Page 36 of Love at First Sighting

El

Carter’s alarm is a blaring shock the next morning. We were so lost in each other and our first real date, I forgot it was a weekday. And waking up in a new place feels particularly disorienting until I remember he’s curled up beside me.

He shifts under the covers with a groan but doesn’t emerge from underneath his pillow.

I learn Carter is a relatively inoffensive sleeper.

He stays on his side of the bed, doesn’t steal sheets, and I didn’t get punched.

Occasionally, he’d bump into me, remember I was there, then weave an arm over my waist and fall back asleep.

Carter emerges from beneath his pillow, then rubs his eyes. His hair’s an unkempt mess and sleep hangs in his eyelids. I reach across the blankets and weave my fingers with his.

“You know, I’ve never had a girl stay over before.”

“Never?” I tease.

“Nope. I do tend to be more of a ‘job well done and goodbye’ guy.”

I laugh. “And how does this feel?”

Carter snuggles into me. He pulled his boxers back on to sleep last night, and I’ve been wearing a T-shirt for a band I’ve never heard of. Our knees bump under the covers.

“It feels really great.”

“And the best part,” I say, “is that I won’t go anywhere.”

“You mean I have to go to work?”

“Probably a good idea, but I wouldn’t stop you if you opted to play hooky to stay with me.”

His expression drops, like he, too, has realized that the second he leaves, we’re shattering the bliss we’ve been in. And on the other side of the glass is a mystery that still needs solving.

“You’re a bad influence.”

I kiss the tip of his nose. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

“You’re going to stay here all day?”

I shrug. “Maybe. I might leave at some point. Or I’ll ask Leonard to teach me how to play his game.”

I actually don’t know if I’d be any good at it, but maybe I could pivot my brand to include gaming content. It’s worth thinking about. Carter’s clearly bemused by the idea—he has a dorky smile on his face and raised brows. Instead of a snarky comment, he kisses me one final time.

It’s lazy and sleepy, slow and languid, but I can’t complain.

“I do actually have to get dressed, though,” he mumbles.

“Fine,” I allow.

Carter climbs out of bed, then disappears into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

I stay in bed and catch up on my socials.

I’ve been out of pocket since my blowup yesterday, and Bex has issued a statement in her Instagram stories, apologizing for my behavior.

I mute her. I’m not ready to unfollow her and handle that shitstorm, but I certainly do not need to see her daily tea-making stories.

I flip past some smoothie ads, skin care–sponsored ads, photos of influencers and their cute kids.

Then I put my phone down and decide to savor my offline morning with Carter instead.

Carter emerges from the bathroom and finds a pair of slacks in his closet, working them up his legs. I sit up in bed and beckon him over to me. As he pulls on an undershirt and slides a white button-down over his shoulders, he pauses in front of me. Then kneels, like he knows what I want to do.

I smooth out the sharper creases in his shirt, taking one wrist in my hands to button the sleeve and then the other.

One by one, moving up his front, I slide the buttons through the holes until I reach the base of his throat.

We’re completely silent while I slide his tie under his collar and tie it for him.

He lets me snap his suspenders to his pants.

“Final touch,” I say, dropping his trilby hat onto his head.

There’s a sense of sadness to it, like with each item of clothing I put on, I’m giving him away again.

Last night, we were whoever we wanted to be.

Jeans and T-shirts, unfiltered. Now it’s back to what we both know best. With one last kiss, Carter slides his jacket over his shoulders and leaves for work.