Rhys got a B+ on the American Literature midterm.
Three nights of flashcards and highlighters and him sprawled across his apartment floor complaining that Fitzgerald was "a rich drunk who wrote about other rich drunks" while I threatened to leave if he didn't focus. He'd focus for twenty minutes. Then his hand would find my ankle. Then my calf. Then I'd move to the other side of the room and he'd smirk and pick up the flashcards again.
But he did the work. Read the chapters. Wrote the essay. Sat in the exam hall for two hours and came out looking like he'd survived something surgical.
When the grade posted, he showed up at my dorm with his phone held out like a trophy. The B+ glowing on his screen. And the expression on his face – pride, genuine pride, the kind that lit him up from the
