Page 115 of Stranger to Love

The mattress was thin, and I could feel the fucking springs, but as Carrie reached out and pulled the duvet up over both of us, none of that mattered. She turned onto her side, facing me, and draped a heavy, protective arm over my waist. Her scent—that lingering mix of sandalwood and her own clean warmth—was everywhere.

"It’s a bit of a squeeze," I whispered, my face inches from hers.

"It’s perfect," she murmured, her eyes soft and dark. She reached out, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw before settling on my cheek. "You're safe, your mother is stable, and I am exactly where I want to be. Sleep, Alex."

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since the date began. I closed my eyes, tucking my head under her chin, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart against my chest. The ballerinas on the wall might have been fucking watching, and the bed might have been small enough to be a joke, but as Carrie’s hold tightened slightly, I realised I’d never felt more at home.

***

I woke up in a fog so thick I was not even sure what fucking year it was. My hand fumbled blindly across the bedside table, searching for the shrill chirp of my phone until I finally killed the fucking alarm. I stretched, the cramped muscles in my back protesting the tiny mattress, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

Then, the cold hit me. The spot beside me was empty.

My heart did a sickening drop. Did I fucking imagine it all? Was the date, the hospital, and the way she held me all just some fucking fever dream brought on by stress? I sat up fast, my head spinning, and my eyes frantically scanned the room until they landed on the leather bag sitting by my desk.

Thank fuck.

The door pushed open with a soft creak, and Carrie walked in. She’d swapped the silk for a dark, charcoal-grey cashmere jumper and a pair of dark jeans. My breath hitched. Fuck me. I’d seen her in power suits and high-fashion dresses, but seeing her in jeans—the way they hugged her legs and made her look just a little bit more reachable—was a whole new level of fucking incredible.

She set a steaming mug of coffee down on my bedside table, right on top of a fucking half-peeled teddy bear sticker I hadn't thought about in a decade. She didn't say a word at first, just sat on the edge of the bed and combed her fingers through my messy hair.

"Good morning," she murmured, her voice still thick with that morning rasp. "I’m glad to see you finally rejoined the living. You slept through my alarm, the shower, and the kettle."

I blinked, taking a grateful sip of the coffee. "I feel like I passed out. I don't think I moved once."

Carrie smirked, a playful glint in her eyes. "Oh, you were definitely out. And you were snoring, as usual."

I groaned, hiding my face in my hands. "I do not snore, Carrie. That’s a vicious lie."

She chuckled, the sound low and melodic in the quiet room. "You absolutely do, darling. And I intend to remind you of that fact for a very, very long time."

My heart leapt into my fucking throat. A very long time. The suggestion of a future—of more nights squeezed into this bed or hers—made a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the coffee.

Carrie stood and moved toward my chest of drawers, flicking through my clothes with a focused, quiet authority. I just sat there watching her. She pulled out my favourite worn-in jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and a thick hoodie, laying them on the bed.

But she didn't stop there.

She reached back into the drawer, her fingers lingering as she brushed past my usual comfortable pairs to pull out a rare set of matching black lace.

I felt a sharp, familiar fucking tingle as she set the lace on top of the pile. I almost never wore lace, and she knew it. Leaving the soft cotton behind was a deliberate choice—a subtle power play that reminded me exactly who the fuck she was and what she did to me.

If anyone else had tried this—tried to call me a fucking brat, or tell me what to wear, or command my family’s kitchen—I would have laughed in their fucking face. I’ve spent my whole life being the one in charge, the one who didn't need anyone. But with Carrie? Shit, I’d do just about anything she told me to do.

"Dress, Alex," she said, glancing at the clock. "Visiting starts in an hour, and your father is already downstairs pretending he hasn't been pacing the kitchen for twenty minutes."

"Yes, Dr. Carter," I rasped, a cheeky smirk finally breaking through my exhaustion.

She paused at the door, looking back at me with a gaze that was both fiercely protective and dangerously soft. "And put on the hoodie. It’s freezing out, and I’m not having two of you in hospital beds."

I dressed as quickly as I could and headed downstairs toward the kitchen. Dad was standing by the counter, nursing a mug and staring blankly at the toaster. He looked better than he did yesterday, but there was still a lingering shadow of worry in the set of his shoulders.

"She’s a fighter, Lex," he said as I joined him, his voice gravelly. "She’ll be home before we know it."

"She will," I agreed, leaning against the counter. "And look, Dad—I’ve already thought about it. This is the last week of uni before Christmas anyway. Most of my coursework is online submission, so I can stay here. I’ll look after her so you can get back to the site. I know the bills aren't going to pay themselves."

He looked like he wanted to argue, to tell me I should focus on my finals, but the reality of our fucking bank balance was a hard thing to ignore. He just nodded, a small, grateful sigh escaping him. "You’re a good kid, Lex. Really."

In the lounge, I could hear the low, clipped tones of Carrie’s voice. She was on a business call, her professional persona back in full force. I found myself glancing toward the door, wondering if she was going to head to the university after the hospital drop-off. Part of me wanted to ask, to tell her she had done enough and should go, but I caught myself.