Page 82 of Stranger to Love

When I finally finished, I pushed the plate away and cleared my throat, the sound echoing too loudly in the quiet kitchen.

"Thank you," I said, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. "It’s all been... yeah. Thanks.”

I chewed my lip, the sting of it grounding me. I couldn’t fucking do this. I couldn’t sit there and pretend my heart wasn't trying to claw its way out of my chest. "I should probably be going," I added, the words tasting like fucking ash.

I stood up abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. I offered her a small, awkward fucking smile—the kind you give a stranger at a fucking bus stop—and started backing away. "I'll just... go grab my bag."

I turned and practically bolted toward the stairs, desperate to escape the sudden, crushing awkwardness of that kitchen. I needed my bag, and I needed to be anywhere else before I lost my fucking nerve and begged her to tell me that the last forty-eight hours had actually meant something.

I reached the guest room and started throwing my few remaining things into my backpack. It took almost no time at all—most of my stuff was still sitting in the back of Dr. Carter’s car, left behind the moment she’d declared I wouldn't need any of it. I didn't care. I'd just leave it; none of it mattered anymore.

I zipped the light, half-empty bag with frantic, jerky movements. My vision blurred, and I realised with a surge of fucking self-loathing that my eyes were stinging with frustrated tears I refused to let fall.

Get out. Just get the fuck out.

I wasn't asking for a fucking lift. I couldn’t sit in the suffocating silence of her car for twenty minutes, watching her profile while she drove with that perfect, clinical focus, pretending she didn't have her hand under my shirt twelve hours ago. The thought of the polite small talk we’d have to make made me want to fucking scream. What had happened to me?

"I'll just get the bus," I muttered to the empty room, my voice shaking. "There has to be a stop at the end of the road. Or a mile away. I don't care. I'll walk."

I zipped the bag shut with a violent tug, the sound echoing sharply in the quiet house. I looked around the room one last time—the rumpled bed we had just shared, the nightstand where her book had been resting moments before. It looked like a museum exhibit now. Cold. Untouchable. Preserved.

I was a fucking idiot for thinking I could handle this. I was a student, and she was... she was the woman who had just let me go without a word.

I hoisted the bag onto my shoulder, the weight of it grounding me. I just needed to get down those stairs, say a quick, professional goodbye, and vanish into the Monday morning fog. I could handle a bus ride. I could handle a walk. What I couldn't handle was one more minute of her looking at me like I was just another fucking appointment on her calendar.

I headed for the door, my jaw set so tight it hurt. I was going home, and I was going to forget the way her skin felt. I had to. I fucking had to. Stupid fucking feelings. I went to grab the front door handle and groaned; of course it was fucking locked. Of course. It was locked. This woman locked me in everywhere.

I was still rattling the handle when I heard the click of her heels on the hardwood. I froze, my back to her, my forehead resting against the cool grain of the door.

"The deadbolt requires a key, Alex," she said quietly. Her voice wasn't cold, but it had that terrifying, composed stillness that usually made me want to shrink into the floor.

Fucking idiot.

I spun around, my backpack sliding down my shoulder. "Right. The key. Of course." I tried to sound casual, but my voice cracked on the last word. "If you could just let me out, I’ll be on my way. I don't want to trouble you for a ride, I'll just find the bus stop."

Dr. Carter didn't move toward the door. She stayed a few feet back, her hands clasped loosely in front of her white blouse. She looked like the personification of authority, but her eyes—those dark, flecked eyes—were boring into mine with an intensity that made my skin itch.

"There isn't a bus for another forty minutes, and the nearest stop is a two-mile walk in the damp," she stated matter-of-factly.

"I like walking," I snapped, the frustration finally bubbling over. "I like the damp. I just... I need to go, Dr. Carter.”

She flinched slightly. It was barely visible, just a tightening around her mouth, but I saw it. The silence stretched between us, thick and jagged, until she finally spoke, her voice dropping to that low, velvet register that had destroyed me last night.

"Are you really going to leave like this? After everything?"

"Everything?" I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "You mean the wine and the movies? The indulgence? Because that’s what this was, right? A long weekend. A glitch in the system." I shifted my bag higher, my knuckles white as I gripped the strap. "You made it pretty clear in the kitchen that the walls are back up. So let me out. Please."

She took a slow step forward, closing the gap until she was standing directly in my space. She didn't reach for the lock. Instead, she reached out and took hold of the strap of my bag, her fingers brushing my shoulder. I held her gaze because I felt fucking fuming and I didn’t want her to think she intimidated me.

"I don't know how to do this, Alex," she whispered, the confession sounding like it was being torn out of her. "I don't know how to walk into a lecture hall tomorrow and look at you after... after this. We’re supposed to be playing a game, Alex.”

She looked up at me, the formidable professor gone, replaced by the woman who had kissed me until my head spun. "But I don't want you to walk to a bus stop in the rain."

I straightened my spine, forcing my shoulders back and my expression to go cold. I needed to find the version of me that had existed before this weekend—the one who didn’t give a shit, the one who didn’t catch feelings. This was exactly why I didn’t do the "morning after." This was exactly why I never fucking stayed over. Softness was a liability, and right then, it was making me feel like I was bleeding out in her hallway.

"It’s fine," I said, my voice clipped and devoid of the warmth we had shared just an hour ago. "I told you, I don’t mind the walk."

Dr. Carter’s hand, which had been inches from my shoulder, jerked back as if I had burned her. I saw her jaw tighten, her teeth biting into the inside of her cheek as she processed the dismissal. The vulnerability I had seen a second ago vanished, replaced by a steel-cold mask that rivalled my own.