Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time it happens, Carla doesn’t even know her name.

Or rather, she knows her only as ‘Swain’.

It’s late when she turns up on Carla’s doorstep, demanding to speak to Bobby. And Carla knows her only as an enemy; as the woman who’d arrested her ex-husband, as the sort who always looked down on people like her.

“We just want some more background,” Swain says as she stands in the middle of Carla’s living room with her hands in her pockets, like she owns the place.

Carla brushes past her, eyeing her warily. Her perfume is so strong that Carla can taste it at the back of her throat; rich and dark and musky.

It suits her, Carla thinks.

“I’d appreciate some foreground first,” Bobby quips from his seat on the sofa. “Was it a blood stain?”

To Swain’s left, PC Craig Tinker shifts awkwardly.

“We’re looking into it,” he says, eyes trained on the ground.

And Carla almost feels sorry for him. She’s known Craig since he was a kid, thinks he’s far too pure of heart to be dealing with such darkness on a daily basis.

But Swain? Swain was made for it.

“We can’t discuss an ongoing investigation,” she says coolly as she sinks into an armchair. “Look, the best way you can help us find Lauren is by answering my questions so we can obtain the clearest picture possible.”

“Okay,” Bobby says uncertainly.

And Carla doesn’t quite know why but she’s drawn then to Swain’s hands as they rest neatly in her lap; to the way her pulse jumps beneath pale skin, to her long, elegant fingers and freshly manicured nails.

Carla has a sudden urge to take one in her mouth and see how it tastes. The thought is so startling to her, so unexpected, that it takes her a beat to realise Swain is looking her way.

“Would you mind giving us some privacy?” the blonde asks, eyes steely and jaw set tight.

“Why?” Carla scoffs, doing her best to sound nonchalant. “Are you gonna get the thumbscrews out on him?”

“At this stage, we’d like to keep any information within as tight a circle as possible,” Swain says, voice dripping with contempt. “If your nephew says something of relevance, we wouldn’t want it leaking out into the community.”

Carla almost balks at her audacity, irked by how well Swain wears her superiority.

“I’m hardly gonna do that now, am I?” she snaps.

Beside her, Bobby pipes up.

“I can handle things,” he says with an encouraging nod.

Carla looks from her nephew to Swain, then back again.

“Okay,” she relents. “Listen if they come on strong, just holler. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

With that, Carla straightens and shoots what she hopes is her haughtiest look in Swain’s direction before making herself scarce.

In her bedroom, she silently seethes.

As she hears the steady timbre of the detective’s voice filtering through the crack in her bedroom door, she wonders why her pulse has started to race.

She wonders quite how the other woman has managed to get under her skin.

She wonders why she even cares at all.

— — —

It’s later still when Carla finds herself on the road to intoxication.

She’s propping up the bar at one of her favourite haunts - a smoky old jazz club on the outskirts of Weatherfield - and is already several drinks deep when she hears the weary voice from behind her.

“I’ll have a whiskey please, Sean. Better make it a double.”

Instinctively, Carla laughs.

“Sounds like your day has been almost as bad as mine,” she quips, before turning around and…

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Because there, like a ghastly apparition, is one of the people the brunette is drinking to forget.

“Pleasure to see you too, Mrs Barlow,” Swain smirks, hooking a finger through one of the belt loops on her smart trousers.

Carla’s face hardens.

“Did you follow me here or something?” she huffs.

Swain arches one eyebrow, an unspoken challenge in her eyes.

“Trust me, Carla,” she says, voice low. “I have far better things to do with my time than follow women into bars.”

And Carla doesn’t know why but something about that makes her shudder. She quickly tries to regain her composure.

“So you’re not here about the case?” she asks suspiciously. “About Bobby?”

Swain hesitates and, for a split second, Carla thinks she looks tired, looks almost human.

“No,” she says, aloof once more. “I actually came here for a quiet drink.”

The admission surprises Carla. Swain hadn’t struck her as the type to drink alone.

“Oh,” the brunette says, with a slight tilt of her head. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Swain holds Carla’s gaze for a moment and Carla wonders whether there’s something the other woman wants to say.

But then she’s moving away; paying for her drink and walking further along the bar, sliding easily onto a stool.

And Carla knows she should leave it at that. But the bar is so quiet that the air feels thick, and Carla thinks she might simply choke if she doesn’t at least try to fill the void.

She looks over at Swain who, despite her apparent fascination with the bottom of her tumbler, is clearly as attuned to Carla’s presence as the brunette is to hers.

“Do you come here often then?” Carla asks.

“Really?” Swain laughs, lifting her gaze. “That’s what you’re going with? The 1950s called, they want their pick-up line back.”

Carla blushes, immediately hates herself for it.

“Me?” she snaps back. “Picking you up? You should be so lucky.”

A finger of heat blooms on Swain’s neck and Carla feels triumphant.

“So much for a quiet drink,” Swain mutters under her breath.

Carla holds up her hands, mimics zipping her mouth shut.

“My lips are sealed,” she drawls.

Time ticks on.

Carla drums her fingers on the sticky bartop. She thinks if she doesn’t, she won't be able to stop herself from reaching out and…

“Just one more thing.”

Swain rolls her eyes as the words slip, unbidden, from Carla’s lips.

“God,” she huffs, taking a long swig of her drink. “You’re relentless.”

Carla ignores her. “How do you do it?” she asks.

Swain narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?

“This,” Carla says, gesticulating wildly. “You. You charge into people’s lives, tear their world apart and then…what? You just walk in here and have a drink like nothing ever happened.”

And it’s then, as Carla notes the flicker of hurt that wrinkles Swain’s pretty face, that she realises she is perhaps drunker than she first thought.

“I do my job, Mrs Barlow,” Swain sighs after a beat, “as I’m duty-bound to do. I wasn’t aware that means I’m not entitled to a drink at the end of a long day. And, in fact, the whole reason I come here is because I don’t usually run into people I know. Well, until today anyway.”

Carla pins her with a self-satisfied smirk, bemused by the revelation that they share the same secret haven.

“Sorry to spoil the party,” she says, though she’s not sorry at all.

Swain drains her whiskey. “Apology accepted.”

Her arrogance makes Carla’s temper flare. And yet, she wants - needs - more.

“So will you need to question him again?” she presses. “Our Bobby?”

“You know I’m not at liberty to discuss an active investigation with you, Mrs Barlow,” comes Swain’s condescending reply.

But Carla isn’t thinking about that. She’s thinking about…

“Connor.”

Swain frowns. “I’m sorry?”

And Carla is embarrassed. She hadn’t meant to let that slip.

“My name,” she says, sheepish. “I’m Carla Connor now. Or at least I will be. When my divorce comes through.”

Swain blinks.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and Carla thinks she might actually mean it. “About the divorce. I didn’t know.”

Carla empties her glass of wine, shrugs. “Why would you?”

Her chest aches then, as they sit in strained silence. She wills the tears that are pricking at her eyes to retreat.

“We’re not all bad, you know.”

Swain’s words are so unexpected that Carla actually flinches.

“What?” the brunette asks.

Swain looks down, suddenly shy.

“Coppers,” she says softly. “You seem to think that we’re all monsters. But we’re not. Some of us genuinely just want to make the world a better place.”

Her sincerity takes Carla by surprise. It’s almost too much to bear.

And so she makes light of it.

“Mother Theresa called,” Carla drawls. “She wants her pick-up line back.”

Swain hesitates and, for a moment, Carla wonders if she’s gone too far.

But then the blonde is tipping back her head, her pale throat exposed in the half-light of the bar as she laughs loudly, and it’s like a dam has broken.

And Carla? Carla is captivated.

“You should laugh more often.”

Swain stiffens at that, and Carla has to stop herself from clamping a hand over her mouth, from trying to cram the words back in.

“What?” the blonde asks.

Carla cringes as she digs her fingernails into her palms, decides to tough it out.

“It makes you look…lighter,” she croaks, her voice coming out slightly strangled. “Like less of a hard-faced cow.”

Swain snorts, traces her tongue over the inside of her cheek. “Thanks for the feedback.”

And Carla watches her, watches as she knocks back the last dregs of brown liquid and sets her glass down on the bar with a soft thunk, blue veins dancing in pale hands.

Carla finishes her own drink, blames the alcohol for the way her body feels suddenly alight

“You want another?” she asks, nodding at Swain’s empty glass. And then, sensing the other woman’s hesitation…

“I won’t grass on you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The blonde chews on her bottom lip and Carla’s head swims.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll have a Glenfiddich, please. On the rocks.”

Carla quirks an eyebrow, impressed. “Double?”

Swain smirks, slides her empty glass along the bar. “Go big or go home, right?”

Carla is caught then by her eyes, by the way they’re blue and green and grey all at once, and the way a tiny fleck of orange burns in her left iris. She thinks she has never seen anything quite like them.

Carla thinks she has never seen anything quite like her.

The brunette pays for their drinks, is just about to slide Swain’s glass along the bar. But suddenly the blonde is on her feet, moving tentatively, until she’s only inches away.

She slides onto the next stool, close enough now that her knee nudges against Carla’s each time she exhales. Even through her leggings, Carla burns.

Very slowly, Swain lifts her tumbler, gaze steady as she clinks it against Carla’s wine glass.

“Cheers,” the blonde says with a smile.

Carla says nothing, her throat dry and tight. She takes a long swig of Merlot, can see over the rim of her glass that Swain is smiling into her drink.

And she knows then that she has to at least try and reclaim some control.

“So,” she says, clocking the way Swain’s gaze dips as she languidly crosses one leg over the other, “what are you drinking to forget? Work? A fella? You’re divorced, right?”

Swain’s eyes snap back up and she looks like a deer in the headlights. Carla wonders if it’s because she’d been caught staring.

“What?” the blonde asks, bewildered. “What makes you-”

“Your ring,” Carla interjects, matter-of-fact. “That’s a wedding band, right? But it’s not on your left hand so…”

As Carla trails off, Swain seems to cycle through a hundred different emotions. She eventually settles on anger.

“God,” she bites out, sneering. “You’re wasted stitching knickers for a living. You should be a detective.”

Carla opens her mouth and then closes it again, momentarily stunned by the other woman’s harshness. Swain’s cheeks turn pink and suddenly she’s scrambling, apologising.

“I’m sorry,” she says, chastened. “That was uncalled for.”

It was, Carla thinks. But Carla has had a lifetime of people making her feel small, and she’ll be damned if she affords Swain that same power.

“Oh please,” she scoffs, wine slipping easily down her throat, “you’ll have to do better than that if you want to hurt me. Besides, I don’t stitch the knickers; I tell other people to stitch them. There’s a difference.”

Swain notes Carla’s slight smirk, lets a small smile tug at the corners of her own lips.

“Noted,” she nods. “Look, do you mind if we don’t talk about…all that stuff? It’s been a long day and sometimes it’s nice to just…switch off, you know?”

Carla watches as Swain speaks, watches the way she twists the wedding band (?) on her finger, the way her right knee jigs slightly on her stool.

Carla wonders if they’re more similar than she‘d first thought.

“Yeah,” she agrees quietly. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Swain nods and the silence swallows them once more.

But this time it’s different. This time it feels less laboured, as if they’ve settled into a tentative alliance.

“So,” Carla says after a while, propping one elbow on the bar, “you don’t want to talk about work, you don’t want to talk about your love life. What do you want to talk about?”

Swain’s forehead creases and Carla has a fleeting urge to put her mouth on the divot between her eyebrows.

“I dunno,” the blonde shrugs. “Music?”

“Music?” Carla snorts, incredulous. “Seriously?”

Swain smirks. “Why not?” she shrugs. “We’re at a jazz bar after all.”

Carla squints at the blonde, shakes her head.

“Okay,” she sighs. “The first record I bought was ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ by Rick Astley - cost me every penny out of my ‘Barbie’ piggy bank - and the first concert I went to was Spandau Ballet. That the sort of thing you had in mind?”

Swain’s smirk deepens and Carla thinks her edges are starting to blur, as if the alcohol has scythed through some of her defences.

“I wouldn’t have had you pegged as a Spandau girl,” the blonde teases.

“Oh, I was obsessed,” Carla snorts. “I adored Martin Kemp. I had posters of him plastered all over my bedroom wall.”

Swain laughs, shakes her head.

“What?!” Carla protests. “You must have had plenty of embarrassing teenage crushes. What about Bros? Duran Duran?”

Swain hesitates, her smile faltering, just for a second. “No,” she says after a beat. “I, er, wasn’t much for boybands.”

As the blonde downs her drink, Carla is sure the blush in her cheeks has deepened.

She can’t quite work out why.

“What about jazz?” Swain asks, clearly keen to change the subject. “You like it?”

Carla shrugs. “I guess. My mam, she wasn’t around much when I was a kid. But she loved Ella Fitzgerald. Sometimes, when she was in a good mood, she’d let us - me and my brother - play ‘Dream A Little Dream Of Me’ on her record player, would let us dance around the living room until all hours. I suppose this place…it takes me back a bit.”

Carla looks up, feels suddenly vulnerable under the weight of Swain’s stare.

“What about you?” she asks the blonde. “You a big jazz fan?”

Swain grimaces, then leans in quietly, as if she’s about to confess a secret. Carla tastes her perfume again, right at the back of her throat, and it makes her feel dizzy.

“Honestly?” Swain says. “I can’t stand it. My partner loved it though. Our wedding song was ‘At Last’, the Etta James version.”

For a beat, there’s a faraway look in Swain’s eyes and Carla has so much she yearns to ask, finds her interest piqued by the blonde’s use of the past tense.

But, just as quickly as it appeared, the look is gone and Swain blinks, as if surprised she’d given that small but significant part of herself away.

“Anyway,” the blonde says, shifting in her seat. “I mainly come here for the alcohol. It’s good booze here.”

As if to prove her point, Swain signals to the barman for a top up, doesn’t even ask before ordering Carla another glass.

They drink then in companionable silence, and Carla watches as an ice cube clunks softly against Swain’s front teeth.

“I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” Carla shudders, nodding at Swain’s glass. “I haven’t had whiskey since I was 17 and got off my face on Jack Daniel’s at a mate’s party.”

Swain smiles. “This is the good stuff. Want a sip?”

With delicate hands, the blonde holds out her tumbler. And Carla wants to say no but it feels almost like a dare.

So she sips.

But she swallows, it turns out, too much too quickly and the next thing she knows she’s wincing, spluttering; brown liquid spraying everywhere.

Swain instinctively leans forward, capturing the tiny droplets in her palm.

“Easy, cowboy,” she laughs. “You need to sip it slow, savour it.”

Carla scrunches up her nose as she goes to pass back the glass. But Swain instead grabs gently at her wrist and guides it back to Carla’s lips, encouraging.

Carla’s heart pounds.

But she drinks again, this time keeping her eyes trained on Swain’s as she sips slowly, allowing the sticky warmth to spread through her every sinew.

Swain smiles, pleased. Carla hands back the glass, pleased to have pleased her.

“It’s an acquired taste,” the brunette admits. “But maybe I could get used to it.”

Swain inhales sharply at that, and Carla wonders if maybe they’re speaking in code.

The blonde clears her throat, looks away. And suddenly she’s reaching behind herself, unclipping her hair, so that the two strands that were previously tied back fall loose.

Swain massages at her scalp, closes her eyes and practically purrs as white silk spills across her shoulders.

And Carla is mesmerised.

“God,” Swain groans, “that feels good.”

“It’s weird,” Carla muses, before she can stop herself. “Seeing you with your hair down, I mean.”

Swain snorts. “Charming!”

“No,” Carla says quickly. “It’s good weird. I get the feeling you don’t let your hair down too often.”

Swain stares at her then, as if Carla has looked right into her soul.

“I used to,” she admits shyly after a beat. “These days, not so much.”

Carla tilts her head. “Doesn’t that get exhausting?” she asks. “Don’t you sometimes feel like you just need to..let go a bit? Find some sort of release?”

Swain lifts her chin, light bouncing off the angular sweep of her jaw.

“Don’t you?” she asks.

It’s a simple question but Carla feels trapped, unsure. And so instead of speaking, she reaches out, puts the pad of her thumb just to the left of Lisa’s mouth, wipes at the faint pink smudge there.

“You have some gloss,” Carla says, voice hoarse. “Right here.”

At first, Swain doesn’t flinch. She just stares as Carla brushes her thumb slowly, back and forth, over her soft, soft skin.

But then Carla doesn’t move - doesn’t seem to want to move - and then Swain is pulling back, climbing off her stool so abruptly that she stumbles forward, bracing her hands on Carla’s thighs to keep from falling.

And Carla simply throbs.

“I should probably get going,” Swain mumbles, already moving to grab her coat.

But Carla is too quick for her, wraps slender fingers around her firm bicep. Because, suddenly, she needs to know.

“Why did you let me buy you a drink?” the brunette asks, eyes searching the other woman’s face.

Swain’s mind visibly whirrs. Eventually she settles on an indignant…

“You offered?”

Carla arches an eyebrow. “Oh?” she asks, disbelieving. “So you say yes to every girl who offers to buy you a drink?”

It’s a loaded question and Swain knows it. The blonde wrestles her arm away.

“Goodnight, Carla,” she says coolly. “Get home safe, yeah?”

Carla says nothing, watches instead as Swain stalks off in the direction of the bathroom. The brunette drains her drink and knows then that she has no intention of going home.

Not yet.

— — —

Carla waits in the quiet bathroom like a hunter waiting for prey.

She hears the chain flush and takes one final look at herself in the smeared mirror. The light in here is harsh, unforgiving, but Carla thinks she’s not too bad - at least not for a woman rapidly approaching fifty.

The door to the cubicle swings open and Swain appears. It makes Carla smile, the fact she’s not even surprised.

The blonde rolls her eyes, keeps quiet as she bustles over to the sink, takes her time washing her hands. Carla watches the way the soap lathers over the bony jut of her knuckles, the way the water slips through her slim fingers.

“Don’t you have a home to go to?” Swain eventually asks, without turning around.

Carla puts her hands on her hips. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Swain puffs out a gentle laugh, shakes her head as she turns to face the brunette.

“It’s late, Carla,” she says, voice clipped. “I should go.”

But Carla steps across her as she makes for the door, dares to reach out and touch the blonde, feather-light, on her hip.

“Why did you let me buy you a drink?” Carla repeats. “You’re not going until you tell me.”

“Oh really?” Swain snorts, incredulous. “You know I could have you arrested? For obstructing a police officer?”

“I know,” Carla shrugs. “But you won’t.”

Swain narrows her eyes. “What makes you so sure?”

Carla steps closer, so that she feels the blonde’s hot breath on her face.

“Because you’re not in charge here, detective,” she taunts. “Maybe everywhere else, but not here. Not with me.”

Swain runs her tongue over her teeth. “You’re drunk,” she scoffs.

Carla smirks. “So are you.”

Swain makes for the door again but her attempt is half-hearted; they both know that. Carla tightens her grip on the blonde’s hip.

“Let me past, Carla,” Swain warns. “Before I do something I regret.”

And Carla knows then exactly what’s coming as her smirk deepens, eyes turning black.

“Make me.”

There’s a beat of pregnant silence and then, suddenly, Carla can barely breathe - doesn’t have the time - because she’s being walked, shoved, backwards into the empty cubicle.

She tries to think of something clever to say but her words are quickly swallowed by Swain’s mouth; hot and hungry and insistent against her own. It is, Carla thinks, the deepest, dirtiest first kiss she can remember.

It is the best first kiss she could ever imagine.

“You’re a real cocky bitch, do you know that?” Swain growls against Carla’s cheek as she presses her roughly into the cubicle wall.

It’s almost painful, the feeling of the cold laminate digging into her back, but Carla revels in it.

“Oh yeah,” the brunette grins cockily, fisting one hand in the other woman’s hair. “And you love it.”

Swain doesn’t even try to deny it, simply smirks before crashing their lips back together, pushing her tongue into Carla’s mouth and licking diligently at every dark corner. Carla moans, close to delirium as Swain sucks lewdly on her tongue, sinks her sharp teeth into Carla’s bottom lip.

Carla is fairly sure she’s drawn blood but she can’t bring herself to care, not when Swain starts nuzzling at her ear, tracing her tongue expertly over the sensitive shell before sucking eagerly at the lobe.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Carla,” the blonde whispers thickly in Carla’s ear. “I’ve always thought it. Even that first time you came into the station about Stephen, I wanted to…”

But Swain can’t seem to find the words, instead starts nipping down the slope of Carla’s neck, biting down just above her clavicle, hard enough to leave a mark.

Carla whines at that, throws her head back against the wall as Swain palms clumsily at her breast, tugging at a swollen nipple through her shirt.

The brunette wonders how it is that nobody has ever made her feel like this.

“You’re wrong, you know?” Swain pants, jolting Carla from her thoughts.

Carla furrows her brow in question. “What?” she asks, half-dazed.

And Swain leans closer, so that Carla can see the thin string of saliva glistening on her chin.

“The thing is, Carla,” she rasps, “you might be used to being the boss, but I’m always, always in charge.”

Even if Carla wanted to argue, she couldn’t. She can’t do anything but cry out as, without warning, Swain slips her fingers beneath the waistband of her leggings, past the sodden lace of her underwear, and traces lightly through the wetness gathered there.

Both women moan at the sensation.

“Oh darling,” Swain coos. “You’re absolutely soaking.”

And Carla knows she should feel embarrassed but she doesn’t, not with the way Swain is looking at her, as if she’s heaven-sent.

“You did this,” Carla chokes out through gritted teeth. “Now please, just fuck me.”

Her words appear to have the desired effect because, without further hesitation, Swain is pushing up inside her, filling her so wholly that Carla almost comes apart.

“Fuck, Swain,” the brunette groans. “You feel..”

“Good?” Swain queries, voice saccharine as Carla trails off.

Carla just nods frantically, hips bucking against the blonde’s hand as she tries to find some kind of friction.

But Swain keeps her pace maddeningly slow, pumps languidly in and out until Carla is gasping in frustration.

“Please, Swain,” she splutters. “Harder. Please.”

At that very moment, the door to the bathroom swings open and both women freeze, Carla’s eyes widening comically. Swain panics too, but only for a second.

In a flash, her face changes and she’s leaning forward, breath burning Carla’s ear as someone starts humming tunelessly in the cubicle beside them.

“You asked for it,” the blonde whispers. “I hope you’re good at keeping quiet.”

It happens too quickly then for Carla to stop her, to stop Swain from driving roughly inside of her, pounding with such a ferocious tempo that Carla’s back bumps intermittently against the wall.

Swain smirks as she brushes her thumb, ever so gently, over Carla’s pulsing clit, reaches with her other hand to cover the brunette’s mouth as a breathy little whine escapes her lips.

Carla feels overstimulated and yet she craves more, eyes almost rolling back in her head as Swain’s talented fingers curl and contort inside her. As the person exits the cubicle beside them, starts washing their hands, the blonde presses harder on Carla’s clit, so hard that the brunette has to bite down on her palm to stop from crying out.

Swain hisses but doesn’t move her hand, just increases her speed until finally - finally - the bathroom door swings on its hinges and they’re alone again.

“Good girl, Carla,” Lisa whispers, removing her hand and smiling as the other woman gasps at dry air. “You were so good. I think you deserve to come now, don’t you?”

Carla nods desperately. “Yes,” she pants.

Swain clucks her tongue, tilts her head. “Yes, what?” she demands, eyes dark and daring.

And though Carla feels pathetic, she knows there is only one way she can hope to douse the flames that are now threatening to consume her entire body.

“Yes,” she pants. “Yes, please…detective.”

Swain groans, satisfied, and Carla sees stars, can think of nothing but the blonde as her orgasm takes over her; every nerve ending suddenly on fire as Swain expertly hits her perfect spot.

“Beautiful,” Swain whispers as Carla sways dangerously before her. “So, so beautiful.”

Eventually, Carla slumps against her, fairly sure she’s carved crescents into the blonde’s shoulders with her fingernails.

“Fuck,” she gasps. “Swain, that was…”

But Carla once again loses all powers of speech as Swain withdraws slowly from inside her, gaze steady as she licks Carla’s arousal from her coated fingers. The brunette thinks it is the most erotic thing she has ever seen, and it only strengthens her desire to return the favour.

However, as Carla reaches for the blonde, Swain steps back, slipping - like sand - through her fingers.

“I have to go,” she says, voice even again now, as if nothing ever happened. “It’s already late.”

Carla shakes her head, bewildered. “But-”

“Take care, Carla,” Swain says with a dizzying smile. “I guess I’ll see you around.”

And Carla reels.

As she watches the blonde go, she struggles to make sense of what’s just happened. She’s so stunned, in fact, that when Swain turns back around, Carla almost thinks - hopes - she’s changed her mind.

Still, the blonde smiles.

“Oh,” she says. “And Carla?”

Carla nods.

“It’s Lisa. My name is Lisa.”

And then she’s gone, and Carla knows that nothing will be the same again.