Control Freaks

20:03.
Only one light was on.

The main overheads of the Palmer Hall conference room had been switched off. Just one desk lamp—long-necked and surgical—spilled a pool of sterile white across the edge of the black meeting table. It sliced his face in half, casting one side into sharp relief, the other into shadow. He sat there in his usual composed sprawl: suit still on, cuffs rolled just high enough to look precise, posture relaxed but ready. Like a man awaiting a private trial with rules he'd written himself.

You stood at the door for a few seconds.
And did not move.

This wasn't your first time alone in a closed space. But it was the first time he'd arrived before you.
That meant something. It meant he wasn't reacting anymore.
He was setting the stage.

He'd chosen the lighting. The angle. The pacing.
He was the architect tonight.
And you—the one who always ran the game—had just been outplayed.

You stepped inside.
Click.
The sound of the door shutting echoed like a trap springing.

The air shifted.
Denser now. More deliberate.

You didn't sit. You walked to the opposite end of the light and met his eyes directly.

"You know what this setup qualifies as, right?" your voice was low and rough from the late hour—coated in restraint so fine it was almost seductive. "A professor inviting a student into a closed room. Dim lighting. No witnesses. Power boundaries blurred. Latent paternalistic overtones. A textbook violation of ethical distance."

He looked at you with that maddening calm—utterly unbothered.

"I teach that."

You shrugged and finally sank into the chair. Legs crossed. Back straight. Movements slow, deliberate, defiant.

"You did well today," he said, same as always. Level.
Too level.

"You're late to the party, Professor," you replied, voice soft but cutting. "I don't run on your approval anymore."

"What do you run on?"

"Myself." You gave a dry, short laugh. "And Monster. A little shame. And a pathological hatred of failure."

"Sounds like a pre-battle survival kit."

"You gave me the war, didn't you?"
You leaned in, elbows on the table.
"You always did. You gave me theory, gave me weapons, gave me a framework—and then threw me into your classroom to see if I could hold the line. Maybe see if I'd tear the whole thing down."

"You've always torn it down beautifully."

"But I didn't today."

"Why?"

You didn't answer right away.
Your eyes flicked to the lamp. You suddenly felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

"Because I didn't want you to see me still waiting for your damn frown." You paused. The sentence weighed more than you thought it would. "I didn't want you thinking you still get to decide how I write."

He didn't nod. He didn't object. He just said:

"But didn't you just say you don't need my approval?"

"Exactly."
You smiled.
"So I made the choice. I gave you nothing today."

"But you came."

There it was.
A nail, lightly tapped—right into the softest part of your intention.

You said nothing.

But you'd come.
Dressed down, sure—but precise. Dark dress. Cinched waist. Low black heels sharp enough to mean something. A scent with a bitter citrus finish that only revealed itself when you turned your head just right.
You came. Even your perfume had intent.