stared at him. "Princess?"
He didn't even blink. Just leaned back in the plastic chair like he owned the entire study room. Like the flickering fluorescent lights were spotlights and this was his stage.
"Don't get used to it," I muttered, dragging my notebook closer. "You said we'd start with basics."
Daelen tapped his pen against the table. "Right. Basics. So, tell me everything you know about commerce."
"I know I hate it."
He grinned. "Okay, we've got really basic basics, then."
The hour that followed was a blur of terms I'd heard before but never cared enough to understand. Supply, demand, opportunity cost-he explained them like they were pieces of a story, not just terms from a textbook. Which would've been kind of impressive if I hadn't been too focused on pretending I understood.
"...so imagine a lemonade stand," Daelen was saying, "but your costs go up because lemons are suddenly luxury items-"
"Wait. Why would lemons become luxury items?"
"Why does anything become luxury? Limited supply, high demand, influencer hype. Maybe Beyoncé posted about lemons. Who knows."
I snorted-loudly.
He grinned. "That was a laugh. Admit it."
"Don't push it."
Just then, the door creaked open.
And of course, like clockwork, in floated my parents-Aisha and Emris. My mom in her satin house abaya with pearl buttons, my dad in a cardigan that probably cost more than my entire semester's textbooks. Matching, coordinated, glowing like a Pinterest couple who fast together and invest together.
I didn't even need to turn. I could feel the romantic energy rolling in like scented fog.
"Sweetheart," my mom said in her soft, singsong voice, "are you staying hydrated? Don't forget your brain needs water to function."
My dad leaned against the doorframe, gazing at her like she'd just invented love. "Like your brain functions so perfectly, habibti. You always remind me how blessed I am."
"Oh my God," I muttered, "please-there's a guest."
Daelen looked up slowly, his expression shifting from confusion to amusement as he took in the power couple standing in our living room-turned-softcore-marriage-goals ad.
"You must be Daelen!" Aisha said with a warm smile, stepping in. "Masha'Allah, you have such a kind face."
"And professional energy," Emris added, nodding approvingly. "The kind of young man who definitely balances his books and his blessings."
"dada, please," I said-but there was zero heat in it. Just habit. This was their thing.
They were always like this-sweet, silly, and embarrassingly into each other. And even though I rolled my eyes and groaned like any self-respecting daughter should, I didn't actually hate it.
I kinda loved it, actually.
The way my dad always gave her his arm when they walked together. The way my mom laughed at his lame jokes like they were comedy gold. They made it look easy-like love was just part of the air they breathed.
And maybe, just maybe, part of me hoped one day I'd get that too.
But obviously I wasn't about to say that out loud.
Ever.
Mom kissed my forehead. "We'll let you two study. Don't let her distract you, Daelen."
"She's doing fine," he said, glancing at me with a crooked smile. "We're making progress."
They left still holding hands, whispering about dinner plans and "that new olive oil they both liked."
Daelen leaned back in couch, eyes still on the door my parents had floated out of like two love-sick clouds.
"They're really like that all the time?"
"Constantly," I said, flipping my pen through my fingers again. "They probably have pet names for their investment accounts."
He chuckled. "Wild. I didn't know people actually lived like that."
I paused, something in his tone pulling at the edges of my attention. "Like what?"
He shrugged, looking at the whiteboard instead of me. "You know. Parents who... like each other. Who do stuff like hold hands and make tea together and-what did your dad say? 'The best return on investment'?"
I smirked. "He says that every time they file taxes. Like it's a tradition."
Daelen smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "Cute."
Silence settled for a moment-not awkward, but a little heavier. Like a thin layer of dust on a glass shelf.
I opened my mouth to say something-what, I wasn't sure-but then he stood and walked to the whiteboard. Back to business.
"Okay. So back to Beyoncé's lemons."
I blinked. "We're still on that?"
"You never actually answered my question," he said, drawing a line between "Supply" and "Demand" like nothing happened. "If lemons are luxury, what happens to people who can't afford them?"
"They make limeade?"
He turned to me, laughing. "See? Commerce is just life. Slightly more sour."
I smiled, but my eyes lingered on him for a second longer than usual.
There was something about Daelen. A little shift in his posture, a moment of distance, a half-second delay in his usual confidence. I didn't know what it was. But I noticed.
And for once, I didn't make a joke about it.
We went through three more examples. One about overpriced sneakers, one about the almond milk industry (his idea, not mine), and a weirdly passionate debate over whether influencers count as economic resources.
"Time," Daelen finally said, glancing at his watch. "You survived the session. Barely."
I stretched my arms over my head and let out a dramatic groan. "Ugh. I have a headache from pretending to understand everything."
"You weren't pretending the whole time," he said, packing up his notebook. "You actually paid attention for, like, eleven minutes straight."
"Wow. A personal record."
He smiled, but then his eyes drifted toward the door-where my parents had disappeared earlier-and his expression shifted again. That same flicker from before. There, then gone.
I hesitated. "You okay?"
He didn't answer right away. He sat back down instead, leaning his elbows on the table. His voice was casual, but a little too flat.
"I don't really talk about it," he said, "but my parents... they died when I was ten. Car accident. I've been on my own since."
My breath caught in my throat.
"Oh."
He shrugged like it was just another line on a résumé. "Bounced around a few relatives. Then a hostel. Got a scholarship, got out. Been figuring it out since."
I didn't know what to say. No joke felt appropriate. No eye-roll. Just... that.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly.
He nodded. "Thanks. I'm not telling you for pity. Just... when I saw your parents, I guess-" He stopped himself, looked down. "It's nice. That's all. Kind of surreal, honestly."
For a moment, I looked at him differently. Not as the too-pretty tutor with his cocky jokes and smart comments-but as a person. One who had fought harder than I ever had to sit in this exact spot, trying to explain commerce to someone like me.
"You can come over early next session," I said suddenly.
He blinked. "What?"
"You said you eat instant noodles most nights. My mom always love to feed anyone. She'll be thrilled. She loves feeding people."
He smiled-soft this time. Less smirk, more... surprised.
"You sure?"
"Yeah," I said, standing and grabbing my bag. "Just don't bring up Beyoncé's lemons at the dinner table."
"No promises."
Daelen showed up fifteen minutes early.

Not fashionably early. Not academically early. Nervously early.
He stood outside our gate, awkwardly holding a paper bag. I watched from the window as he stared at the doorbell like it might bite him.
"He's here!" I called out.
Aisha was already fluffing the cushions in the living room.
"Tell him to come in!" she yelled back, adjusting the jasmine-scented diffuser like we were about to host a foreign diplomat. "And remind him to take off his shoes!"
"Mom, it's a tutoring session, not a marriage proposal."
She ignored me.
I opened the door. "You good?"
Daelen gave me a crooked grin. "Just debating if I should've brought a fruit basket or something."
I looked down at the bag. "What's that?"
"Bread rolls. I panicked and went to the bakery."
I blinked. "You brought carbs to a house run by a woman who owns a sourdough starter and two separate olive oil brands?"
He looked panicked. "Should I hide them?"
Too late. Aisha appeared behind me like a fairy godmother in a designer hijab. "Daelen! You brought something?" She took the bag with a soft gasp. "So polite! Masha'Allah!"
Daelen looked like he was about to pass out.
Emris joined us in the foyer with a proud, approving nod. "This is how gentlemen behave. Respectful. Thoughtful. Baked goods."
I barely resisted the urge to fake-choke on air.
Dinner was... an experience.
Daelen sat across from me at the table, clearly trying to remember how forks worked while my parents tag-teamed hosting duties like they were on a cooking show called Halal, Hearty, and Happily Married.
"This chicken," Daelen whispered at one point, "might've just healed my GPA."
Aisha beamed from the head of the table. "Eat more, my son! You're too thin. You look like someone who forgets meals."
He gave me a look that said, She's not wrong.
Emris chimed in between bites. "So, Daelen. Tell us-where do you see yourself in five years?"
I winced. Classic Emris.
Daelen, to his credit, didn't flinch. "Hopefully graduated. Working. Maybe teaching. I like explaining things."
My mom smiled. "You're already very good at it. Sofia's improving, right?"
I shot Daelen a warning glare under the table.
"She's... trying," he said diplomatically.
"Hey!"
They laughed.
______________________________________
Thankyou all for the patience
Ig@luviesupp