Control Freaks

Monday. 10 a.m.
The sun was a little too enthusiastic today, flooding the East Wing of the library like it had something to prove. You sat in the study room with one earbud in, casually browsing the faculty appointment system on your laptop. There it was: "Erwin Smith, History Department", lined with a full row of pristine, untouched time slots.
You clicked 3:00 p.m..
Then hit Confirm.
And smiled.

Of course, you didn't need an appointment. Not after the way you publicly tore apart his structural logic at the Model UN floor last month—and instead of holding a grudge, the man practically hand-delivered your half-dead body back home like some precious package marked "Handle with Care."
But still. You made the appointment.
Because this time, it was your move.
Because submitting the request meant it was your stage, your hour, your terms. He didn't summon you—you summoned him. You set the board, not the other way around.

You minimized the tab and went back to annotating your draft. Most of the logical structure you'd labored over last night had taken form, but you knew one thing: if you wanted him to speak—really speak—you'd have to push harder.
Closer.
Sharper.

2:55 p.m., fourth floor hallway outside his office.
You arrived five minutes early, naturally. His door wasn't fully closed, and from the gap, you could hear him wrapping up in that low, collected English of his:
"...and that's all for now. If you need additional readings, email me."

A few seconds later, the door creaked open, and a senior girl in a ditsy floral dress sauntered out, grinning like she'd just met God. She gave you a polite nod. You gave her a matching one—polite, polished, a little bored—and stepped forward, knocking twice.

You were, as always, dressed to provoke. A fitted crimson blouse with a neckline that danced just on the edge of inappropriate, a tan plaid pleated skirt, red kitten heels, and Mikimoto pearls that whispered, "Yes, I know what I'm doing."
And you were deeply satisfied with yourself.

"Come in," he said.
His voice, as ever, smooth and low—clinical, commanding, with just enough chill to remind you who wrote your grades.

You stepped inside. First thing you saw was him behind his desk, shirt sleeves pushed to his forearms, skimming through a stack of footnote-drenched student reports. He looked up—just once—then gave you the laziest little nod of the chin to indicate the chair across from him.

You sat. Didn't hand him your notes yet. Just tapped the cover with a single finger.
"We need to talk about this," you said.

"I already read it," he replied.
"Oh?" You tilted your head, voice airy, almost teasing. "And?"

"I drank five cans of Monster writing that. I expect drama."

He didn't bite immediately. He set aside the last paper, tapped the desk twice—like he was giving himself a beat to calibrate—and then lifted his gaze to you. Direct. Unblinking.
"You know it's good," he said, quietly, and for a moment, almost—kindly.

You smirked, looking away. "Of course I do. But I'm more interested in the part where you started frowning."

"Page three," he replied without pause. "Your definition of 'tragic power'—you called it a 'moral aesthetic stance.' I get that you're referencing Helis, but in the context of your argument, it comes off like weaponized metaphor."

"Well, isn't that the kind of bait you love to sink your teeth into?"
You leaned back, legs crossed with surgical elegance, your tone turning casual, almost bored. "I knew you'd pounce on that line. You hate it. Should I cut it?"

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes—cool gray laced with just enough shadow to make you second-guess what they saw—stayed on you, unmoved.

"It's not that I hate it," he said finally, voice unshaken. "It's that I know exactly what you're doing."