The emphasis on "take your time" is pointed, and I see Claire give me a look that says *you're welcome*.
"Be good," Carter tells Maya, kissing her forehead. "Listen to Ms. Claire. I'll come back for you soon."
"Okay, Daddy!" She's already running back to the swings, completely unconcerned about her father leaving.
Carter stands, looks at Claire seriously. "Anything happens—"
"I'll call immediately," Claire promises. "We're going to have a great time. Don't worry."
We leave them there. Maya already back on the swings, Biscuit watching her with devoted attention, Claire pushing her with the ease of someone who works with kids for a living.
The walk to my house feels endless and too short all at once. We don't talk. Don't touch. Just walk side by side down Main Street, then turn onto Maple, a quiet residential area with old trees andhouses that have been there for generations. The morning is still cool, but I feel hot all over with Carter walking beside me.
"This is it," I say as we reach the front walkway, my voice coming out shakier than I intended. "It's not much, but—"
"It's perfect," Carter interrupts, looking up at the house. A two-story Victorian painted light blue, with a wraparound porch and flower beds that I've been trying to maintain the way my mom used to. "Looks like a home. Like a place where people were happy."
"They were." I fumble with my keys, my hands shaking so badly it takes three tries to get the key in the lock. "My whole childhood was happy. Right up until they died."
I finally get the door open, stepping inside. The house smells like home, like the vanilla candles I buy, like Biscuit's dog bed, like the coffee I made this morning. Everything is exactly as I left it, neat and comfortable and safe.
Carter follows me in, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that seems to echo in the sudden silence. We're alone. Completely alone. No four-year-old, no dog, no best friend watching. Just us.
And suddenly I have no idea what to do with myself.
"So, um." I gesture vaguely around the living room. "This is the living room. That's my mom's bookshelf I told you about. She collected first editions when she could afford them, mostly old mysteries and romance novels."
Carter moves to the bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines. "She had good taste."
"She did." I'm standing in the middle of my own living room like a guest, unsure where to put my hands, where to look. "The kitchen is through there, and upstairs is—"
I stop. Because Carter has turned away from the bookshelf and is looking at me now. Really looking at me. And the intensity in his eyes makes me overthink every single thought.
"Alice." Just my name. Nothing else.
"Yeah?"
He takes a step toward me. Then another. "I need you to tell me what this is. What we're doing here."
"I don't—" I swallow hard. "What do you want it to be?"
"I want—" He stops a few feet away from me, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the shadow of stubble on his jaw. "I want to know if I'm reading this wrong. If you brought me here just to show me your house. Because if that's all this is, I need to know now."
My heart is hammering against my ribs. "That's not all this is."
"Then what is it?"
Be brave, Alice. For once in your life, be brave.
"I brought you here because I wanted to be alone with you," I say, forcing myself to maintain eye contact even though every instinct is screaming at me to look away. "Because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since yesterday. Because when you look at me like you're looking at me right now, I feel like maybe I'm not too much after all. Like maybe I'm exactly enough."
Carter closes the remaining distance between us in one stride. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"You are," he says quietly. "Exactly enough. More than enough."
"Carter—"
"I haven't done this in a long time," he continues, his voice low and rough. "Haven't let myself want someone like this. Haven't trusted anyone enough to even try. But you... fuck, Alice. You make me want to try."