By Friday evening, Eleanor was tired in a way she didn't show.
Study Room B had stretched longer than usual. Xander had been restless, sharp-tongued at first, then unusually quiet when he couldn't solve a question she knew he understood.
"You're overthinking," she told him.
"I don't overthink."
"You are now."
He stared at the page like it had personally offended him.
When the session ended, he packed slower than usual.
"Monday," he said.
"Monday," she replied.
She didn't wait for him to walk her out.
Saturday morning did not belong to the university.
Eleanor woke up in her small family house, not the hostel. The walls here were painted a soft cream, slightly chipped at the corners. The ceiling fan hummed softly above her. Sunlight filtered through thin curtains.
No whispers.
No football field noise.
No elite students staring.
Just home.
She tied her hair back and stepped into the kitchen. Her mother was already awake.
"You're up early," her mother said.
"I have work."
Her mother nodded. "Don't forget to eat before you leave."
Eleanor didn't forget. She never did.
By eight-thirty, she was walking to the café two streets away from their house. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't Instagram-worthy. But it paid.
She tied on her apron, greeted the manager politely, and began her shift.
Orders.
Tables.
Coffee stains.
Smiling at customers who didn't look twice at her.
Here, she wasn't "the tutor."
She wasn't being watched.
She wasn't part of campus gossip.
She was just Eleanor Whitmore.
During her short break, she pulled out her notebook. Not Xander's essay this time, her own assignments. She underlined passages, rewrote notes, organized her week.
A message buzzed on her phone.
Unknown number.
She ignored it.
A minute later, it buzzed again.
Xander:
Did you give me extra reading on purpose?
She stared at the screen for a second before replying.
Eleanor:
Yes.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Xander:
You're evil.
She put her phone face down and returned to work.
Sunday was quieter.
Laundry hung outside on a thin line behind the house. Her younger sister sat on the floor of the living room doing homework.
"Can you help me?" her sister asked.
Eleanor sat beside her, explaining patiently, correcting gently. She didn't raise her voice. She never did.
Her mother watched from the kitchen doorway for a moment, thoughtful.
"You're carrying too much," her mother said later that afternoon.
"I'm fine."
"You don't have to be strong all the time."
Eleanor folded a shirt carefully. "I'm not being strong. I'm being responsible."
That was the difference.
By evening, she packed her bag again. Clean clothes. Textbooks. Laptop. Notebook labeled "Everhart."
She paused before zipping it.
She didn't think about him the way the campus did. Not as a celebrity. Not as a playboy. Not as a rumor.
She thought about his hesitation when he didn't understand something.
The way his jaw tightened when he felt small.
The way he stayed after sessions like he wanted to say something and chose not to.
She zipped the bag shut.
Monday would be back to lecture halls and whispers.
But for now, she sat on the edge of her bed, the house quiet around her, grounding herself in the life that existed long before Xander Everhart walked into Study Room B.