The Tutor (BOOK 2: OMEN KING SERIES)

|𝟸𝟶|

Jenny Johnson

I walk into Romeo's room, ready to kick off our study session, and the sight before me almost makes me think he's some sort of academic prodigy. He's sprawled out across his bed like a king on a throne, books scattered around him like fallen soldiers, his laptop open, and his phone lying abandoned on the edge of the bed.

I shiver a little in my light gray sweater and trusty blue jeans. Honestly, what was I thinking? I could have opted for something more sensible, like a full-body penguin onesie. At least then, I'd be warm and maybe even a hit with the local wildlife. Instead, I'm left feeling like a popsicle in a freezer.

I take a seat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, trying to ignore the chill that seems to seep into my bones. Romeo turns his head, and I can't help but feel a pang of worry. He looks absolutely exhausted-dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction, like he's spent the entire night wrestling with his brain.

After Tim's meltdown last night, I can't say I'm surprised.

"Is Tim okay?" I ask, my voice coming out softer than I intended, a hint of concern creeping in. "He was pretty out of it last night."

Romeo shrugs, gaze sliding away from me, back to the screen. "I'm sure he'll be fine." His tone is dismissive, but I can see the worry etched in his features, the way his fingers twitch nervously against the laptop.

I hate that Tim's mess has spilled over into my life, but I can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him. He can be an idiot, sure, but seeing him in so much pain made my heart ache. I'm not some unfeeling monster, after all. I know what it's like to feel lost, to be overwhelmed by things that seem too big to handle.

"So? Your English paper?" I ask, trying to steer us away from the events of the previous night.

"Right," he nods, reaching over to hand me his computer. "Can you read this over and tell me what you think?"

I take the computer, my hands shaking slightly. I scan the screen, my heart racing as I read through the essay. It's well-written, the ideas flowing seamlessly from one to the next. I can't find anything that needs fixing. It's clear he's poured his heart into it, and I feel a swell of pride. God, he's come so far.

"This is good," I say, closing the laptop and handing it back. "It's probably the best thing you've ever written."

"Really?" He looks surprised, and for a moment, I see a flicker of hope in his tired eyes. "Are you sure? There's nothing that needs to be fixed or anything?"

"No," I reassure him, shaking my head firmly. "It's perfect."

Before I can even process what's happening, he lunges at me, tackling me in a bear hug. We both go tumbling off the bed, and I hit the floor with a thud, the air rushing from my lungs. For a split second, panic flares inside me. What if he's hurt? But all that evaporates as I hear him laughing, his eyes sparkling with relief.

"You're crushing me," I gasp, struggling to find my breath beneath the weight of this football quarterback.

"Shit! Sorry," he mutters, scrambling off me with a sheepish grin.

He offers me his hand to help me up, and I take it, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous this whole scene is. The world may be crumbling around us, but in this moment, we're just two friends who've shared a silly mishap. I can't help but think that not all jocks are clueless-Romeo has proven to be the exception.

He's worked so hard, and it's paying off. I mean, look at him! He's finally taking his academics seriously, and it shows. I want to tell him how proud I am, how much I admire his determination.

"Seriously, Romeo," I say, granting myself a smile, "you've really nailed it this time."

He sits back on the edge of his bed, running a hand through his disheveled black hair, and for a moment, I see the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. "It's all tomorrow," he breathes.

I try to process what he means, but it's like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. "What's all tomorrow?"

"The paper is due." His voice is just above a whisper, the words falling from his lips like a confession, raw and vulnerable. "And my first game."

A sudden wave of guilt crashes over me. I didn't realize how much was riding on this essay and the football game. I feel like an absolute idiot, thinking it was no big deal when it's clearly a monumental moment for him. All the hours he's spent pouring over books and drills flash through my mind, and I can't help but feel like an ass, letting my own worries overshadow his. He's worked his bloody ass off for this, and he deserves to be proud of himself.

"Well, it's going to be great," I manage to say, forcing a reassuring smile, even as my insides twist. I want to believe my own words, but the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface makes it hard.

He cocks his head to the side, his black hair falling across his forehead, and I can see the flicker of hope in his eyes. "So, what you're saying is you'll be there?"

The question hangs in the air, and for a split second, I want to say no, that I have a million things to do, that watching a stupid game isn't one of them. But that hopeful look in his eyes is impossible to ignore. It's like he's asking for a lifeline, and who am I to deny him that? After all the shit I've put him through, the least I can do is show up.

"Yes, Romeo, I'll be there." As the words leave my mouth, a strange flutter stirs in my stomach.

Why do I feel this way? It's just a game. I mentally curse myself, telling my body to stop being such an idiot. This is not the time or place to get distracted. We have an English paper to finish, and Romeo needs my full attention.

"Good," he replies, his eyes brightening like the sun breaking through clouds. "I was worried you were going to bail on me."

"I wouldn't miss it." The words slip out, and while they're not entirely true, they feel close enough for now.

"Thanks blondie," he grins, reaching over and grabbing his notebook, and I can't help but admire how the corners of his mouth lift as if they're made of the same sunshine that just lit up his face. "Now, let's finish this paper."

As we dive into his essay, I can't help but marvel at the shift in our relationship. Gone is the cocky, arrogant jock, and in his place is someone thoughtful and intelligent. Someone who is willing to work hard and put in the effort to succeed. It's like peeling back layers of an onion, revealing a side of him I never expected.

And, dare I say it, someone who might actually make a good friend.

"Are you okay?" he suddenly asks, his voice pulling me from my spiral.

I look up, startled, and realize I've been staring blankly at his notebook. "Yeah, just... thinking."

"Right." He raises an eyebrow, and his concern is palpable, almost disarming. "We can take a break if you need to."

"No, I'm fine. Really," I say, forcing a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

The truth is, I feel anything but fine considering I'm going to have to call off work to go to his football game and deal with my uncle. But seeing him so invested in his work, so determined to make this happen, makes me want to push through my own doubts.

"Okay," he replies, returning to his notes.

As we work, I can't help but notice the quiet moments between us. The way he furrows his brow in concentration, the way his fingers tap against the paper, lost in thought. Each small movement feels significant, and I find myself drawn into this strange, beautiful dance of friendship that's growing between us.