Page 80 of Stranger to Love

"Right. Temperamental," I agreed, my voice thick with amusement. I didn't call her out on it; I just reached for her hand and led her toward the bed.

I pulled back the covers and slid in, and she followed suit, moving with a slight stiffness that told me she was still hyper-aware of every shadow in the room. As soon as she was settled, I reached out and hauled her into my arms. She didn't resist. In fact, she practically collapsed against me, her back to my chest as I wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against me.

"See?" I whispered into the back of her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume and the lingering notes of the wine. "Safe and sound. I've got you."

She let out a long, shaky exhale, her body finally beginning to uncoil in my grip. She reached down, lacing her fingers with mine over her stomach, squeezing my hand tight.

"Go to sleep, Alex," she said softly, though she huddled even closer into my warmth.

I just grinned into her hair, closing my eyes and feeling that ridiculous rush of adrenaline and affection. I was definitely doomed, but as I felt her heartbeat start to sync up with mine, I realised I didn't really mind the fall. Shit.

Chapter 19

Alex

The morning sun filtered through the guest room curtains, a sharp contrast to the shadowy, wine-soaked intimacy of the night before. I shifted under the covers, my head throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache—a polite reminder from bottles of white wine that I was not as invincible as I felt at midnight.

I blinked my eyes open, and my heart immediately fucking skipped a beat.

Dr. Carter was already awake, propped up against the pillows beside me. She stayed.

She was buried in a thick hardcover book, but it was the addition to her face that nearly fucking ended me. Perched on the bridge of her nose was a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses—meaning at some point while I was out cold, she’d made the conscious decision to slip out of bed, padded across the hall to fetch them along with her book, and chosen to climb right back in next to me.

The frames made her look incredibly sharp, intellectual, and—fuck—unbearably hot. The sight of her like this, domestic, relaxed, and deliberately choosing to stay in the morning light, was a total sensory overload.

I stayed still for a moment, rubbing my face and letting the memories of the weekend wash over me. The sharing meals, the sofa, the way she clung to me during the movie, the feeling of her release against my fingers…fuck... and then her sleeping in my arms.

It was Monday. University was canceled, but the reality of our "real life" was looming. What would happen then? Would we go back to cold stares and clinical distance? Was this just a three-day fucking fever dream?

My internal spiralling was cut short when I saw the edge of her book tilt down. She’d noticed me. Shit. She peered over the top of those glasses, her eyes scanning my face with a look that was terrifyingly unreadable.

"Good morning, Alex," she said, her voice smooth and devoid of the husky vulnerability from last night. "I was beginning to think the wine had finally claimed you."

I sat up slowly, wincing at the movement, fuck my head, but I kept my gaze locked on hers. "Morning," I croaked, trying to find my footing. "The glasses are a new look. Suits the formidable Dr. Carter."

She didn't snap at me as I would have expected. Instead, she closed the book with a soft thud and set it on the nightstand, sliding the glasses off her face. The way she looked at me then was different—it was not the professor, and it was not the woman who was scared of a movie. It was something in between.

“How did you sleep?” she asked. Her hand reached out, and I caught a flicker of a smirk as she began to run her fingers through my sleep-mussed hair, trying to tame the mess I'd made of it.

I yawned, the sound stretching out as I leaned into her touch. "Like the dead," I croaked, my voice still rough with sleep.

A slow, mischievous smirk pulled at my lips as the memories of her locking the door came rushing back. I couldn't fucking help myself. I leaned back against the headboard, looking at her with mock-exhaustion. "Though, to be fair, I did have to wake up around 3 a.m. to fight off two Ghostfaces at once. Very intense. Very bloody. Honestly, Dr. Carter, you should be extremely grateful to your bodyguard."

She paused, her fingers still tangled in my hair, and for a second, I thought I’d pushed it too far. Shit. I expected the professional mask to slam back down, or for her to give me that look that made students burst into tears.

Instead, she let out a short, dry laugh—a sound so genuine it made my chest fucking ache.

"Two of them? My, how heroic," she murmured, her eyes dancing with an amused light. She didn't pull her hand away; instead, she let her palm rest against the side of my face, her thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. "And here I thought the only thing I had to be grateful for was your ability to sleep through a category five hurricane."

The warmth of her hand was grounding, but the way she was looking at me—without the glasses, without the lecture hall between us—was making it very hard to fucking breathe.

"I'm serious," I joked, though my voice had lost some of its edge. "I'm a hero. I deserve at least a trophy. Or maybe breakfast."

"Breakfast," she repeated, her gaze dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before meeting my eyes again. "I think I can manage that. Though I suspect your 'heroism' was mostly just very loud snoring, Alex."

She started to move as if to get out of bed, and the thought of the distance between us returning made me reach out instinctively to catch her wrist.

Dr. Carter chuckled as she allowed herself to be pulled back into the nest of blankets. She didn't fight it; she just sank back into the pillows, her body seeking my warmth with a familiarity that felt both dangerous and fucking perfect.