Control Freaks

What's a bad girl supposed to do after she gets the bastard professor to admit he cares about her?

Obviously—fuck him over.

(Not literally. But close enough.)

The pool was lit a syrupy, unnatural pink. The water shimmered with ripple-light like a fake dream sequence, staining your submerged calves with fluorescent blush. Your heels were discarded on the tiles. The red polish on your toes reflected in the surface, bleeding out like watercolor.

You sat upright, elbows on your knees, staring into the water like a war general deciding whether to go home for the victory parade—or charge into round two.

"Are you insane?" you muttered to yourself.

Not the first time that question had occurred. But tonight, it rang louder. Because you were still thinking about him.

Erwin Smith.
Your professor. Your reviewer. Your enemy. Your—

Old fucking fox.

You took a swig of canned whiskey soda. Kept your eyes fixed on the water.

"Did you hear?" Historia chimed in from the lounge chair beside you, voice light and amused. "That new political science transfer invited me to go camping. Said he'd bring homemade marshmallows."

"Camping?" Ymir scoffed, reaching behind Historia and pulling her fully into her lap. "Jesus, is he recruiting you for the Boy Scouts?"

Historia giggled, curled up against her like a cat. "But he actually listens when I talk."

You glanced sideways at them, then downed another sip of tequila.

Listening. Must be nice.

The last time you talked this much, it was in a classroom—tearing through your professor's thesis like it was a corpse on an operating table, and threatening, deadpan, "抖阴社区 again, and I'll deconstruct your opening paragraph in public."

And the worst part?

He didn't flinch.
He smiled.
He said, "Then I won't write an opening."

Fucker.

You kicked the pool water. The splash stung your ankle like a slap.

You weren't confused about what you were doing. You hadn't pulled this kind of personality-assassination performance in a while—this slow seduction by intellectual siege.

Step one: draw the gun in class.
Step two: force confession in his office.
Step three: get him to admit "I care about you."
And now here you were, wet ankles and whiskey in hand, plotting the next move like a girl who just cracked a goddamn safe.

"What're you brooding over now?" Ymir asked, eyes drifting to your almost-empty drink. "Did someone piss you off again?"

"Not exactly." You didn't look up. "I pissed myself off."

"Don't tell me it's another one of those old-man professors who gives you B-minuses and secretly memorizes your thesis formatting."

You froze.

Then turned your head.

Slowly.

"You didn't."

"Oh my god, you do have one," Historia blinked.

Ymir whooped.

"No way. Lemme guess—stone-cold voice, no facial expressions, destroys your soul in written feedback, but then one day emails you like 'Your performance today was commendable.'"