Chapter 19 #2
Fuck. Why did this actually hurt? It was a dull ache in my chest that had nothing to do with a hangover and everything to do with her sudden, clinical distance. Fucking pathetic idiot. I forced my body to move before I could sink any deeper into the feeling.
I pulled myself out of bed and headed to the ensuite for a quick wash, scrubbing the sleep and the scent of her from my skin.
Instead of reaching for the soft lounge clothes Dr. Carter had lent me, I dug into my bag for my own jeans and a worn-out t-shirt.
They felt stiff and impersonal, but I couldn't bring myself to wear her things right then.
I was going home that day. Back to reality.
I needed to start putting my own fucking armour back on.
When I finally headed down to the kitchen, the air felt different—heavy and charged with things we weren't saying.
Dr. Carter had changed, too. Her hair was still down, falling in dark waves over her shoulders, but she was wearing fitted trousers and a soft white blouse that looked expensive and untouchable.
She was busy at the counter, putting breakfast together with a focus that seemed a little too fucking intense.
As I stepped into the room, she turned. Our eyes met, and the air between us practically vibrated with a fucking weird, mutual hesitancy.
It was like looking into a mirror; I could see she had built her walls back up, brick by painful brick, and I knew I had done the exact same thing.
The worst part was the look in her eyes—the subtle, lingering softness that told me neither of us actually wanted to do it. Fuck.
"Coffee's ready," she said, her tone neutral, though she didn't move toward the machine. She just stood there, clutching a plate, looking at me like I was a puzzle she could no longer solve.
"Thanks," I muttered, walking over. I kept a careful distance, my hands shoved deep into my pockets. The domestic warmth of the morning in bed felt like it had happened a lifetime ago, even though my lips still tingled from her kiss.
I took a seat at the kitchen island, the stool feeling higher and more isolating than it had yesterday.
Dr. Carter moved with practiced, elegant efficiency, sliding my usual latte across the marble toward me.
She finished plating breakfast and set it down before joining me, taking the stool right next to mine.
For a second, our eyes locked, and the memory of yesterday morning hit us both like a physical weight.
Yesterday, there was a casual, easy kiss over the steam of the coffee—a moment that felt like the start of something.
Now, neither of us moved an inch. The space between us might as well have been a fucking canyon.
We ate in a thick, suffocating silence. The only sounds were the scrape of forks against porcelain and the hum of the refrigerator.
I kept my eyes glued to my plate, my mind racing for something to fucking say—a joke, a comment about the food, anything to break the tension—but my throat felt tight.
I didn't know what to do with this version of her, or this version of us. Fuck what had I done.
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.