Study Partners
"She's struggling with organic chemistry at UCL. He's the Somali PhD student who tutors undergrads for extra cash. Their study sessions run late, their notes get mixed up, and somewhere between benzene rings and late-night coffee, they find something they didn't expect."
I'm failing organic chemistry.
Not "could do better" failing. Actually failing. The kind where the professor pulls you aside and suggests "alternative career paths."
The tutoring center assigns me Yusuf.
He's a third-year PhD student.
Organic chemistry specialization. Patient voice. The kind of handsome that makes concentrating on molecules very difficult.
"Tell me what you don't understand," he says in our first session.
"Everything."
"Let's start smaller." He draws a hexagon. "What's this?"
"A shape."
"It's a benzene ring." He smiles. "We'll get there."
We meet three times a week.
Library study rooms, late nights, endless coffee. He explains things ten different ways until one finally clicks.
"You're patient," I tell him after a breakthrough in week three.
"You're smart. You just haven't found your way in yet."
"Everyone else thinks I'm stupid."
"Everyone else isn't me." He holds my gaze. "Trust the process, Amira. You'll get there."
I trust him.
More than I should.
Week six.
The sessions run longer now. Not because I'm struggling—because we keep talking about things that aren't chemistry.
"Why organic chem?" I ask one midnight.
"Because molecules are honest." He leans back. "They behave predictably. Follow rules. Unlike people."
"Sounds lonely."
"Maybe." He looks at me. "But molecules led me here. To this tutoring gig. To you."
"I'm a job."
"You're the best part of my week."
I start to notice things.
The way he brushes my hand when passing notes. The way he leans closer when explaining something. The way his eyes linger when he thinks I'm focused on my textbook.
"You're staring," I say one night.
"You're interesting."
"I'm studying."
"Both things can be true." He doesn't look away. "You're interesting while studying. You're interesting all the time."
"Yusuf—"
"I know. You're my student. There are rules." He stands. Starts packing up. "I'll request a transfer. Find you someone else."
"Wait—"
"It's the right thing to do." He meets my eyes. "Because if I keep sitting across from you every night, I'm going to do something that isn't right."
"What would you do?"
He freezes. "What?"
"If there weren't rules. If I wasn't your student." I stand. Walk toward him. "What would you do?"
"Amira—"
"Tell me."
He sets down his bag.
Steps toward me.
Kisses me against the study room whiteboard.
The library is closed.
We're the only ones left. The study room door is locked. And I'm kissing my tutor like exam stress has finally made me snap.
"This is wrong—" he gasps.
"Then stop—"
"I can't." He lifts me onto the table. "I've been trying to stop for weeks."
Our notes scatter. My textbook falls. Nothing matters except this—his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the connection we've been pretending was academic.
He takes me on the study table.
Where we've spent weeks learning benzene rings and electron orbitals. Where he taught me to trust the process.
"Yusuf—yes—"
"You're brilliant—" He pushes deeper. "You're so much more than you know—"
"Show me—"
He shows me.
We come together surrounded by organic chemistry notes.
Breathing hard. Laughing at ourselves. The whiteboard behind us covered in molecular structures that now seem absurdly irrelevant.
"I'm transferring you," he says.
"To who?"
"Anyone else." He kisses my forehead. "I can't tutor you anymore. Not after this."
"What about my exam?"
"You'll pass." He pulls me close. "You've learned more than you realize. And I'll help you study—just not officially."
"Unofficially?"
"As your boyfriend." He grins. "If you'll have me."
I pass the exam.
Not by much, but enough. Yusuf celebrates like I've won a Nobel Prize.
"I knew you could do it."
"You taught me."
"You taught yourself." He pulls me into his arms. "I just gave you the framework."
"And the late-night sessions."
"And the kissing."
"The kissing definitely helped."
A year later, I'm in second-year chemistry.
Still hard. Still struggling sometimes. But Yusuf is there—not as my tutor anymore, but as my partner. My person.
"Marry me," he says one study night.
"We're in the library."
"We met in a library." He pulls out a ring. "This is our place."
"People are staring."
"Let them stare." He holds up the ring. "What do you say, study partner? Ready for a lifetime of learning together?"
I say yes.
What else would a good student say?