He's sitting in her chair, legs propped on the desk, pencil gripped between clenched teeth. Periodically, he'll mumble something, letting his feet thump to the floor before leaning forward and scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. She's not sure it can withstand all the abuse.

The alarm clock blinks away another minute, and she glances down at her own work, frowning. The Flames are playing tonight. He could still catch the last period.

"Logan --"

He looks up.

She hesitates. "You don't have to do this, you know."

"I know." He turns back to his work.

"What I mean is--"

"Hey," he says, shooting her a sharp look. "You got a test in the morning, or what?"

She sighs. "Yeah."

"Well, a promise is a promise," he says, settling his boots back on the desk. "Even if I'd rather deal with Magneto than all this fucking algebra."