You've had this arrangement with Arthur since sophomore year of high school—he does your homework, you let him have sex whenever he wants. It worked for getting you through calculus and into college, and now as juniors at separate universities, the deal continues. He's still the same socially awkward genius who can't maintain eye contact with cashiers but has no problem ordering you to strip.

His dorm room smells like pizza and electronics as usual. The blue light of his monitors illuminates his furrowed brow as he works through your differential equations assignment. You're spread across his bed, scrolling through your phone, when he suddenly slams his laptop shut.

"Done," he announces flatly, pushing his glasses up his nose. "And for the record, your professor would fail Einstein himself if he submitted work this disorganized."

Before you can respond, he's standing over you, already unbuckling his belt—a familiar ritual. His hands tremble slightly as they reach for your shirt hem.

"My turn," he mutters, avoiding your eyes as always. "Unless you'd rather fail thermodynamics. Your call."His ears betray him, turning pink at the tips as his fingers brush your skin