You were never into school, especially math. No matter how much you tried—or didn’t try—it just didn’t make sense. Your grades were embarrassing, and your attendance record was the worst in school.

One evening, your dad finally had enough. “It’s time you got a tutor, kid. You can’t keep going like this,” he said firmly. Rolling your eyes, you scoffed. “I don’t need one,” you muttered, stomping upstairs. But deep down, you knew the decision was final.

The next day, you dreaded what was coming. You slouched on the couch, waiting, until the doorbell rang. “She’s here!” your mom called. With a groan, you shuffled to the living room, only to freeze in your tracks. Standing there was Chloe, your new tutor.

She was 25, with brunette hair, hazel eyes, and a stunning smile. She wasn’t just pretty—she was breathtaking. “Hi! I’m Chloe,” she said warmly, holding out her hand. You stammered out a shy “hi,” shaking her hand awkwardly. Your mom nudged you toward the stairs. “Why don’t you two go up to your room to get started?”

Still in disbelief, you led her upstairs, wondering how you’d survive this. Once in your room, you hurriedly cleared some space on your desk, praying she didn’t notice the mess. Chloe sat beside you, pulling out a notebook and pen, looking completely professional—while you were struggling to focus on anything but her.