Fattening My Student

Chapter 1: The First Session

Derek
I didn’t want a tutor. I told myself I could handle the stats course on my own if I just buckled down. But two failed quizzes and a warning email from the professor later, here I was sitting at my kitchen table, checking the time again like a nervous teenager.
4:58 PM.
Two minutes early. Maybe she wouldn’t show. Maybe she’d forget, or I could pretend she had and use it as an excuse to bail on the whole thing. The last thing I wanted was some overeager undergrad treating me like a lost cause.
Then came the knock.
I opened the door and there she was. She looked nothing like the awkward, bookish tutor I’d imagined. No thick glasses, no stiff demeanour. Just a bright, bouncing presence that filled the doorway.
“Hi! You must be Derek,” she said, smiling like we’d already met.
I blinked. “Yeah. You’re Olivia?”
“That’s me.” She stepped right past me, into the house like she’d done it a dozen times before. She wore a college hoodie that hung off one shoulder, exposing a hint of a white tank top underneath, and a pair of black leggings that hugged long, toned legs. Her sneakers were scuffed, her ponytail was a little messy, but none of it looked careless. She gave the impression of someone who always landed on her feet, confident, easy going, just a little chaotic in the way that made people instantly like her.
And she was pretty. Too pretty.
I noticed before I could stop myself, wide hazel eyes, a dusting of freckles across her nose, and a pair of pink lips that were curled in a grin like she knew exactly what I was thinking. I shut that thought down immediately. She was too young. Nineteen at most. I was forty-two and already tired. I didn’t need that kind of complication in my life. Still, my eyes lingered as she slung her canvas tote onto the kitchen table and started unpacking.
“I brought snacks,” she said cheerfully, as though that was the most normal thing in the world. Out came a small container of cookies, two plastic tubs filled with something warm and buttery-smelling, and a tall thermos that clinked with ice when she set it down.
“You didn’t have to do all that,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
She waved a hand. “Oh, I always bring snacks. Brain food. Plus, baking helps me think.”
I had the vague sense she said that line often, and that people usually didn’t argue with her. She pulled out a chair and sat down like she owned the place. “So! Stat 203?”
“Yeah.” I sat across from her, still thrown by her energy. “Trying to finish my degree before the summer. Got a job waiting if I can knock these last credits out.”
Her eyes lit up. “That’s awesome. Honestly, good for you. Mid-career stuff takes guts.”
That caught me off guard. Most students barely looked at me, or if they did, it was with pity or awkward politeness. Olivia just said it like she meant it.
I gave a half shrug. “Trying not to drown.”
“You won’t,” she said. “You’ve got me now.”
She opened her laptop and pulled out a notebook, immediately launching into sampling distributions like it was second nature. She talked fast, but clearly, and peppered me with questions to keep me engaged. I answered most of them, some right, some wrong, but she never made me feel stupid about it. About twenty minutes in, she nudged the cookie container toward me.
“Go on. You’ve earned one.”
“I’m good,” I said.
She gave me a look. “You haven’t even looked at them.”
“I don’t need a cookie.”
“Everyone needs a cookie.”
I rolled my eyes but finally reached for one, if only to get her to stop pushing. It was thick, soft, and still faintly warm. Oatmeal chocolate chip, with a little salt that made the flavor pop.
I tried not to let my face show how good it was, but she caught the flicker in my expression.
“See?” she said smugly. “I should’ve majored in pastry arts.”
“You’re not wrong,” I muttered, finishing the last bite.
She smiled and turned back to the laptop, but I caught her sneaking a glance at me as she did, like she was measuring something. By the time we wrapped up the session, I had three full pages of notes, a clearer grasp on what I’d been doing wrong, and two more cookies in my stomach. She packed up slowly, humming under her breath as she returned everything to her tote.
“I’ll leave a few of these,” she said, sliding the container toward the edge of the table. “For motivation.”
“You don’t have to—”
She cut me off with a smile. “It’s fine. I like feeding people. Makes me feel useful.”There was something in the way she said it, light and offhand, but also a little too intentional. Like she was testing the waters. I didn’t know what to make of it.
“Same time next week?” she asked, already halfway to the door.
“Yeah. Sure.”
She paused in the doorway, turned back. “Do the practice problems, Derek. I’m quizzing you next time.” And then she was gone, her footsteps light on the porch, the door closing behind her with a soft click. I stared at the leftover cookies for a long second. I should’ve put them away. Should’ve focused on dinner, or the textbook, or literally anything else. But instead, I picked up another one and ate it standing at the counter.
Just one more.
Then another after that. By the time I went to bed, the container was half empty, and I was already wondering what she’d bring next week.