Control Freaks

11

You scanned the box. The screen blinked with the smug precision of a bureaucratic hex:
"Please wait for staff assistance."
Of course.

You didn't even get to swear before it happened—before his voice cut through the aisle behind you, sharp and clinical enough to make every hair on the back of your neck rise like a drawn curtain.

"You actually drink that much?"

You froze. Half a second. Then, with the kind of dread you usually reserved for surprise oral exams and voicemail from your landlord, you turned your head.

There he was.

Two paces away. Buttoned into a dark blue shirt and grey trench coat, his cart a meticulous grid of espresso grounds, organic yogurt, romaine hearts, and morally superior dark rye bread. The kind of grocery list that said "I meal prep because I have to" and "I solve my problems with systems, not substances." Even his posture looked like a spreadsheet.

And he was looking at your box of pink Monster like it had just plagiarized his dissertation.

No emotion in his voice. No expression on his face. Just that scalpel of a line—you actually drink that much?—slipped clean into your frontal lobe.

You ripped off your sunglasses like a sword from its sheath. Let him see it. The mascara wreckage. The sleep-starved stare. The residual fuck-you energy of someone who had danced on a table last night and only kind of regretted it.

"Do you have a medical condition," you said flatly, "or is the supermarket just where you spawn?"

"No," he replied, maddeningly calm. "But it wasn't the first time we'd run into each other here."

"Congratulations. Want a loyalty card?" You glared at the screen. "Did you come here just to critique my beverage selection like some caffeinated ghost of Kant?"

"I was just pointing out," he said, voice smooth like a footnote you didn't catch until the final draft, "your liver probably wasn't as sturdy as your thesis."

The rage short-circuited your brain. You opened your mouth to snap back—but your grip slipped, the box crashed against your knee with a theatrical bang, and you dropped to one knee like a caffeine-addicted knight mid-defeat.

He didn't laugh. Didn't gloat. Just bent down, picked up the box, and set it back in place with all the calm efficiency of a man returning books to the correct shelf.

"What the hell are you doing?" you snapped, pushing yourself upright.

"Helping," he replied without hesitation. "You were pale. Shaking. The checkout machine was about to call a wellness check."

"And you thought I needed your help?" You reached for the box, but he had already nudged it into his cart like it belonged there.

"I'll check out with it. Drive you home. Or," he said, eyes steady, "you could slam three cans here and see if you made it to the parking lot without face-planting into the sidewalk."

"You think you're funny?"

"I didn't," he said, without a trace of irony. "But I did think if you drank one more, you'd throw up on the register."

You glared at him, venomous. It was weak, but it was there. Until your knees betrayed you again—just a flicker, a subtle tremble.

He caught your elbow. You didn't pull away this time. You just stood there, exhausted and blank, and muttered, "Are you my personal hallucination? The more I tried to avoid you, the more you showed up—like a Google ad targeting my trauma response."

"Maybe," he murmured, expression unreadable. "Or maybe you forgot to clear your search history."

You blinked. Not because it was clever—though it was—but because you hadn't expected him to go there. It hit. And for the first time in hours, maybe days, you laughed. Quietly. Bitterly. A laugh like dried-out wine in a cracked glass.