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Me: Still. Thank you. I really thought I was going to fail.

The reply takes longer this time.

D: You kept going. That’s why you passed.

I lock the phone and slip it into my pocket. Then I take it out again almost immediately, because apparently I have no discipline where this man is concerned.

I walk out of the building into the cold afternoon. The air hits my face and clears some of the leftover exam fog. Students are clustered near the steps, talking too loudly, comparing answers, pretending not to care while caring deeply.

I should go home. I should eat something, shower, and sleep.

Instead, I keep thinking about his last text from the night before.

Eat something before the exam.

I had not eaten. Not properly. Coffee doesn’t count, no matter how emotionally committed I was to pretending it did.

I type before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: You were right. I should have eaten.

His reply comes quickly.

D: Did you?

Me: Coffee.

D: That isn’t food.

Me: It was warm and emotionally supportive.

D: Still not food.

I smile down at the screen. There’s something strangely comforting about him being this direct. No filler. No performance. He says what he means and leaves it there.

Me: Fine. Since you saved my academic life, what do you want to eat?

A pause.

Then: Me?

I stop walking.

I had meant it lightly. Mostly. A thank-you. Food sent somewhere. A coffee, maybe. Something normal enough to be safe.

But seeing the question on the screen changes the shape of it.

Me: Yes. My treat.

I add quickly: I meant delivery. Not me appearing with a casserole.

D: I didn’t imagine a casserole.

My face warms. I stare at the message for longer than necessary.

Me: What did you imagine?

I should not have sent that. I know it immediately. But I don’t take it back.