The Tutoring Arrangement

I've been coming to this house for two years.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, 5 PM. Maths tutoring for Ahmed, a bright kid with more potential than focus. His mother, Nadia, makes tea. We exchange pleasantries. I teach her son quadratic equations.

That's all.

That's supposed to be all.

Ahmed got his results today.

A7 in maths. Up from a predicted 4. He's going to sixth form, then maybe university. The kid I tutored through two years of struggle is going somewhere.

"I can't thank you enough." Nadia's eyes are wet when I arrive. "He showed me the results. He actually showed me. He was proud."

"He did the work."

"You gave him the tools." She touches my arm. "Come in. Have tea. Celebrate with us."

I should say no. Ahmed's gone—accepted his place already, celebrating with friends. The reason I come to this house has evaporated.

I go in anyway.

Nadia is forty-one.

Divorced three years ago when her husband decided he wanted someone younger. Left her with a teenage son, a mortgage, and a pride that wouldn't let her crumble.

I've watched her hold everything together. Watched her work double shifts, make sacrifices, cry in the kitchen when she thought no one was looking.

She doesn't know I saw those tears.

She doesn't know a lot of things.

"Sit." She brings tea to the living room. "This is strange. You being here without Ahmed."

"I can go—"

"No." She sits across from me. "Stay. I wanted to ask you something."

"What?"

"You've been coming here for two years." She sets down her cup. "And for two years, I've wondered something."

"What have you wondered?"

"Whether you noticed me. Or whether I was just Ahmed's mother."

I've noticed her.

Every week for two years. The way she looks in her house clothes—loose, comfortable, showing shapes her modest work clothes hide. The way she laughs at her own jokes. The way she's aged with grace instead of surrender.

"I noticed," I say carefully. "But you're my client. Ahmed's mother."

"Ahmed is gone now." She moves to my couch. Sits next to me. "And I'm still here."

"Nadia—"

"I'm forty-one years old." Her voice is quiet. "I've spent three years alone. Three years of watching my husband move on while I stayed frozen. Three years of wanting things I was too scared to reach for."

"What do you want?"

"You." Her hand finds my thigh. "I want you, Idris. Not as my son's tutor. As something else."

I should have better judgment.

She's older than me—forty-one to my thirty-three. She was my client. There are lines I've told myself I wouldn't cross.

But she's looking at me with desperation that's not just about sex. It's about being seen. Being wanted. Being something more than Ahmed's mother or someone's ex-wife.

"Are you sure?"

"I haven't been sure of anything since my marriage ended." She moves closer. "But I want to try. With you. If you want to try with me."

"Nadia—"

"Kiss me." It's almost a whisper. "Please."

I kiss her.

She tastes like tea and loneliness.

Her hands grab my shirt as we fall back onto her couch—the same couch where I've sat for two years, pretending not to notice her. Now I'm noticing everything.

"Idris—"

"Slow down—" I pull back. "We should—"

"I don't want to slow down." She works at my buttons. "I've been slow for three years. I want fast now."

Who am I to argue?

I pull her house dress over her head.

Underneath, she's all softness.

The body of a woman who's lived, who's borne a child, who's carried weight in every sense. Her breasts are heavy, her belly soft, her hips wide. She tries to cover herself.

"Don't look—"

"Don't tell me what to do." I move her hands away. "You're beautiful."

"I'm old—"

"You're real." I kiss her stomach. "You're honest and strong and you raised an amazing son alone. None of that is old."

She cries. Not sad tears—relieved ones.

"No one has looked at me in three years."

"Then let me look."

I worship her on the couch.

Take my time with every part of her she's been taught to hate. The stretch marks. The cellulite. The signs of a life lived hard and survived.

"Idris—please—"

"Not yet." I spread her thighs. "Let me do this right."

My mouth finds her.

She screams.

She's sensitive.

Three years of no touch makes every sensation overwhelming. I lick her gently, carefully, building toward something she probably didn't expect on a Tuesday evening.

"I can't—it's too—"

"You can." I add my fingers. "Let go, Nadia."

"I'm going to—"

"Good. I've got you."

She comes with my name on her lips.

Floods my mouth with release while her body shakes and her hands grip the couch cushions. I don't stop—I push her through it, make her feel every moment she's been missing.

"Please—inside—I need—"

I climb up her body.

I enter her slowly.

She's tight—three years does that—and I give her time to adjust, to remember what this feels like, to believe it's really happening.

"You feel—"

"Tell me—"

"Amazing. You feel amazing."

I start to move.

She moves with me, awkward at first, then finding a rhythm. The couch where I taught her son quadratic equations becomes something else entirely.

"Yes—Idris—yes—"

"I've wanted this—" I thrust deeper. "Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Wanted to touch you instead of teaching."

"Really?"

"From the first day." I speed up. "You were wearing that green dress. I forgot what I was saying."

"I remember that dress."

"I dream about it." I reach between us. "Come for me again, Nadia."

She shatters.

I follow, and we collapse together on the couch where everything changed.

After, we lie tangled.

"This is insane," she says.

"Probably."

"You're younger than me. You were my son's tutor."

"Ahmed's at sixth form now." I pull her closer. "And age is just a number."

"That's what people say when the number is awkward."

"It's what I say when I don't care about the number." I kiss her forehead. "I care about you, Nadia. I have for two years."

"What happens now?"

"Now?" I smile. "Now I take you to dinner. Properly. And we see if this is something real."

"And if it is?"

"Then we figure out the rest together."

We figure it out.

Ahmed comes home for Christmas. Finds his tutor at breakfast with his mother.

"I knew it," he says.

"You knew?"

"Mum, you made tea for him. You never make tea for anyone." He grins. "Just don't be gross about it."

"Gross?" Nadia looks at me. "We're not gross."

"You're looking at each other right now. That's gross."

He's joking. Mostly.

But he's also okay.

A year later, I move in.

Not as Ahmed's tutor.

As Nadia's partner. Her person. The man who saw her when she felt invisible.

"Happy?" she asks our first morning together.

"Beyond happy." I pull her close. "Worth every Tuesday and Thursday."

"Even the ones with Ahmed?"

"Especially those." I kiss her. "They led me here."

Some tutoring arrangements teach more than academics.

Some teach you what you've been missing all along.