lights in the study room flickered twice.

Mrs. Gable, the head librarian, tapped on the glass door. "Closing time, kids. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

Jace let out a slow breath, reaching for the strap of his gym bag. "Right. I guess I'll figure out the homework myself."

"Grab your stuff," I said, dropping my backpack onto the table and pulling my textbook back out.

He paused, looking at me in confusion. "What?"

"The library is closed," I said, walking past him toward the door. "My kitchen is open all night. Let's go."

The digital clock on my microwave read 1:00 AM.

The only light in the kitchen came from the warm yellow bulbs hanging over the center island. Jace sat on a wooden barstool, staring blankly at a page of complex integrals. His pencil hadn't moved in five minutes.

"You are ruthless," Jace mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "You know that, right? Any normal tutor would have just given me the answer key two hours ago."

"I already told you, I'm not a tutor," I replied, taking a sip of my lukewarm tea. "I'm a manager. And managers don't forge results. Solve for X."

"I hate X," he groaned. "X ruined my life."

"Just plug the value back into the original equation," I instructed, pointing at his paper.

He leaned closer to the textbook, his eyes half-closed. "Right. The original equation."

He wrote down one number. Then his hand slowed. The pencil slipped from his fingers, clattering softly against the granite countertop.

A second later, Jace's head dropped onto his crossed arms. His breathing evened out, slow and deep.

He was asleep.

I sat in silence, watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.

A familiar, dangerous urge crept into my chest. The urge to fix it.

For three years, whenever Tyler fell asleep studying, I had quietly pulled his worksheets across the table. I had forged his handwriting, solved his equations, and packed his bag so he could wake up to a perfect, stress-free morning. It was my automatic response. Make it easy for them. Take the burden.

I looked at Jace's unfinished math problems. It would take me ten minutes to finish the page. Ten minutes to guarantee his grade and keep my shot at the Westbridge award alive.

My hand drifted toward his pencil.

Then, Tyler's voice echoed in the back of my mind. Dating her just feels like homework.

I pulled my hand back.

No. I was done doing the homework. If Jace wanted to pass, he had to earn it himself.

I stood up from the stool and walked into the living room. I grabbed the soft gray fleece blanket folded over the back of the sofa and carried it back into the kitchen.

Moving quietly, I draped the blanket over Jace's broad shoulders, tucking the edges around him to keep out the chill of the air conditioning.

He shifted slightly, burying his face deeper into his arms, but he didn't wake up.

I sat back down on my stool, opened my AP Government textbook, and began to read my own assignment.

A sharp cramp in my neck woke me up.

I blinked against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. I was slumped sideways over the island, my cheek resting flat against the open pages of my government book.

I sat up slowly, wincing as my stiff muscles protested.

"Careful," a low voice said. "You're going to pull a muscle moving like that."

I startled, turning my head quickly.

Jace was awake. The fleece blanket was still wrapped around his shoulders, but he was sitting up straight, watching me. The deep exhaustion from the night before had faded, leaving his eyes clear and surprisingly focused.

He didn't look annoyed. He didn't look defensive.

"Morning, Avery," he said softly.

It was the first time he hadn't called me 'Tutor' or 'Boss' in a mocking tone.

"Morning," I replied, my voice slightly raspy from sleep. I nodded toward his Calculus book. "You have three problems left."

Jace looked down at the worksheet. He noticed the blank spaces. He noticed that I hadn't filled them in for him while he slept.

A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It transformed him, stripping away the arrogant athlete persona and leaving behind someone real.

He picked up his pencil. "Chain rule, right?"

"Chain rule," I confirmed.

As I watched him tackle the final equations, a quiet realization settled over me.

Everyone at school treated Jace like a superstar. They cheered for him from the bleachers, demanded his time, and expected him to perform flawlessly on command. They wanted the touchdown pass, the perfect interview, the NFL prospect.

But the Golden Boy didn't need another cheerleader shouting from the sidelines.

He just needed someone who understood exactly how heavy the crown really was.

Jace circled his final answer and pushed the paper across the granite island toward me, a quiet confidence settling in his posture.

I reached for the worksheet, ready to check his math, when my phone buzzed sharply on the counter.

The screen lit up, displaying a new message.

It wasn't a desperate text from Tyler this time.

It was an unknown number, and the message contained only an address on the edge of town, followed by a single, demanding sentence.

If you want Ethan to pass Chemistry, come get him before the cops do.