Chapter Text
The library is quieter than you expect for a weekday afternoon, especially in the first week of classes. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t hush you for existing; it’s the kind that only asks that you keep your thoughts orderly.
Tall windows let in late light at a slant, dust motes suspended like they’re waiting for permission to fall. The older wing smells faintly of paper and polish, a comfortingly neutral space where ideas feel less performative.
You choose a long wooden table near the back, setting your bag down with familiar ease. The surface is scarred in random places, initials carved decades ago by people who probably thought their arguments would last forever. You spread out your notebook, the marked-up copy of Leviathan, and a legal pad you reserve for drafting thoughts before they harden into sentences.
The memo isn’t due for days, but you’ve learned not to wait. Hobbes doesn’t unravel slowly; he tightens. The more you reread him, the more precise he becomes, and precision demands attention. Besides, you’ve never been one to procrastinate…or at least you like to tell yourself that.
“Practiced habits become solid structure.”
You hear your mother's voice whisper in your ear. You smile besides yourself because, as much as you hated that phrase growing up, you found yourself reciting it over to your sister anytime she tried to skip her homework in favor of playing Sims or even Animal Crossing.
You’re halfway through annotating a paragraph when you notice movement across from you. Not abrupt but almost considerate.
“Hey,” Eren says quietly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
You glance up. He’s standing at the edge of the table, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands loose at his sides like he’s prepared to leave if you ask him to. The library light catches in his eyes again, softer here than in the hallway.
“It’s fine,” you say. “I was just getting started. I thought you were going home for the day.”
He nods and brings a hand up to the back of his neck, almost embarrassed, “Yeah, I figured I should start working on this memo to get it out of the way, and the library beats my apartment. Less temptation to procrastinate, you know,” he chuckles lightly. “I thought I’d work nearby, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” you reply easily. “Go ahead.”
He pulls out the chair across from you, careful not to scrape it too loudly, and settles in. For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. Pages turn, pens move, and the quiet stretches, companionable rather than strained.
You reread a sentence for the third time and finally shake your head.
“He makes fear sound reasonable,” you say, mostly to yourself.
Eren looks up from his notes. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That’s what’s bothering me, too.”
You meet his gaze briefly, then glance back down at the page. “It’s not that he’s wrong,” you continue. “It’s that he’s efficient about it.”
Eren nods slowly. “Exactly. He doesn’t care if authority is just. He cares if it works.”
“And that framing sticks,” you say. “People internalize it without realizing they’re doing it.”
He taps his pen once against his notebook. “I keep wanting to argue with him morally,” he admits. “But every time I try, I end up circling back to reality.”
“That’s the trap,” you say gently. “He doesn’t let you stay abstract.”
Eren exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a sigh. “That makes me uncomfortable.”
You smile faintly. “Good.”
That earns a small grin from him. The quiet returns, but it’s altered now. You write for another stretch, drafting sentences you’ll likely revise later, shaping ideas without worrying yet about polish. Across from you, Eren pauses often, staring at the page like he’s waiting for it to argue back.
After a while, chairs scrape softly nearby. Jonah passes your table with a stack of books balanced against his chest, pauses when he recognizes you, and gives a small nod before taking a seat a few tables over. Jules drifts in not long after, dropping into a chair with a sigh and muttering something under her breath about “men who think misery is a system.” You hide a smile behind your coffee cup.
Marcus stops briefly, asking Jonah whether Zeke mentioned page limits more than once, then disappears toward the printers. The library feels fuller now, the seminar spilling outward into a shared space. Eren watches the movement with quiet interest. “It’s strange,” he says after a moment. “Seeing everyone outside the classroom so soon.”
You nod in response, almost thoughtfully, when your phone buzzes once on the table. A message from Pieck about studio orientation running long, followed by one from the family groupchat your sister created since you moved out to the capital. You shake your head slightly and silence it without much thought, returning to your notes.
The light shifts outside, the library growing dimmer without ever quite darkening. Eventually, Eren packs up his things, sliding his notebook into his bag.
“I should head out,” he says. “Let this settle.”
You nod. “Yeah. Same.”
He hesitates, just briefly, like he’s weighing whether the thought is worth voicing. Then—
“Hey,” he says, quieter now. “Would it be okay if I got your number?”
You look up at him, surprised, but not caught off guard. There’s no pressure in the question, really, and it’s not like he’s asking for a date.
“For the memos,” he adds quickly, then winces a little at himself. “Or—discussion. If that’s alright.”
You smile faintly. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
You exchange phones, the motion easy and unceremonious. He types his number in, hands the device back without lingering, and grabs his from you in return.
“Thanks,” he says, relief softening his expression. “I’ll try not to abuse it.”
“I trust you,” you reply lightly.
That earns a small laugh.
“Maybe I’ll see you again before the next session,” he says, almost hopeful.
“Yeah, I guess we will see.” You smile lightly and give him a short wave.
He leaves quietly, and the space across from you empties again. You glance down at your phone for a moment, then set it aside and return to your notes. One new contact.
You revise a sentence, tightening it until it says exactly what you mean.
Legitimacy isn’t granted, it’s negotiated.
You underline it once and close your notebook. Place it inside your bag as you make your way towards the door.
*****
By the time you get home, the apartment is quiet. You drop your bag by the door and toe off your boots, the familiar thud grounding after a long afternoon of thinking. The lights are off in the living room, Pieck’s shoes missing from their place by the door, and your phone buzzes as if on cue.
Pieck:
Staying at Porco’s tonight. Studio orientation wiped me out. See you tomorrow!
You smile, text back a quick ‘goodnight’, and let the silence settle in. It’s not lonely—just spacious. The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts stretch out without tripping over anyone else’s.
You make a simple dinner, eat it standing at the counter, then carry your cup of tea into your room. You sit cross-legged on the bed and unlock your phone, scrolling past notifications until you find the familiar contact.
Mom.
The call rings twice before your mom’s face fills the screen, framed by the kitchen you know by heart.
“There she is,” she says immediately. “We were just wondering when you’d surface.”
Your dad leans into the frame a second later. “Look at that. Still alive.” He grins widely.
“Barely,” you say, smiling. “It’s only been a day, but grad school is already giving me a run for my money.”
Your mom laughs. “How were your classes?”
“Good,” you say honestly. “I’ve only gone to one so far, but I can tell it’s going to be challenging…but in a good way.”
Your dad nods, pointing a spatula your way. “That’s usually how you like them.”
Your mom tilts her head slightly, studying you the way she always has. “You look tired, honey. Have you eaten?”
“Productive tired,” you correct. “And yes, ma, I made dinner not too long ago.”
“Not ramen, right?” she asks.
“No,” you chuckle in response. “Chicken and rice.”
That earns a nod of approval. They ask about the campus, the apartment, and your roommate. You tell them Pieck is kind and thoughtful and far more put together than you expected. You tell them the seminar is intense without explaining why. You don’t mention names. You don’t feel the need to.
“Any boys we should know about?” your dad asks.
You roll your eyes and smirk. “No, Dad. And I don’t think that will change anytime soon.”
Your mom raises an eyebrow. “Hmm, you say that now, but come back to us in a few months.”
Before you can retort, your younger brother pops into the frame briefly, says something about borrowing your headphones, then disappears again. Your sister appears last, hair pulled back, eyes bright.
“Told you she’d survive,” she says smugly.
“Barely,” you repeat, and you hear her laughter trailing off as she walks away.
The call winds down without ceremony. No speeches, no warnings, just loving reassurance.
“Call us if you need anything,” your mom says.
“I will.”
“And don’t forget,” your dad adds, “you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Besides, you inherited both of our brains! Aren’t you the lucky one?” he teases.
“Yeah, yeah, Dad. I know. Could even be the next president!”
“Exactly!”
When the screen goes dark, you sit there for a moment longer, phone warm in your hand. You take a deep breath and exhale, then set it aside and let the quiet return.
You fall asleep easily that night.
*****
Tuesday arrives without fuss.
You wake to the sound of the city already moving, pull on something comfortable—a chunky burnt orange knit sweater, washed out jeans, and the same worn out boots—and head out with your bag slung over one shoulder. The air is cooler than yesterday, sharp enough to wake you fully as you cross campus. You’ve got two classes for today.
The lecture hall is already half full when you arrive. It’s larger than the seminar room from yesterday. Tiered seating, a podium this time, and long desks scarred with ink stains. The kind of room designed for information to flow in one direction, even if discussion is encouraged. You pause just inside the doorway, scanning instinctively. Spotting familiar faces almost immediately.
Porco is three rows down, leaning back in his chair like he owns it, jacket draped over the back, already mid-conversation with Marcus. Marcus listens with an expression that suggests he’s entertained but not convinced. Jules sits one seat away from them, scrolling through her laptop, one ear clearly tuned into whatever Porco is saying despite her apparent disinterest. And then you spot Eren.
He’s closer to the middle than you expected, backpack at his feet, notebook already open. When his gaze lifts and finds you, his expression brightens just a little, not exaggerated, just enough to register recognition. He raises his hand in a small, casual wave. Almost beckoning you to sit by him. You hesitate only a second before heading toward the row.
As you slide into the seat beside him, Jules looks up from her screen, eyes flicking between the two of you.
“Well,” she says lightly, “guess we’re two for two.”
Marcus glances back. “You keeping track now?”
“Someone has to,” Jules replies. “Patterns matter in this program.”
Porco snorts. “Don’t let her scare you. She sees conspiracy in everything.”
Jules doesn’t look at him. “That’s because everything is a conspiracy.”
You smile despite yourself, setting your bag down. “Or we just have similar taste in classes,” you say.
“That’s more flattering,” Eren replies, grinning.
Before the conversation can go any further, the lights dim slightly, and the low hum of chatter fades as a man steps up to the podium.
Professor Magath doesn’t waste time.
He’s older than Ksaver, broader in build, posture upright in a way that feels practiced rather than rigid. He adjusts the microphone once, glances around the room like he’s already taken stock of everyone in it, and then begins.
“Good morning,” he says. “If you’re looking for a class that will reassure you about the benevolence of institutions, you’re in the wrong room.”
A few students chuckle. Porco straightens slightly, interested.
“This course,” Magath continues, “is about the modern state. Not as an ideal, but as a mechanism. How it consolidates power. How it justifies itself. And how it survives.”
He clicks the remote, and the first slide appears behind him.
Institutions as Instruments of Stability.
“You’ve all read Weber,” he says. “You know the definition of the state as a monopoly on legitimate violence. Today, I want you to consider something simpler.”
He pauses, letting the room settle.
“Why people tolerate it.”
A few students shift across the room in their seats, and others begin jotting down notes.
“States don’t endure because they are moral,” Magath continues. “They endure because they are functional. Because they provide predictability, infrastructure, and order.”
Eren shifts slightly beside you, pen hovering over his notebook.
“But,” Magath adds, “functionality is not neutral.”
He gestures broadly. “Institutions reflect the priorities of those who design them. They preserve certain interests while marginalizing others. Stability for whom is always the operative question.”
You jot that down quickly. Magath begins to pace slowly, voice steady and deliberate.
“This week, we’ll be examining how institutions manufacture consent. Not through force alone, but through normalization. Through routine. Through the quiet suggestion that alternatives are unrealistic.”
Porco raises his hand without waiting to be called on.
Magath smiles thinly. “Mr. Galliard.”
Porco doesn’t bother standing. “Isn’t that kind of the point?” he says. “If institutions work, people don’t need to like them. They just need to rely on them.”
A murmur ripples through the room.
Magath nods once. “An efficient argument.”
Porco grins.
“But incomplete,” Magath adds. “Reliance without trust breeds fragility. Institutions that survive on necessity alone eventually face legitimacy crises.”
A student near the aisle raises a hand. “So legitimacy is preventative?”
Magath turns toward him. “Legitimacy is insurance,” he says. “It cushions systems against rupture.”
You feel Eren lean back slightly, almost thoughtful.
“And when that insurance fails?” Jules asks without being called upon.
Magath looks at her. “Then you get reform, or collapse. Sometimes both.”
Marcus raises a hand. “Is reform ever voluntary?”
Magath’s smile tightens. “Rarely.”
That earns a few quiet laughs. You glance at Eren, who is writing now, fast, jaw set in concentration. Magath continues, layering theory with examples—postwar institutions, emergency powers normalized, bureaucracies outliving their original mandates. It’s dense, but engaging, the kind of lecture that doesn’t demand participation so much as attention.
As the hour winds down, Magath glances at the clock.
“For Thursday,” he says, “I want you thinking about institutional inertia. Why systems resist change even when reform is widely acknowledged as necessary.”
He gathers his notes. “We’ll talk about it. For those with me this afternoon, we will meet a few rooms down the hall. Don’t be late.”
The lecture ends as quickly as it started. Chairs scrape, bags zip, and conversations spark up immediately. Jules closes her laptop and looks between you and Eren again.
“Well,” she says, standing, “would it be far-fetched if I assumed the usual suspects will reunite this afternoon for another insightful session?”
Eren laughs. “No, I’m scheduled for it.”
Porco grins, already confirming that he will be there then claps Marcus on the shoulder. “You coming to methods later too?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Marcus says.
Porco glances at you. “Y/N? Three for three?”
You exhale a small laugh. “It would appear so.”
As the room clears, Eren slings his bag over his shoulder.
“So,” he says, casual but hopeful, “see you this afternoon?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He smiles, easy. “Cool, I’ll see you then.”
As he walks off, you gather your things, the lecture still echoing faintly in your head.
Institutions.
Stability.
And the strange, unmistakable sense that this program—this cohort—is already beginning to shape the way you think. Not just about systems, but about proximity.
*****
By the time you make it back to Magath Hall in the afternoon, the energy on campus has shifted. The morning’s sharp focus has dulled into something heavier—students moving more slowly, conversations quieter, caffeine more necessary. You arrive early enough to claim a seat without having to negotiate it, choosing somewhere just left of center.
The room is different from both the seminar and the lecture hall.
Rows instead of a table. Screens pulled down. A whiteboard already marked with half-erased notes from a previous class. This one feels functional in the purest sense—designed to teach you how to do things rather than debate whether you should.
You set your bag down and open your notebook, already anticipating what this class will demand. People filter in gradually. Porco arrives first out of the familiar faces, dropping into a seat two rows ahead, and like gravity naturally bends around him, Marcus follows, exchanging a few words with him before sitting one seat over. Jules comes in next, scanning the room once before choosing a seat near the aisle, posture relaxed, eyes alert. Then Eren appears. He hesitates briefly at the doorway, spots you, and makes his way over.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Is this seat taken?”
You glance up and shake your head. “No.”
He sits, careful not to crowd you, setting his notebook down neatly.
“Looks like we’re doing this again,” he says.
You smile faintly. “Yep.”
Before either of you can say more, Professor Magath enters, conversation tapering off almost immediately.
“This class,” he says without preamble, “will be less forgiving than the others.”
That earns a few tired chuckles.
“Graduate Research Methods exists to make sure your ideas don’t collapse under scrutiny,” Magath continues. “If your theory can’t be operationalized, it doesn’t matter how compelling it sounds.”
He gestures toward the front row.
“I’ll be leading the course,” he says, “but you’ll be seeing much more of our teaching assistants than me.”
Two figures step forward.
The first is tall, blonde, posture rigid in a way that feels honed rather than practiced. She wears a fitted blazer over a dark top, hair pulled back sharply, expression intense without being unkind.
“This is Yelena,” Magath says. “She specializes in qualitative methods, discourse analysis, and archival research.”
Yelena nods once, gaze sweeping the room like she’s already memorizing faces.
“Your arguments,” she says evenly, “mean nothing if you can’t trace where they come from.”
She lets the silence stretch for a beat longer than necessary.
“If you’re looking for affirmation,” she continues evenly, “you won’t find it here. If you’re looking to sharpen your thinking, you might.”
A few students shift in their seats, and you can’t help but do the same. The second TA steps forward with a relaxed smile, hands clasped loosely in front of him.
“This is Onyankopon,” Magath continues. “He focuses on quantitative analysis, data modeling, and comparative institutional metrics.”
Onyankopon grins. “I promise statistics aren’t here to ruin your life. Just your assumptions.”
That earns a few genuine laughs.
Magath steps aside. “Between the two of them,” he says, “you’ll learn how to justify your claims with evidence rather than conviction.”
Yelena takes over without hesitation.
“This class will be structured around group work,” she says. “Not because collaboration is pleasant, but because research is rarely solitary.”
A collective groan ripples through the room. She ignores it.
“You’ll be assigned rotating partners,” Yelena continues. “You will not choose them. You will learn to work with people whose priorities differ from yours.”
Porco mutters something under his breath that earns a quiet snort from Marcus.
Eren leans slightly toward you. “This feels like a warning.”
You murmur back, “It definitely is.”
Onyankopon clicks to the next slide.
“First assignment,” he says. “A methods critique. Choose a published study. Identify its assumptions, its limitations, and where bias might have influenced outcomes.”
Jules raises a hand. “Do we get bonus points for suffering?”
“No,” Onyankopon replies cheerfully. “But you’ll gain character.”
She drops her hand, unimpressed but amused.
As instructions continue, you start to notice the subtle differences in how people react.
Porco looks impatient, like he wants results without scaffolding. Marcus takes notes steadily, already thinking in terms of application. Jules watches the TAs more than the slides, head tilted slightly, absorbing tone as much as content. Eren listens carefully, brow furrowed—not overwhelmed, but aware this class will ask for something different than conviction. When Yelena finishes outlining expectations, she scans the room once more.
“Office hours will be posted by tonight,” she says. “Use them. Don’t wait until you’re behind. We will assign partners and primary TAs on Thursday.”
Her gaze lingers just a second longer on the middle rows before she steps back, and the class wraps up. As students stand and begin gathering their things, Porco twists in his seat to look at you and Eren.
“Well,” he says, “I like them already.”
You chuckle under your breath and glance towards the front of the room once more before packing up the rest of your things. You all drift toward the exit together, conversation light but unforced, the shared fatigue of the day smoothing over whatever edges remain.
As you step back into the afternoon air, you realize something quietly significant. This class isn’t about ideas clashing; it’s about learning how to prove them. And between the people walking beside you, the TAs watching from the front of the room, and the weight of expectations settling into place, you can already feel the shape of this semester tightening around you.
Not hostile, just demanding. Exactly what you’d expect from a highly ranked graduate program.
Back at the apartment, the quiet settles in more deliberately than the night before. Pieck isn’t home yet. Her shoes are still gone from the entryway, and the apartment feels paused—afternoon light still filtering through the windows, shadows stretching longer across the floor. You drop your bag by the couch and set your notebook down, resisting the urge to open it immediately. Instead, you grab your laptop and turn on the Keurig for another cup of joe. Old habits die hard. Thanks, Dad.
You log into the student portal out of routine more than urgency, clicking through announcements while your coffee cools beside you. Most of it is administrative—library orientations, parking reminders, and a warning about citation software updates.
Then—
M215: Graduate Research Methods
New Announcement
You click.
Office hours, it reads. Posted by Professor Magath’s TAs.
Your eyes skim the text automatically at first, then slow.
Yelena:
Wednesdays, 10:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m.
Open walk-in hours. No appointment required.
Location: Magath Hall, Room 214.
Onyankopon:
Fridays, by appointment only.
Requests must be submitted at least 24 hours in advance.
Virtual and in-person slots available.
In-person location: Magath Hall, Room 214.
You sit back slightly.
Yelena’s hours feel…intense. Broad. Demanding. The kind of availability that assumes you’ll need it. Onyankopon’s are structured, almost protective of time.
Different philosophies, even here. You close the tab, not lingering on it, and instinctively open another.
Political Philosophy: Power, Authority, and Legitimacy
The seminar syllabus loads slowly, text-heavy and dense. You scroll past the reading list—Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau—familiar names already rearranging themselves in your mind. Your eyes catch on a section you hadn’t looked at closely before.
Discussion Facilitator Office Hours
Zeke Fritz
Wednesdays: 2:00–5:30 p.m.
Walk-ins welcome.
Fridays: Appointment only.
Location: Room 320
You pause.
It’s not the hours themselves that give you pause—it’s the overlap. Wednesday afternoons, right after your class with Ksaver. Seems doable.
You scroll back up, reread the description of the seminar expectations, then close the syllabus. Your notebook sits unopened beside you. Eventually, you pull it closer. You flip to a blank page and write Hobbes at the top, then stop.
Your argument from yesterday replays in fragments—legitimacy as negotiated, adaptation as survival rather than surrender. It still feels right. But not finished. You chew on the end of your pen, staring at the page.
Office hours are there for a reason, you remind yourself.
Clarification, not validation. Guidance, not indulgence.
Still, the idea of walking into his office lingers longer than you expect. Not because of him, you tell yourself, but because of the conversation. Because the class doesn’t let things sit unfinished. You don’t decide anything. Instead, you close the notebook gently, because you know better than to force an argument before it’s ready. Some ideas need to settle. Some questions need to sit unanswered for a while before they reveal what they’re actually asking.
Wednesday is still a day away, and for now, that feels like enough distance to keep the choice theoretical. You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly, and let the hum of the city fill the space where a decision might have gone. At some point, a text lights up your phone. It’s Pieck.
Crashing at Porco’s again. Don’t wait up.
You smile at it, set your phone face down, and head to bed. Tomorrow, you’ll write. And maybe, depending on how the argument settles, you’ll decide whether it’s worth walking into that office after all.
*****
You wake earlier than you need to. Not restless or anxious, just alert. Like your mind has already moved ahead of your body. You look at your phone, 7:00 am. Your class isn’t for another four hours, and you turn towards the ceiling, debating whether you should take your time or just go to school. The memo comes to the forefront, and without permission, so does Zeke. Oh shit, his office hours. You get out of bed, shower, and blow out your hair. You opt for a light blue sweater this morning, pair it with dark wash jeans, and your white Chucks. You look at the clock, 8:15 am.
Okay, still got time to stop by for some breakfast.
You head out of your apartment and walk towards The Commons. It’s bustling with students either on their way to early morning classes or just looking for a place to hang out. You order your coffee and a plain bagel with cream cheese and head over to the library.
You claim a corner table, sunlight spilling across the wood in long, pale bands. Your laptop is open, your legal pad and notes spread around it in a loose semicircle. Hobbes. Locke. Marginalia from class. Half-formed phrases you scribbled down on Monday and yesterday evening after dinner.
You stare at the blinking cursor longer than you mean to and start typing. You write around the idea first. Testing the edges. Legitimacy as consent. Legitimacy as endurance. The difference between compliance and belief. You let yourself contradict earlier sentences, circle back, and cut entire paragraphs without mourning them. This isn’t something you want to perform. It’s something you want to understand.
An hour passes without you noticing. Then another. By the time you lean back in your chair, your shoulders ache slightly, and your coffee has gone cold. The memo isn’t finished, but it exists now. Shaped enough that you can see where it’s going. You reread the opening paragraph.
“Not bad”, you think, “not final…but honest.”
That’s when your phone buzzes. It’s Eren.
Eren:
Surviving the readings or already questioning your life choices?
You smile despite yourself before replying.
You:
Both. I think Hobbes shaved at least a year off my lifespan.
A few seconds pass.
Eren:
Fair. I’m in the library, actually. Third floor.
You glance up instinctively, scanning the space without standing. The library hums softly around you. Pages turning. Footsteps muffled by carpet. You type back before you can overthink it.
You:
I’m here too. First floor.
You don’t add anything else. A moment later, movement catches your eye. He doesn’t approach right away. He pauses when he spots you, like he’s checking whether he’s interrupting something or not. When your eyes meet, he lifts his hand in a small, wordless greeting. You nod once, mirroring it.
“How’s the memo coming along?” he asks quietly.
“In progress,” you say. “Which feels worse than unfinished.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah. I get the feeling.”
You talk for a while after that. About nothing urgent, about the reading, and about how different the library feels at different times of day. At some point, he glances at the time.
“Oh, it’s almost eleven, I should get going,” he says.
You nod. “Yeah, same here.”
“What would be the odds of us having yet another class together?”
You laugh at that, “Ksaver?”
“No, Thornwall.” He answers a bit disappointed.
“Oh, I guess we do have more professors in the department other than Ksaver and Magath.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
He stands, hesitating for half a second like he might say something else, then doesn’t.
“See you around,” he says.
“Yeah,” you reply. “See you.”
He leaves without fanfare, and you return to your memo with a clearer head than before. You give it one more read before routing it to the printers and walk over to pick it up.
“Okay, Y/N, this will have to do, or you’ll be late for class.”
*****
Ethics and Responsibility in Political Decision-Making is smaller. Quieter. The room feels less charged, like everyone knows they’re here to think rather than spar.
Jonah sits two seats away from you, notebook already open, pen aligned carefully along the margin. Lena sits across the table, posture composed, expression unreadable. Part of you half expected Zeke to appear in this classroom too, but to your surprise, even though the room resembles Ksaver's other class, he doesn’t.
Professor Ksaver leads with questions rather than declarations, and you find yourself speaking more easily here. The conversation moves slower. There’s space to think before responding, and when you make a point about moral injury and bureaucratic distance, Jonah nods thoughtfully. Lena watches you for a moment longer than necessary, then offers a counterpoint that sharpens rather than dismisses your argument.
It’s good. It’s productive.
By the time class ends, your brain feels full but not overwhelmed. You pack up slowly, lingering long enough that Jonah leaves first. Lena nods to you once on her way out.
“Good point earlier,” she says simply.
“Thanks,” you reply. “Yours too.”
She pauses, like she might say more, then doesn’t.
When the room empties, you check your phone. No new messages. You open your student portal instead, more out of habit than intention. The announcement for Methods sits at the top. Office hours listed neatly beneath it. Your cursor drifts, unbidden, to another tab.
Power, Authority, and Legitimacy.
You check the time, 1:45 PM. Your memo is half-written. Your argument is solid but incomplete. There’s a tension in it you haven’t resolved yet, something about consent that keeps slipping out of focus. You close your laptop and sit there for a bit longer. Hands folded loosely in your lap, weighing the difference between curiosity and intention.
Then you gather your things and tell yourself you’re going for clarification. For argument. For precision. Not because of him. But because the question won’t leave you alone. And because sometimes, the only way forward is through the door you’ve been circling. So you pack up and head out towards the hallway.
His office is down the hall, but you don’t go straight there. Instead, you linger by a bulletin board, reading the posted flyers but not really retaining what they’re about.
2:07 p.m.
You look towards the hallway again, thinking about what you’ll actually say once you’re inside. The truth is, the idea of being alone with him feels different than you expected. Not intimidating exactly. But…contained. Like stepping into a room where the air is thinner, and you’re suddenly aware of your own breathing. You’ve only seen him in a room full of people. Seen how he commands without raising his voice. How he directs attention without demanding it. There’s something about the way he carries himself that lingers, like he’s always three steps ahead of the moment he’s in.
It makes you nervous in a way that has nothing to do with authority.
You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder as you finally turn down the hallway marked Faculty Offices. The noise of campus fades almost immediately. The lighting shifts, softer here, less hurried. Doors line the walls, each one bearing a nameplate, each one closed.
You slow as you walk, your steps echoing faintly against the floor.
Room 320
Professor Tom Ksaver
Zeke Fritz, PhD Candidate
You stop a few feet short of the door. Your reflection stares back at you faintly in the glass panel. You look composed. Calm. Exactly like someone who belongs here. And yet, you can feel your pulse just under your jaw, steady but unmistakable.
You think about the memo folded in your bag. About the argument you couldn’t quite finish. About the way his eyes had sharpened when you spoke in class, not approving, not challenging, just attentive.
That’s what unsettled you the most. He hadn’t looked at you like someone waiting to correct you. He’d looked like someone listening.
You draw a slow breath in through your nose, then out again. This is academic, you remind yourself. Clarification. Debate. Office hours exist for a reason. Still, your hand hesitates just before you knock. Not because you’re afraid of what he’ll say. But because you’re aware, suddenly and acutely, of what it means to be seen without the buffer of a room full of voices. To have his attention without an audience. To sit across from someone who doesn’t waste words, who doesn’t fill silence, who doesn’t soften his presence for comfort.
You straighten slightly, then you knock and wait.
The door opens without hurry, so much so that you barely have time to register the movement before he’s there, framed by the doorway. Posture easy, like he’d already been expecting someone, even if he hadn’t known who.
“Yes?” he says.
Not curt, or warm, but neutral in a way that somehow feels more exposing than either.
You straighten instinctively. “Hi—sorry. I’m Y/N. From the seminar.”
Recognition flickers across his face immediately. He steps back without comment, pulling the door open wider. “Come in.”
You do.
The office is smaller than you imagined, but not cramped. Bookshelves line one wall, dense and intentional rather than decorative. A desk sits near the window, papers stacked neatly to one side, a mug pushed just far enough away to suggest it’s still warm. The space smells faintly of coffee and old pages, the kind of place that’s been occupied for years by someone who doesn’t leave often.
You stop just inside the door, unsure where to place yourself until he gestures toward the chair opposite his desk.
“Have a seat.”
You do, setting your bag carefully at your feet, smoothing your hands once over your lap before you can stop yourself. You’re suddenly aware of how quiet it is in there. No overlapping conversations. No scrape of chairs. No one else’s argument to hide behind. He takes his seat across from you, folding his hands loosely, attention settling on you fully now. And before you can stop yourself, you just ask the first question that comes to mind.
“Do you and Professor Ksaver really work in here together?”
He looks at you, caught off guard, and laughs under his breath. “Oh, no. The university has two designated offices for him. He requested one for himself and one for whoever was his TA.” He straightens up a bit and speaks again, “So, what can I help you with?”
It’s simple. Open-ended. Professional. And yet, the weight of it makes your chest tighten just a little.
You glance down at your bookbag, then back up. “I wanted to ask about my memo. Or—about the framing, I guess. I printed a copy.”
He holds his hand up and nods once. “No need. Let’s just discuss, continue.”
You swallow and nod. “In class, you said legitimacy can’t function indefinitely without moral grounding. I agree with that, but I keep running into the same problem when I try to write it.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t think legitimacy disappears all at once,” you say. “I think people live in the in-between longer than theory accounts for. And I’m struggling with how to argue that without it sounding like indecision.”
He listens without interrupting, gaze steady and unreadable. You resist the urge to keep filling the silence, to over-explain. But something about how he’s looking at you makes you want to anyway.
When he speaks, it’s measured. “Indecision isn’t the same as tension,” he says. “One avoids commitment. The other acknowledges constraint.”
You blink, then nod slowly. That…helps. “So,” you say, encouraged, “it’s not a flaw if the argument doesn’t resolve cleanly?”
“No,” he replies. “It’s a flaw if you pretend it does.”
Something in your shoulders eases at that.
He leans back slightly, not retreating, just recalibrating. “You’re worried about being misunderstood.”
You hesitate, then nod. “I guess. I don’t want it to sound like I’m excusing unjust systems.”
“You’re not,” he says calmly. “You’re describing how people survive them.”
The distinction lands harder than you expect. You look at him again, really look at him now. The way he holds himself still, like he doesn’t need to assert control because he already has it. The way his attention doesn’t drift, doesn’t soften, doesn’t sharpen unnecessarily.
It’s unsettling and grounding.
“I was also wondering,” you add carefully, “if you think there’s a point where obedience becomes moral failure. Even if resistance is impossible.”
He studies you for a moment longer this time. Not scrutinizing, but assessing you almost. “That’s not a memo question,” he says.
You brace yourself.
“It’s a better one.”
Your breath catches before you can help it. He continues, “And it doesn’t have a clean answer. Which is why it’s worth asking.” There’s a pause. “If you want,” he adds, “bring me the draft Friday. We can talk through where it feels thin. Say around ten?”
You nod. “I’d like that.”
The words come out easily. Too easily, maybe.
He glances briefly at the clock, then back at you. “Anything else?”
You shake your head, then stop. “Actually—no. That was it.”
You stand, gathering your bag, suddenly aware again of the space between you, of how close and far it feels at the same time.
“Thank you,” you say. “For your time.”
He inclines his head slightly. “That’s what office hours are for.”
You hesitate, then add, quieter, “And…for listening.”
Something shifts in his expression. Subtle enough that you might imagine it if you weren’t paying attention.
“Good luck with the memo,” he says.
You manage a small smile. “See you Friday.”
As you step back into the hallway, the door closing softly behind you, the noise of campus rushes back in like a held breath released.
You hadn’t gone in expecting anything beyond clarification. And now you leave with the uncomfortable, undeniable sense that the conversation isn’t finished. Not on paper. Not in your head. And definitely not between the two of you.
Zeke’s POV:
Zeke doesn’t move right away.
The door clicks shut—the sound precise, final—and the office settles back into its familiar quiet. He remains where he is, hands still folded, posture unchanged. If anyone were watching, they’d assume the conversation ended exactly where it was meant to.
It didn’t.
He exhales slowly, not in relief, not in frustration, just…recalibration.
First office hour of the semester, and he hadn’t expected it to be you. He turns slightly in his chair and reaches for the notebook on his desk, opening it without really looking at the page. Habit more than anything. His pen rests between his fingers, unmoving.
Your argument replays, not as sound, but as structure. The way you framed legitimacy as something people inhabit rather than grant. The way you resisted the instinct to resolve tension prematurely. Most students want closure. They rush toward it like it proves competence.
You hadn’t.
You stayed in the discomfort. Named it. Let it remain unresolved without collapsing into vagueness.
That wasn’t accidental.
He taps the pen once against the paper, then stills it. And then there’s the other thing. The part he hadn’t expected to notice because it shouldn’t have mattered.
The pause before you knocked.
The way you sat without filling the silence. The way you listened when he spoke, not waiting for permission, not searching for approval.
Zeke closes the notebook. This is the part he doesn’t indulge.
Attraction is easy to misdiagnose. Especially when it arrives wearing intelligence. Especially when it shows up as curiosity rather than hunger. He’s learned—carefully and deliberately—not to confuse interest with intrusion. Not to mistake engagement for invitation.
He stands, crossing to the window, looking down at the courtyard below. Students drift past in clusters, conversations overlapping, lives continuing without friction.
He tells himself what he tells himself every semester.
This is facilitation. Not connection.
Observation. Not attachment.
But this time…it’s different. The thought settles. Almost, before his thoughts are interrupted.
A knock sounds at the door.
Zeke doesn’t turn immediately. He checks the time instead. Thirty minutes gone, he hadn’t even noticed.
“Come in,” he says, voice even.
The door opens.
“Hey—sorry,” a familiar voice says. “Is this a bad time?”
Zeke turns.
Eren Yeager stands in the doorway, hands tucked into the straps of his backpack, posture open in that way that suggests he doesn’t expect permission so much as conversation. The resemblance is there if you know how to look for it. In the eyes. In the line of the jaw. In the way he fills space without trying to dominate it.
Zeke had known this moment would come, but he hadn’t expected it to come today.
“No,” he says. “You’re on time.”
Eren steps inside, glancing around the office with interest rather than intimidation. He doesn’t sit until Zeke gestures to the chair.
“So,” Eren says, settling in, “I wanted to ask about something from the discussion.”
Zeke folds his hands again. “Go ahead.”
Eren hesitates—not out of uncertainty, but care. “When you asked what triggers the shift,” he says, “and we talked about memory…I keep thinking about obedience that’s inherited.”
Zeke’s attention sharpens before he can stop it.
“Inherited how?” he asks.
Eren shrugs lightly. “Culturally. Familially. When people comply not because they agree or even because they’re afraid, but because it’s what they were raised to do.”
Zeke watches him closely now.
“And what happens when that inheritance fractures?” Zeke asks.
Eren frowns, thoughtful. “I don’t know. I think that’s where things get dangerous. When people realize the rules they learned weren’t neutral.”
A pause.
Then Eren adds, almost offhand, “I guess I’m wondering whether responsibility transfers. Like, if someone benefits from obedience they didn’t choose, are they still accountable for maintaining it?”
The question lands heavier than it should, but Zeke keeps his expression neutral. “That’s a hypothetical.”
“Yeah,” Eren agrees quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it personally. Just…academically.”
Zeke nods once. Of course he didn’t. Still, something in the room feels tighter now. Not hostile…just aware. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume there was more to that question than just academic curiosity.
“That’s a strong line of inquiry,” Zeke says. “But be careful. Hypotheticals like that tend to expose more than people intend.”
Eren smiles faintly. “Guess that’s the point.”
Zeke stands, signaling the close of the conversation without dismissing it. “Write it into your memo,” he says. “See where it holds.”
Eren rises easily. “Thanks. I will.”
At the door, he pauses. “Oh—and for what it’s worth? I liked how you framed the question on Monday. It made it easier to speak.”
Zeke inclines his head. “That’s the goal.”
Eren leaves, and the door closes again. Zeke remains standing this time. Two conversations. Back to back. Both unsettling in entirely different ways.
He presses his thumb briefly into the edge of the desk. The semester hasn’t even found its rhythm yet. And already, the system feels…strained.
He exhales slowly, eyes flicking to the clock. There’s still over an hour left of office hours. More than enough time for the day to resume its proper shape.
He moves back toward his desk, the chair sliding softly beneath him.
This will require discipline, and Zeke Fritz has never lacked that.
Y/N’s POV:
You don’t start writing right away.
You sit at your desk instead, notebook open, laptop humming softly beside it, pen resting untouched between your fingers. The city outside has settled into its evening rhythm—cars passing in slow waves, the occasional burst of laughter drifting up from the street below—but your focus stays stubbornly inside the room.
You think about the conversation again.
Not the way he looked at you. That’s easy enough to dismiss. You’ve been looked at before. You’ve dated. You know the difference between attraction and novelty.
This feels like neither.
What lingers is the way he held the room. Not by dominating it, not by raising his voice, but by refusing to rush anything. The way silence bent around him rather than stretching uncomfortably. The way he let arguments unfold just long enough to reveal their fault lines before stepping in.
It isn’t charisma exactly, it’s restraint.
That’s what unsettles you.
You’ve always been drawn to people who listen without waiting to respond. People who don’t confuse presence with performance. Still, you hadn’t expected to encounter that kind of authority here, in this context, embodied so completely in someone who never once demanded it.
You shake your head lightly and look back at your notes.
Focus.
You reread the opening paragraph you’d drafted earlier, the one that circles legitimacy without naming it outright. It’s cautious, thoughtful, and a little too careful. You delete two sentences without hesitation, and the argument sharpens immediately.
You write instead about endurance. About how systems don’t persist because people believe in them, but because people learn how to live inside them. How legitimacy doesn’t vanish when morality erodes. It thins, stretches, and frays.
You pause, fingers hovering over the keys.
Is that indecision?
You hear his voice again, calm and even.
“Indecision avoids commitment. Tension acknowledges constraint.”
You exhale slowly and keep going.
You write about how compliance can coexist with dissent. About patience as strategy rather than passivity. You resist the urge to resolve it neatly, to land on a conclusion that sounds definitive just for the sake of sounding sure. Instead, you let the argument remain uncomfortable. Honest.
When you finish the final paragraph, you sit back and read it through once. Then again. And one last time for good measure. You mark a few phrases for tightening, but the structure holds. The question remains open, exactly where you want it, and you save the document.
For a moment, you just sit there, hands resting in your lap, aware of the strange satisfaction settling in your chest. Not pride, not relief, but alignment.
This is the kind of work you came here to do. And maybe that’s why he unsettled you. Not because he’s handsome, though he is. Not because he’s intelligent, though that’s undeniable. But because he recognized the work for what it was without trying to shape it into something more palatable.
You close the laptop gently and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Friday is still two days away, and somehow, that feels louder than the deadline itself.
You’re mid-thought—halfway between an argument you want to refine and a conversation you can’t quite put away—when the front door opens.
Keys clinking softly, shoes sliding off near the entry.
“I’m home,” Pieck calls, voice even, familiar.
You sit up, the moment breaking cleanly. “Hey.”
She appears a second later, tote bag slung over one shoulder, jacket half-zipped like she forgot about it halfway through the walk. She pauses when she sees you still on the couch, laptop closed but notebook open beside you.
“Working already?” she asks mildly.
“Trying to,” you admit. “First memo.”
Pieck hums, setting her bag down. She moves into the kitchen, pours herself a glass of water, then leans back against the counter, studying you in that quiet, unreadable way she has.
“So,” she says. “How’s it been? First week impressions?”
You consider the questions honestly. “Intense,” you say. “But good. The seminar is…a lot.”
“The political philosophy one?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.”
Pieck nods once. “Porco complained about it over dinner last night, which means he secretly loved it.”
You smile, then hesitate just briefly. “I actually went to the office hours today.”
That gets her attention.
“Oh?” she says lightly. “With who?”
“The TA,” you reply. “Zeke Fritz.”
The name lands quietly in the space between you. Pieck doesn’t react right away. She takes a sip of water, then sets the glass down slowly.
“Hmm,” she says. “Porco did mention he was your TA.”
You tilt your head. “You sound like you know him.”
Pieck’s gaze flicks to you, then away again.
“You could say that,” she replies.
There’s a beat. You wait, curiosity humming just beneath the surface, but she doesn’t elaborate. Instead, she offers a faint, almost amused smile.
“How was it?” she asks instead. “Office hours, I mean.”
You think about it. The quiet, the focus, the way the conversation sharpened in certain points. “Helpful,” you say. “He…listens.”
Pieck nods slowly, like that confirms something she already knows.
“Careful,” she says gently. “People like that tend to unsettle rooms.”
You laugh. “I noticed.”
She straightens, stretching her arms briefly. “I’m going to shower. We can order something later if you want.”
“Yeah,” you say. “That sounds good.”
As she disappears down the hall, you sit back again, your thoughts no longer where you left them.
You could say that. The phrase lingers longer than it should.
“Hmm. Interesting.”
Zeke’s POV:
Zeke’s apartment is quiet when he gets home.
Not empty—he’s never liked that word—but ordered. Shoes placed where they belong. Keys set in the shallow bowl by the door. The faint hum of the city filtered through glass he hasn’t opened in weeks.
He shrugs off his coat, hangs it carefully, and loosens his tie without removing it entirely. Old habit. He moves through the space with the efficiency of someone who doesn’t linger unnecessarily, someone who prefers motion to stillness when thoughts threaten to settle too deeply.
Dinner is simple. Something reheated. Something forgettable. He eats standing at the counter, eyes unfocused, mind already cataloging the next seminar, the next set of memos, the next argument he’ll have to redirect before it collapses into posturing. He tells himself this is what he’s thinking about.
It’s not.
He washes the plate immediately after, dries it, and puts it away. When the kitchen is reset, he finally allows himself to stop. The problem isn’t attraction. That would be easy. That would be irrelevant.
He’s never lacked the ability to recognize beauty without confusing it for permission. He’s navigated classrooms long enough to know the difference between admiration and entitlement, between proximity and intimacy. He has never crossed that line, not once. The rules aren’t obstacles to him; they’re structure. Necessary. Protective.
What unsettles him is something else entirely.
It’s the way your presence reorganized the room without effort. The way your argument didn’t ask for validation. The way you spoke like someone who wasn’t trying to be impressive, only precise.
That kind of mind is disruptive.
He exhales slowly and moves toward the bedroom, unbuttoning his cuffs as he goes. He doesn’t replay the conversation word for word. He refuses to. Instead, he isolates the point where control had been necessary—not outwardly, but internally.
When he offered Friday. When he didn’t soften the boundary. When he kept the conversation exactly where it belonged.
Good.
He changes, folds his clothes, and sets them aside. The ritual matters. Routine is how you prevent slippage. How you ensure one moment doesn’t metastasize into something indulgent.
He sits on the edge of the bed briefly, then stands again, unwilling to linger. This isn’t temptation, it’s recognition. And recognition, unlike desire, requires restraint rather than denial.
Then there was the other conversation, too—Eren. The question he’d asked. Not inappropriate, not even unusual on its surface, but pointed in a way that lingered longer than it should have. Zeke dismisses it for what it is: a student circling an idea he hasn’t yet learned how to name. Nothing more.
He turns off the light and lies back, hands folded loosely over his chest, gaze fixed on the dark ceiling. Tomorrow, the distance will return. It always does. The semester will proceed. The rules will hold. And whatever this is—whatever unsettled the equilibrium of that room—it will remain exactly where it belongs.
Contained.
Zeke Fritz closes his eyes, already committed to that certainty.