take it how you want it (take on my love) // carmuel one-shots

the gentleness that comes

description: basically this is an au of 2.07 where after the charity thing carla texts samuel to meet with the intent of confessing everything to him instead of guzman texting him that he believes him. honestly this stemmed from me wanting to write carla cleaning his wounds, soooo

rating: teen

//

Where the fuck is he?

The sharp points of Carla's stilettos sink into the grass as she paces back and forth, but she hardly notices the burn building in her calves, too preoccupied by the anxiety growing inside of her at an even faster rate. She checks her phone for what feels like the thousandth time. No new messages, and none of the ones she's sent since she got here have even been read, let alone replied to. Coming to a stop, she curses under her breath and puts her phone on sleep again. Tightly crosses her arms over her chest and clenches her jaw, looking around at the too-quiet forest surrounding her.

There aren't any signs indicating that she's anything but alone.

Carla shivers, and not because she's standing outside in the middle of the night wearing a dress.

She hadn't bothered to change out of the outfit she'd worn to that sham of a charity benefit when she got home. Her father didn't say two words to her during the entire car ride, and that didn't change once they got through their front door. He just stalked off towards his study without so much as even looking at her—and while that made it significantly easier to sneak back out five minutes later, it also left her with a knotted-up feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. She knows her father, and she knows that after what Lu announced tonight, he's going to be on damage control.

She just hopes that the damage in question is on his way here, safe and unharmed.

Biting her lip, Carla unlocks her phone once more. She presses dial, listens to it ring, and agitatedly hangs up before she gets his inbox. Doesn't think she can handle hearing it again.

Fuck, Samuel. Answer your phone!

Maybe he's just lost? Maybe she should've picked him up instead of having him meet her here? Maybe he's lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding and hurting and—

No. Carla sucks in a shaky breath, trying her best to expel that thought from her mind. No, he's probably on his way right now. Most likely, he got caught up somewhere. He's riding a bike, and he can't really text and do that at the same time, now can he?

Not too long ago, she used to believe her own bullshit. Now it just tastes like ashes in her mouth; feels like cotton in her ears.

She starts moving again, though instead of anxiously pacing back and forth, she forces herself to keep her steps slow and measured. She does the same with each breath she takes as she goes. One step forward, and she inhales. Another, and she exhales. She keeps doing that, focusing on it enough until she starts to compartmentalize, pushing her nerves aside in favor of looking around as she aimlessly walks the perimeter of the house.

It's been five months since she was last here. Before that, it had been, what, over five years? But the memories of spending summers and weekends here have stuck with her all this time, and now they hit her full-force—the house is shuttered and somewhat aged with the lack of being lived in, sure, but Carla can't help but notice that very little about it has changed since she was a young girl.

Very little, that is, except the marble headstone she finds herself stopping in front of right now.

She doesn't need her phone's flashlight to be able to read what's engraved on it, but she turns it on, anyway.