Page 142 of Stranger to Love

I stripped out of the loungewear Carrie had given me, the silk feeling like a betrayal as it slid off my skin. I pulled on my own jeans—the ones with the slightly frayed hem, not the expensive ones Carrie had bought—and a plain t-shirt from the bottom of my bag. It smelled like my own washing powder, like my own fucking life, and for a second, it was a grounding comfort.

I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t. I was just... recalibrating. I needed to see if my brain still fucking functioned when it wasn't being clouded by her scent and her authority.

I packed my things with shaky hands and headed downstairs, my backpack feeling heavier than usual. I didn’t go to the front door. Instead, I sat on the bottom step of the staircase, my eyes glued to the heavy oak door on the left. Carrie’s office.

The silence of the house was fucking deafening. I could have just slipped out; she was in a meeting, she might not have even noticed for an hour. But I wasn't a fucking child, and I wasn't a coward. I was going to tell her the truth. I needed to go home. I needed to check on my parents, to be the person they depended on again. That had been my role forever—the one who held everything together.

Besides, it was practical. Uni started Monday. I had coursework to get through, and once we were back into the swing of things, she would be Dr. Carter again, lecturing in halls I would be sitting in. Our timetables didn't match. The domestic bubble of the Christmas break was over. It made sense to go back to the old routine. It was the logical, adult thing to do.

So why did I feel like I was about to jump off a fucking cliff?

I checked my watch. Minutes ticked by like hours. I was fucking terrified that if I stayed here much longer, the smell of the house and the memory of her hands on me would win, and I’d crawl back upstairs and wait for her like a good little pet.

Finally, the office door clicked. It swung open, and Carrie emerged, rubbing the bridge of her nose, looking every bit the high-powered academic. She looked up, her eyes instantly locking onto me sitting on the step with my bag at my feet.

The warmth that usually flooded her face when she saw me didn't stand a fucking chance. It was eclipsed by a sharp, sudden stillness. She didn't say a word; she just looked at my old jeans, then at the backpack, and finally, she met my eyes with a gaze so piercing I felt like she was reading my pulse from across the hallway.

"Alex," she said, her voice perfectly level—which was exactly how I knew she was worried. "What are you doing on the stairs?"

I scrambled to my feet. I started fucking talking before she could even take a step toward me, the words tumbling out in a nervous, rambling rush.

"I should go home today, Carrie. I’m back at work tomorrow, and Uni starts again on Monday, and I just... I need to get back into a routine. I’ve got coursework, and my parents are probably wondering where I’ve been gone so long, and it just makes sense, you know? To be back in my own space before everything kicks off again."

I wanted to reach out and catch every fucking word, to shove them back into my mouth the second I saw it—that flash of raw, unfiltered vulnerability in Carrie’s eyes. It was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by her practiced composure, but the damage was done. I’d hurt her. Fuck.

Carrie listened until the silence finally forced me to stop. She nodded slowly, a soft, understanding smile appearing on her face, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Of course, darling," she said, her voice a little more formal than it had been this morning. "I’ll drop you off."

I didn't protest. I just nodded gratefully, feeling like a fucking traitor in my own skin. Carrie moved with a mechanical efficiency now, heading to the cupboard by the front door. She passed me my shoes and my jacket without a word, her movements precise as she slid into her own heels and draped her trench coat over her shoulders.

The house was weirdly, painfully silent. It was as if the "bubble" hadn't just popped—it had been hoovered out of the fucking room. Carrie didn't quite meet my eyes as we walked to the car. She opened the passenger door for me as she always did, waiting until I was settled before closing it with a solid, final thud.

She hung her coat in the back and slid into the driver's seat, the scent of her perfume filling the small space and making my throat ache. She didn't reach for my hand. She didn't offer a playful comment about my "independence." She just started the engine, the low growl of the car the only thing breaking the tension as we pulled out of the driveway and headed toward the reality of my house.

The drive was fucking agonising. Every red light felt like a missed opportunity to say something—to tell her I loved her, to tell her I was just fucking scared, to tell her I was coming back. But Carrie’s profile was a mask of cool, professional distance, her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead.

I could have handled this so much better. Instead, she had been greeted by the sight of me sitting on the stairs like a fucking houseguest who couldn't wait to check out. Of course that would hurt her, you absolute prick. It didn't look like I was just leaving her house; it looked like I was leaving her.

When we pulled up, I saw my Dad unloading tools from his van. My stomach was in knots. Carrie slipped out of the car to open my door, but even now, she wouldn’t look at me. Why did this feel like a breakup? I suddenly fucking hated Mia for poisoning the well. Carrie was terrifying sometimes—controlling, erratic, and intense—but she had cared for me with a devotion I’ve never known. She made me feel safe enough to actually feel things, and my reward was seeing the soft, guarded woman who kissed my nose in the morning. That was the woman I had wounded by packing my bags without a word of fucking warning. You absolute fucking prick, Alex.

As I stepped out, I lingered in the doorway so she couldn’t close it yet. Please, look at me. I wanted to scream that I was just a fucking idiot who needed a minute to process her own feelings, but the words wouldn't come. I reached out tentatively, my fingers barely grazing her arm. When she finally met my gaze, her eyes were searching, desperate for a sign. I leaned in just an inch, trying to project every ounce of "I’m not going anywhere" into the space between us. Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of relief crossing her face as she read the silent reassurance.

“Alright, darl?” My Dad’s voice shattered the moment.

I took a steadying breath and stepped back so Carrie could finally shut the door. I turned to him with a forced smile. “Hey. Got some landscaping work?”

He nodded, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, a fucking rarity in January, but I’d never pass it up.”

I felt the tension in my chest ease slightly when Carrie moved to stand beside me instead of retreating to the car.

“You’re a landscaper?” she asked, her voice steady and curious.

My Dad let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Well, when I can be.” He tossed his gear into the back and slammed the rusty van doors shut. “Truth be told, Caroline, it’s my favourite work. But it’s never been steady. I haven’t got our Alex’s smarts—the thought of tax forms and business plans scares the shit out of me.”

Carrie hummed, a thoughtful sound. “Landscaping is a formidable skill. It requires a specific kind of vision.”

“Aye, and that’s why a talented man like me does it,” he said with a wink.