Control
1010 Words
The nightmare came without warning.
One moment, Maya was asleep. The next, she was gasping lungs locked, heart hammering as the dark swallowed her whole.
She saw fire.
She heard her father’s voice fading into the smoke.
And then silence.
Her hands clawed at the sheets, breath breaking into sobs she couldn’t contain. The room felt too big, too empty. Every shadow looked like a memory she didn’t want.
“Maya?”
His voice came from the doorway deep, steady, and too real to be part of a dream.
She turned toward it, eyes wide. Ethan stood there, barefoot, wearing only a T-shirt and sweatpants, the dim hall light behind him outlining his frame.
“E-Ethan…” her voice cracked.
In two strides, he was by her side. He didn’t ask permission. He didn’t hesitate. His hands found her shoulders, grounding her as if to pull her out of the nightmare by force.
“Breathe,” he said quietly. “With me. Now.”
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His tone softened but didn’t waver. “In. Out. Slow.”
His palm pressed against her back, steady and warm, guiding each breath until the panic began to fade. She clung to the sound of his voice, the low cadence that made her feel like maybe the world hadn’t ended after all.
When her trembling eased, Ethan reached for the lamp, bathing the room in a soft golden glow. His eyes caught the light storm-gray, full of something she couldn’t name.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For waking you up. For being like this.”
He shook his head, the movement almost imperceptible. “You don’t apologize for nightmares.”
His hand brushed against hers just a touch, but enough to send a ripple through her chest. “You were calling out,” he said quietly. “Your father’s name.”
She nodded, trying to find words that didn’t break her. “I keep seeing it. The hospital. The machines. The way everything just… stopped.”
He didn’t tell her to be strong. He didn’t say it would get better. He just listened. And when she faltered, he reached out, catching her face in his palm not gently, but firmly, like he knew she needed something solid to hold onto.
“Look at me,” he said.
She did.
His thumb brushed the wetness from her cheek. “You’re safe now. I’m right here.”
The words hit something deep inside her. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them not from anyone, but from him.
Her voice came out small. “You always sound so sure of everything.”
“That’s because someone has to be.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “You make it sound like control is easy.”
He let out a slow breath, his hand falling away before he stood. “It’s not. It’s just necessary.”
Maya pulled her knees to her chest, watching him move toward the window, staring out into the night. His shoulders looked tense beneath the thin fabric of his shirt the kind of tension that came from fighting battles no one else saw.
“Do you ever lose control?” she asked quietly.
He turned slightly, his profile caught in the faint light. “More often than you think.”
There was something in his tone that made her heart twist.
“Then why does it seem like you never do?”
He gave a faint, humorless smile. “Because that’s what control looks like, Maya. You hold it together while everything inside you comes apart.”
She wanted to tell him that wasn’t living it was surviving. But the words caught in her throat.
Instead, she whispered, “I don’t want you to keep holding everything in for me.”
He turned then, eyes locking on hers. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”
“Maybe I do.”
“Maya—” His voice dropped, rough and warning, but her name sounded different this time like it carried more weight than he wanted it to.
She stood, crossing the short distance between them before she could talk herself out of it. Her fingers brushed his wrist. “You always tell me to breathe,” she said. “Maybe you should, too.”
He froze. The air between them shifted charged, close, impossible to ignore.
Then, instead of pulling away, he lifted his hand and placed it against her jaw again, firmer this time. “You shouldn’t touch me like that.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me forget every rule I set.”
Her pulse thundered. “Maybe some rules were meant to break.”
For a heartbeat, she thought he might break, lose the control that defined him. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. He looked at her like a man standing on the edge of something dangerous.
Then he exhaled, stepping back. “Go to sleep, Maya.”
“Ethan—”
“Now.” The word came out low, controlled, final. But his voice trembled just barely.
She obeyed. Not because she wanted to, but because the authority in his tone anchored her more than anything else could have. She sank back onto the bed, eyes never leaving him.
He stood by the door for a long moment, silent. Then, softer than before, he said, “I’m not your father. I can’t fix what broke. But I’ll make sure nothing else does.”
Before she could answer, he turned off the lamp and left.
The next morning, she woke to find a folded blanket on her couch and his jacket draped over the armrest.
He’d stayed.
Close enough to protect her.
Far enough to keep his control.
And somehow, that hurt more than the nightmare ever could.
That evening, when their eyes meet again over breakfast, the tension is different no longer fear, but awareness. He looks away first this time.
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