Control Freaks

You woke at 8:30 the next morning—earlier than expected.

It wasn't the kind of waking that came gently. It was the kind where pain dragged you out by the collar. Your head throbbed, dull and dense like lead, and the light had already crept to the edge of the sofa. Without opening your eyes, you reached for your phone and squinted at the screen.

Fuck.
How was it only eight-thirty?

Ymir was still passed out on the carpet, belly half-covered by a random sweater from last night. Historia had curled up on the other side of the couch, hair draped over her face like a windblown painting. The room was quiet, except for the scattered glass bottles and the half-eaten bowl of poached pears, still faintly sweet in the cool morning air.

You slid out from under the blanket carefully and pulled on your pink college sweatshirt from yesterday. Your head was heavy, your stomach hollow—an ache that felt like nausea without a name. In the mirror, your reflection looked like a bad sketch. Hair tangled, eyes dull. You pulled it into a ponytail, stole a swipe of Historia's lip balm, and didn't bother with anything else.

Your boots—kicked off at the door last night—waited atop the shoe rack. You bent down, tugged them on, stood up—

And your phone vibrated.

Arthur: [I'm downstairs. Awake yet?]

You stared at the message for a second.
Typed back: [Awake. Coming down.]
He sent back a smiley. You didn't open it. Just shoved the phone into your pocket and went down the stairs.

Outside Dorm B, his silver-grey sedan was parked under a tree. The windows sparkled, spotless. Your copy of Theories of Legal Structures still sat neatly in the backseat, forgotten last week. Arthur leaned against the car, straightening when he saw you, lifting a hand in greeting.

"Morning," he said, easy as always. "Had fun last night?"

"Yeah."
You nodded, slid into the passenger seat, didn't buckle your seatbelt. Just reclined the seat slightly and folded into it.

Arthur adjusted the volume of the stereo before he pulled out—faint ambient electronica hummed through the car, the kind of sound that wrapped itself around you like the seabed. He always remembered those little details.

"Want breakfast?"
He turned the wheel gently.
"There's this new Vietnamese place people say is really good."

"Later."
Your voice was soft, almost hoarse.
"I just want to close my eyes for a bit."

"Okay."
And that was it.

The sun was only beginning to shine in earnest as the car slid out of campus. You rested your head against the cool window, eyes closed, lulled by the heater and the motion. You didn't want to talk. Didn't want to think. Your stomach twisted in slow spirals, and your thoughts were mud at the bottom of water—every stir only made it murkier.

You expected him to fill the silence. With a joke, a gentle question. Maybe something like how many drinks did you have, or did you actually eat the poached pears, maybe even I knew you'd end up crashing at Ymir's place.

But he didn't.

He just drove. Calm, steady, like the road was his only concern. His breath was quiet, as if he worried even that might disturb you.

The car passed red lights, crosswalks, shuttered breakfast stalls. You sat there, half-curled in the seat, eyes shut, listening to the soft swoosh of passing air, and the faint rubber-quiet turn of the steering wheel.

It was all... too peaceful. The kind of peace that felt like a silent vow:
You don't need to say anything. I'll drive. I'll look. I'll get you wherever you need to go.