Page 43 of Stranger to Love

Fuck me sideways.

She was wearing a body-hugging black pencil skirt paired with a deep purple silk blouse, her dark hair pinned up into its usual flawless twist. She looked commanding, entirely untouchable, and as always, like a beautifully orchestrated supervillain. Her sharp eyes swept across the stadium seating. They didn't linger on me, passing over my row without a fraction of a pause. A stupid wave of disappointment hit my stomach, but I brushed it off. The woman had been drinking whiskey last night; for all I knew, she might have compartmentalised the entire event out of existence. Though truthfully, she hadn't seemed a fraction of a degree drunk.

She launched into the lecture, her crisp, upper-class accent commanding the acoustics of the room. The entire theatre fell into immediate, dead silence. The only background noise was the frantic clicking of keyboards and the furious scratching of pens.

Her lectures were always an art form. She utilised a PowerPoint, but she treated Microeconomics like a gripping narrative. For every cold theoretical point on the slide, she provided an unwritten, highly complex real-world example. It was engaging, brilliant, and deeply insightful. Every student in the room scrambled to write down her spoken words verbatim, knowing her specific perspective was the key to unlocking a top grade on the coursework.

When the hour concluded, she offered a brief window for questions. A few brave students clarified technical points, and she answered them with a cool, non-judgmental clarity that landed perfectly. She was a phenomenal educator, and it irritated the life out of me.

As the crowd began to pack up their bags and filter toward the exits, her voice cut through the localised chatter like a blade.

“Alex.”

I froze mid-stride, my hand resting on my backpack strap. Holly turned to me, her eyes wide with a look that clearly asked, What the hell did you do? I merely shrugged, turning back toward the podium as my heart began a violent assault against my ribs.

Fuck. Was she going to lecture me about appropriateness? Was she about to deliver a cold, clinical speech about how the bar incident was a massive lapse in professional judgment that could never be repeated? I didn’t want to hear it. I’d rather keep the memory pristine and corrupt than have her dissect it with academic distance.

When I reached the front podium, she had already packed away her tablet. Without looking at me, she uttered a curt, "Follow me," and began walking.

We left the lecture hall, rode the lift in a suffocating, dense silence, and navigated the administrative corridors until we reached her private office. She unlocked the heavy oak door, pushing it open and gesturing for me to enter. I stepped into the familiar space, my pulse thudding in my ears.

She closed the door with a soft click, bypassed her desk, and neatly placed her leather bag aside before taking her seat. I instinctively dropped into the chair opposite her, feeling like a delinquent summoned to the headteacher's office.

Finally, her dark eyes levelled with mine. They weren't piercing, but they certainly weren't soft.

“I was pleased to see you executed the structural revisions I advised on your preliminary draft,” she said simply.

The oxygen rushed back into my lungs. Okay. Good. We weren't having an awkward post-mortem about the bruise currently hidden beneath my hair. I forced a soft smile. “Thank you. I really tried to apply your notes.”

She offered a single, tight nod. Then, she abruptly stood up, turning to a sleek storage cabinet behind her desk. She reached inside and pulled out a large, heavy matte-black paper bag with thick silk handles. She placed the bag squarely on the desk directly in front of me, sat back down, and immediately opened her laptop, beginning to type.

I sat there, utterly paralysed. What the hell was I supposed to do? Why was she so maddeningly direct, yet entirely cryptic? A sudden bubble of nervous amusement rose in my chest. I chewed the inside of my lip, but a dark, breathless chuckle escaped my throat anyway.

I shook my head, leaning back. “Dr. Carter... are you expecting me to do something?”

She raised a single eyebrow, her eyes remaining fixed on her screen as she spoke with smooth, unbothered indifference. “Happy Birthday.”

The world stopped spinning. My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t draw breath, and my stomach entirely dropped away. I stared at the matte-black bag, then back to her face, as if she had just casually placed a severed head on the glass desk.

“Dr. Carter... I can’t accept this,” I stammered, my voice faltering. “Whatever it is, it’s incredibly thoughtful, but I... I simply can’t.”

How could I? Why would she buy me a gift? I’d known this woman for all of five weeks. In that brief window of time, she had helped me carry a drunk friend, promised me a vague shield of protection, neutralised a threat in an alleyway, driven me home from a midnight shift, and marked my throat in a crowded bar. And now, an expensive, high-end gift bag was sitting between us. I had absolutely no idea how to navigate her architecture.

“It is exceptionally rude to refuse a gesture,” she stated plainly, her fingers continuing their rhythmic dance across the keyboard. She didn't look up.

I stared at her. I didn’t give a single shit if staring was rude. I searched the sharp contours of her face, and for a fleeting, microscopic second, I saw it—a slight, localised tension in her brow. She was uncertain. Maybe even a fraction nervous. That tiny, hidden fracture of vulnerability entirely dismantled the arguments on my tongue.

I hesitantly reached forward, taking the silk handles. The bag was heavy. Dr. Carter’s eyes flickered to my hands, tracking my movements before snapping back to her laptop as I pulled the silk ribbon loose. I peered inside, and my throat went completely dry.

Oh, absolutely not. No fucking way.

“Dr. Carter,” I breathed, a heavy weight of awe and immediate defensiveness flattening my voice. I pulled my hands back, closing the bag firmly. “I cannot take this.”

The massive, stubborn chip on my shoulder began to claw at my pride. A laptop. Tucked inside the custom boxing was a brand-new, ultra-thin laptop—the exact same high-end model she used. It was worth more than my monthly bar wages combined. It felt like charity, and charity made my skin itch.

Dr. Carter finally stopped typing, her posture turning rigid as her dark gaze locked onto mine. “Your first major Economics assessment has been finalised. It has been awarded a First.”

My heart did a violent backflip against my ribs. A First. I’d actually done it.