On the Edge of Love (CarlxAlan)

Chapter 9: Carl

I shut the door behind me and stood in the entryway of my house, listening.

Silence.

Good.

I kicked off my wet shoes and crept upstairs, dripping the whole way. My hoodie was soaked through, clinging uncomfortably to my arms, and my hair was still dripping into my eyes. But I didn't move to change. I didn't do anything.

I just stood there, frozen in my bedroom doorway, replaying what had happened.

I kissed Alan.

And for a second, he kissed me back.

I pressed my hands to my face, squeezing my eyes shut, like that might make it all slow down. But it didn't. It just made the memory sharper. The way he looked at me in the rain, eyes wide and searching, like he was trying to understand something about himself that he hadn't questioned before. The way his breath hitched when I leaned in. The way his lips moved against mine—not eager, not sure, but there.

And then the way he pulled away.

I exhaled, shaking my head at myself. What had I expected? That he'd suddenly realize he wanted this too? That he'd grab my face and kiss me again, like something out of a stupid rom-com?

Alan wasn't like that. Alan needed time.

And I'd told him I'd wait.

I sighed and peeled off my wet hoodie, throwing it onto the floor before collapsing onto my bed. My body was exhausted, but my mind wouldn't shut up.

There was a part of me that had always wondered. That had always thought maybe. That had noticed the way Alan had changed over the summer—how he seemed softer around the edges, like he was letting himself feel things more. How he didn't talk about girls as much. How he looked at me sometimes, like he wanted to say something but couldn't.

But I never let myself believe it could mean anything.

Until tonight.

I ran a hand through my damp hair, staring at the ceiling.

Alan didn't push me away. He didn't get mad. He didn't freak out.

That had to mean something, right?

I groaned and rolled onto my side, trying to shut my brain off, but it was impossible. I kept thinking about the way he hesitated before dropping me off, the way he gripped the steering wheel like he was trying to hold himself together. The way he admitted—I don't want to lose you.

God, if he only knew.

If he only knew how long I'd felt this way.

I didn't know when it started. Maybe it was last year, when we had that sleepover at his place, and I realized I was watching the way he stretched in the morning, shirt riding up over his stomach. Maybe it was last spring, when we were walking home from school, and he slung an arm around my shoulders, and I felt this weird, stupid ache in my chest that I pretended wasn't there.

Or maybe it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

I wasn't an idiot. I knew Alan wasn't in the same place as me. He was still figuring himself out. He was confused. He wasn't ready.

And maybe he never would be.

The thought made my stomach twist, but I forced myself to accept it. Because no matter what, I wasn't going to push him.

I meant what I said.

If all he could give me was friendship, I'd take it.

It would hurt. God, it would hurt.

But I'd rather have Alan in my life as my best friend than not at all.

I closed my eyes, listening to the rain against my window. The weight in my chest was heavy, but it wasn't unbearable.

Not yet.