Page 81 of Stranger to Love

"I do not snore," I protested, shaking my head and trying to maintain some shred of fucking dignity.

She smirked, the light from the window catching the green glint in her eyes. "Oh, but you did, Alex. It was a remarkably consistent drone. I was actually contemplating braving the hallway—Ghostface and all—just to get away from the vibrations."

I chuckled, the sound vibrating in my chest, and I pulled her even closer. We were tangled together then, a messy heap of silk and morning skin, our legs intertwining as the teasing hung in the air. It felt so domestic, so... easy. Fuck, I couldn’t stop this. I didn't want to.

My heart suddenly flipped in my chest, a heavy, nervous thud. The humour in my voice softened into something more vulnerable as I held her gaze.

"Ah, but you didn't," I replied, my voice dropping to a whisper. "You stayed."

The smirk on her face didn't vanish, but it shifted, turning into something quieter and more contemplative. She didn't deny it. She didn't make an excuse about the wine or the locked door or being too tired to move. She just stayed there, her hand coming up to rest on my chest, right over my racing heart, as if she could feel exactly what she was doing to me. Fuck.

"I did," she murmured, her thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric of my nightgown.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was heavy with everything we weren’t saying. Monday was there, the world outside was waking up, and the university was still waiting for us that week—but for this one moment, she was still just the woman who chose to stay in my arms. Fuck, the tingles were back again.

I hesitated for a heartbeat, my breath hitching as I looked at her. It felt like I was about to kiss her for the first time all over again, the weight of the morning—and everything it represented—hanging between us. I searched her face and saw that same hesitancy mirrored back in her eyes. Those fucking eyes. Up close like this, I could see the intricate details of her irises: deep, dark chocolate brown with those sharp flecks of green that seemed to burn in the sunlight. It was a gaze that made my heart race with a fucking terrifying, beautiful speed.

We both leaned in at the same time, drawn together by a gravity I was powerless to fight. Our lips met in a soft, tentative press, testing the waters to see if the magic of last night survived the sunrise.

It had.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost cautious, but the moment the spark ignited, the hesitancy vanished. A low, soft sound escaped her throat, and it was all the permission I needed. I pulled her impossibly closer, my hands sliding into her hair to anchor her to me, while her arms wound around my neck, dragging me down. Fuck, this was perfect.

The kiss deepened, turning from tentative to hungry, fuelled by the realisation that neither of us was ready to pop this bubble just yet. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but I wanted this. I wanted her. The dull ache in my head vanished, replaced by the sheer, electric heat of her mouth on mine. We weren't just a professor and a student anymore, or even the protector and the protected. We were just two people clinging to a weekend that was never supposed to happen—and unable to pretend it was not the only thing that mattered.

For the first time in a long time, the usual hunger to push for more wasn't there. Usually, my brain was ten steps ahead, wondering how to get her fucking clothes off or how to make that sound leave her throat again, but right then? I didn’t want sex. And from the way she was holding me, I could tell Dr. Carter wasn't looking for that either. Fuck, this was strange.

It made my stomach flip in a way that was completely different and honestly much fucking scarier than lust. We weren't trying to get anything out of each other. We were just... being.

The kiss naturally slowed, the frantic heat simmering down into something steady and grounding. We parted just an inch, our foreheads still resting against each other. I kept my eyes closed, savouring the sound of our synchronised breathing in the quiet room. We stayed like that for a silent, heavy moment, just holding on as if we were both trying to memorise the feeling before the sun got too high.

Then, the shift happened. I felt her spine stiffen just a fraction—the professor reassembling herself.

Dr. Carter cleared her throat, the sound a soft boundary being drawn in the air. She pulled away, her hands sliding off my neck, leaving a cold trail where her warmth had been.

"I’ll make breakfast," she said.

Her voice was steady, but she avoided my eyes as she slid out of bed. She didn't wait for a reply, either—she simply turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the tangled sheets. I lay there in the sudden, deafening silence, staring at the empty space beside me.

The bubble hadn't burst, but it was definitely thinning.

Fuck. Why did this actually hurt? It was a dull ache in my chest that had nothing to do with a hangover and everything to do with her sudden, clinical distance. Fucking pathetic idiot. I forced my body to move before I could sink any deeper into the feeling.

I pulled myself out of bed and headed to the ensuite for a quick wash, scrubbing the sleep and the scent of her from my skin. Instead of reaching for the soft lounge clothes Dr. Carter had lent me, I dug into my bag for my own jeans and a worn-out t-shirt. They felt stiff and impersonal, but I couldn't bring myself to wear her things right then. I was going home that day. Back to reality. I needed to start putting my own fucking armour back on.

When I finally headed down to the kitchen, the air felt different—heavy and charged with things we weren't saying. Dr. Carter had changed, too. Her hair was still down, falling in dark waves over her shoulders, but she was wearing fitted trousers and a soft white blouse that looked expensive and untouchable. She was busy at the counter, putting breakfast together with a focus that seemed a little too fucking intense.

As I stepped into the room, she turned. Our eyes met, and the air between us practically vibrated with a fucking weird, mutual hesitancy. It was like looking into a mirror; I could see she had built her walls back up, brick by painful brick, and I knew I had done the exact same thing. The worst part was the look in her eyes—the subtle, lingering softness that told me neither of us actually wanted to do it. Fuck.

"Coffee's ready," she said, her tone neutral, though she didn't move toward the machine. She just stood there, clutching a plate, looking at me like I was a puzzle she could no longer solve.

"Thanks," I muttered, walking over. I kept a careful distance, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. The domestic warmth of the morning in bed felt like it had happened a lifetime ago, even though my lips still tingled from her kiss.

I took a seat at the kitchen island, the stool feeling higher and more isolating than it had yesterday. Dr. Carter moved with practiced, elegant efficiency, sliding my usual latte across the marble toward me. She finished plating breakfast and set it down before joining me, taking the stool right next to mine.

For a second, our eyes locked, and the memory of yesterday morning hit us both like a physical weight. Yesterday, there was a casual, easy kiss over the steam of the coffee—a moment that felt like the start of something. Now, neither of us moved an inch. The space between us might as well have been a fucking canyon.

We ate in a thick, suffocating silence. The only sounds were the scrape of forks against porcelain and the hum of the refrigerator. I kept my eyes glued to my plate, my mind racing for something to fucking say—a joke, a comment about the food, anything to break the tension—but my throat felt tight. I didn't know what to do with this version of her, or this version of us. Fuck what had I done.