Chapter 38 #2
She pulled back, looking up at me with a soft, watery smile. "Seven o'clock, Alex. I mean it. I’ll set an alarm on my watch if I have to. The world can wait until morning. The university isn't going to collapse if I don't answer an email at eight p.m."
"And if it does," I smirked, running my fingers through her hair, "I’ve got a very fast silver car we can use to make our escape."
Carrie laughed—a real, gut-deep sound that cleared the heavy air in the room. She stood up, keeping her arm hooked firmly around my waist as she led me back toward the table.
"Then let’s eat this pasta bake before it gets cold," she said, her eyes bright and focused entirely on me. "And then, I believe you mentioned something about a horror film? I might need you to hold me through the scary parts, since I’m officially off the clock."
I winked at her, a playful, knowing glint in my eyes as I leaned in to steal a quick kiss. "Oh, I always do, Carrie. Don’t you worry about that."
The mood in the kitchen shifted instantly.
The heavy, suffocating air of "Dr. Carter’s" boardroom schedule vanished, replaced by something warm and domestic.
Carrie helped me dish up the pasta bake, and for the first time in weeks, she wasn't privilege to glance at the clock or check for the phantom vibration of a phone in her pocket. She was just there.
We ate at the table, talking about nothing and everything—my classes, her ridiculous colleagues, and the fact that I was still terrified of the first locked door in the hallway. She laughed, promising to show me what was behind it eventually, but only when I’d "earned the key."
Once the plates were cleared, Carrie made a show of walking over to the counter. She picked up her phone, marched toward her office, and I heard the distinct clack of her laying it on her desk and shutting the door behind her. She returned to the living room with her hands up in a mock surrender.
"Disconnected," she announced, her smile widening. "The world is officially on its own."
I was already buried under a mountain of blankets on the sofa, the opening credits of a particularly nasty-looking slasher flick even I hadn’t seen flickering on the screen. I patted the spot beside me. "Get in here, Carter. The killer is already in the house."
She didn't hesitate. She slid under the blankets, tucking herself into my side and resting her head on my shoulder. As the tension-building music started to swell, I felt her grip tighten on my arm.
"Alex?" She whispered as the first jump-scare loomed.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For calling me out."
I kissed the top of her head, my eyes fixed on the screen where a masked figure was creeping down a hallway. "Anytime, baby. Now shut up and watch—I think the blonde is about to make a very 'intellectual' life choice."
Carrie huffed a quiet laugh, burying herself deeper into my side. For the rest of the night, work didn't exist; her emails went ignored, her phone stayed face-down, and she was completely, effortlessly present right there with me.
As the film settled into its second act and the initial jump-scares gave way to the slow-burn dread of the plot, the room fell into a comfortable, dimly lit silence.
I tried to shift my weight, but I was struggling.
I was dressed for a marathon of laziness in my softest cotton shorts and a t-shirt three sizes too big, but Carrie was still encased in her "Dr. Carter" armour.
She was still wearing her tailored charcoal trousers and that crisp, starch-white shirt—the kind of outfit designed for winning arguments, not for sinking into a velvet sofa. I swore she looked fucking devastating, but still. Every time I moved, I hit a button or the stiff line of a seam.
I let out a long, dramatic groan, kicking at the blankets like a frustrated toddler as I tried to find a sweet spot against her.
Carrie leaned away slightly, her eyebrows arched in that sophisticated, slightly confused way she had. "Alex, why are you being so incredibly dramatic? Are you actually scared of the man in the mask, or have you just lost the ability to sit still?"
I looked at her, dropping my lip into my best, most manipulative pout. "I’m dramatic because you’re not comfy, Carrie."
Her eyebrows furrowed, a flicker of genuine offence crossing her face. "I'm not comfy? I’ll have you know this shirt is an Italian silk-blend and these trousers are—"
"They’re rigid," I interrupted, smirking as I reached out and tugged at her stiff collar. "You’re like a very beautiful, very expensive statue. I’m trying to cuddle a person, not a high-end mannequin.
How am I supposed to use you as a pillow when I’m worried I’m going to wrinkle your professional dignity? "
Carrie looked down at herself, then back at me, her stern persona finally losing the battle to the woman who just wanted to be close to me.
"So," she purred, a slow, predatory spark returning to her eyes as she reached for the first button of her shirt. "What you’re saying is that I’m over-dressed for the occasion?"
"Grossly," I agreed, my heart skipping a beat as she maintained eye contact. "I think the 'no-laptop' rule should probably include a 'no-work-wear' clause. It’s for the sake of the movie's atmosphere, obviously."
Carrie smirked, that playful, dangerous glint returning to her eyes as she stood up from the sofa. "Well, if my professional dignity is such an obstacle to your comfort, I suppose I have no choice," she mused, her fingers moving with practiced, elegant ease as she undid the buttons of her shirt.
She stripped with a slow, deliberate grace, letting the crisp white fabric flutter to the floor before stepping out of her trousers.
Oh fuck me, I was never going to get used to seeing that woman bare.
She stood there in the dim glow of the television, clad only in her dark, lacy underwear, looking more like a goddess than a lecturer.
She started to turn toward the stairs, her voice humming with mischief.
"I’ll just go find something 'squishy' and acceptable for you to—"
"No," I interrupted, reaching out and snagging her wrist. With a firm, playful tug, I dragged her back down onto the cushions before she could even take a step.
Carrie let out a small, startled gasp as she landed flush against me, her skin warm and soft against my t-shirt. I immediately wrapped the blankets around both of us, tucking her head under my chin and pulling her body tight against mine.
"Perfect," I murmured, my voice vibrating against the top of her head.
Carrie huffed a laugh, her breath hot against my collarbone as she finally melted into the sofa, her limbs tangling with mine. "You’re a menace, Alex. I’m going to be freezing in ten minutes."
"I’m a radiator," I countered, rubbing my hands up and down her bare arms until I felt her relax completely. "And besides, this is much better for the 'atmosphere.' No starch, no buttons, just you."
She hummed in agreement, her hand sliding up to rest over my heart, her fingers tracing the rhythm of my pulse.
The movie continued to play in the background—some victim was screaming in a basement—but the only thing I was focused on was the weight of Carrie against me, finally untethered from the world outside.
"You're right," she whispered, her voice thick with sleepiness and contentment. "This is... significantly more comfy."
The film was reaching its bloody climax, but the tension on the screen didn't compare to the sudden stillness in Carrie’s body.
Usually, she’d be putting on a brave face, scoffing at the "theatrical impossibility" of a killer's stamina while secretly jumping at every floorboard creak.
That night, she hadn't looked at the TV in twenty minutes.
She shifted, lifting her head from my shoulder to look up at me. The flickering blue light of the television danced in her eyes, making the sudden, raw vulnerability there look even more haunting.
"Alex," she whispered, her voice so quiet it was almost drowned out by the movie’s swelling score. "Are you sure you like living with me? That this isn't… too much, too soon?"
I froze, my hand pausing its rhythm in her hair. I could feel the weight of the question—the way her past, her loneliness, and her fear of being "a lot" were all wrapped up in those few words.
"Carrie," I said, turning my body so I could face her fully, the duvet bunching between us. "Where is this coming from?"
She looked away for a second, her fingers picking at a loose thread on the blanket.
"I just... I realise I’ve spent the last couple of months trying to buy your happiness because I don't know how else to be. I’ve been hiding in my office because I’m terrified that if I’m just me for too long, you’ll realise I’m just a woman with a lot of baggage and a very demanding schedule. "
She looked back at me, and my heart fucking broke at the sincerity in her gaze. "I don't want to overwhelm you. I don't want you to feel like a bird in a gilded cage, Alex. I want you to be here because you want to be, not because I’ve made it impossible for you to leave."
I reached out, cupping her face and forcing her to see the truth in my eyes. "Look at me. I’m not here for the house, or the cars, or some prestige. I’m here for the woman who just sat in her underwear to watch a shitty horror movie because I told her she wasn't 'comfy' enough."
I leaned in, pressing my forehead against hers. "It's not too much, Carrie. And it’s definitely not too soon. I've been yours since that first seminar, and moving in just made it official. I love living with you. I just want the living part to actually include you."
A small, shaky breath escaped her, and the tension finally left her shoulders. "You’re very good for my ego, Alex. And very bad for my productivity."
"That's the plan," I smirked, kissing the tip of her nose.