Page 78 of Stranger to Love

Dr. Carter chuckled, tossing me the TV remote. "Go on, then." She winked, her eyes sparkling, as she picked up the tray and the empty wine bottle. "I'll get us another."

I watched her leave the room, and I was practically fucking giddy, a feeling I immediately cursed myself for. I didn’t want this night to end. Shit. Even though we’d already shared an entire bottle of wine, I barely felt a buzz because Dr. Carter was causing so much adrenaline to rush through me anyway. I quickly found the sequel, the remote shaking slightly in my hand, anticipating her return.

Dr. Carter returned quickly, placing a new, full bottle of white wine into the iceless bucket on the table with a soft thunk.

"There," she announced, settling back down on the sofa. She nudged my side until she was wedged back perfectly into my embrace, her body slotting against mine like she belonged there. "I think I've adapted to the genre now. I'm used to all the stupid jump scares."

I smirked, unable to resist one last bit of teasing. "Oh, okay. So you don't want my protection this time, Dr. Carter?"

She immediately glared at me, the command in her eyes briefly resurfacing. "That," she said, her voice low and firm, "is absolutely not what I said."

She shifted to face me, lifting a hand to cup my cheek, and leaned in, kissing me deeply. It was a possessive, silencing kiss, a reminder of her dominance even while snuggled in my arms. When she pulled back, she nodded towards the screen.

"Now, press play."

I obeyed, my thumb pressing the button. My heart surged with a sickening rush of soft, stupid feelings—warmth, safety, a sudden giddiness—that I fucking hated, but couldn't get enough of. I clung to the internal narrative, desperately convincing myself this was just a one-time weekend thing, a mutual indulgence that neither of us would acknowledge or bring up on Tuesday in her afternoon lecture. I squeezed her tightly, needing the reassurance of her presence, and settled in for another two hours of cuddled terror.

The second film began, plunging the lounge back into flickering shadows and suspense. Dr. Carter remained nestled firmly in my arms, but true to her word, her reactions were less panicked this time, more engaged. She didn’t jump, but she did tense, tracking the movements of the masked killer with keen, critical eyes. Fuck, she was cute.

I, however, was almost completely fucking oblivious to the plot. My focus was entirely on her. I watched the way the dim light caught the line of her jaw, the way she subtly chewed the inside of her cheek during the quiet, tense moments. My arm remained locked around her, and when I looked down, I saw her fingers occasionally drumming a silent rhythm against the front of my shirt.

A wave of overwhelming tenderness washed over me—a feeling so profound and unwelcome it almost made me pull away. This wasn't just lust. Fuck no. That thought was a cold shock that cut through the wine-induced warmth and the cozy atmosphere. This was the woman who intimidated me, commanded me, and then, was letting me hold her as a shield against a fictional killer. Seriously, what the fuck was I doing?

During a particularly slow scene, Dr. Carter shifted slightly, lifting her head to look at me. She didn't say anything, but her eyes were searching, assessing. She reached up, not to kiss, but just to touch the corner of my mouth with her thumb, a gesture that felt incredibly intimate. Fuck, my heart needed to slow down.

"You're very quiet," she whispered, her voice a low velvet hum that bypassed my ears and went straight to my fucking gut.

"Just watching you," I admitted honestly, the wine making me reckless.

A tiny, satisfied smile played on her lips, and she leaned in closer, resting her head against my chest again. Her hand slid up to my collarbone, resting there, possessive and secure.

"Good," she murmured, turning her attention back to the screen. "You should be."

She liked it. The realisation hit me fucking hard. She liked being watched, she liked being cared for, and she liked being close. It had to be the wine. The Dr. Carter I knew wouldn’t be this fucking soft. She was letting me see this side of her, trusting me with this vulnerable chink in her formidable armour. I closed my eyes for a brief second, cursing myself for how quickly and completely she was getting under my skin. Shit.

I held her tighter, resigned to the moment. I refilled our glasses without looking away from her, already dreading when this comfortable delusion would end and we would return to the routine of university, pretending this never happened. It shouldn't have fucking happened in the first place, yet I was unable to pull away. I didn’t fucking know why!

The second film credits began to roll just as we finished off the last of the second bottle. Dr. Carter sat up and stretched, a slow, cat-like movement that made me chuckle. Fuck, she was cute. Even after two movies and plenty of wine, she carried herself with a grace that was both elegant and incredibly frustrating.

She settled back into me, but this time her hand didn't stay on top of my shirt. It glided underneath the fabric, her palm warm and soft against my skin as she began to stroke my side. It made me fucking shiver. She leaned in, kissing me softly, and I found myself deepening it, my fingers tangling in her hair. When she pulled back, she didn't look away. There was a look in her eyes—something contemplative, like her mind was spinning through a dozen different thoughts at once.

I smirked, unable to let the silence hang. "What?"

She just smiled and shook her head. "Nothing."

I didn't believe her for a fucking second, so I pulled her back for another kiss, tasting the lingering sweetness of the wine on her tongue. When we broke apart this time, she was closer, her breath warm against my lips as she whispered, "We should go to bed."

I nodded reluctantly. As much as I wanted to stay in this bubble, my body was finally starting to feel the weight of the day. I moved to help her clear the graveyard of sushi containers and empty glasses, but she placed a firm hand on my shoulder.

"I'll sort this, Alex. Go get ready for bed."

I didn't argue—mostly because the command in her voice was back, even if it was softened by the evening’s intimacy. I headed back to the guest room, my steps a little less steady than I’d like to admit. I washed up quickly in the ensuite, the cold water splashing on my face doing little to dampen the glow in my chest. The fuck, when did that get there? I slid into the same silk nightgown from last night, the fabric cool against my skin.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my head feeling that perfect, happy buzz from the wine and the adrenaline. The silence of the house felt different that night—less like a cage and more like a sanctuary. I was just sitting there, staring at the door and wondering if the "one-time weekend thing" was already spiralling into something I wouldn't be able to walk away from. The thought made me feel fucking sick, but there was a wanting I hadn't felt before.

I heard the rhythmic, familiar creak of the stairs as Dr. Carter made her way up. I held my breath, listening for her footsteps to turn toward my door, but they didn't. Instead, I heard the heavy click of her own bedroom door opening and closing.

A sharp pang of disappointment hit me, followed by a bitter taste of reality. Right. Fuck. Of course. Walls were back up. The intimacy of the sofa, the hair-stroking, the way she clung to me—it was all just the wine and the flickering light of the TV. Back to the rigid, professional Dr. Carter. I fell back onto the pillows, staring at the ceiling and feeling like a total fucking idiot for letting myself get so wrapped up in it.