On the Edge of Love (CarlxAlan)

Chapter 31: Carl

I woke up to the kind of silence that only came with the start of a school break. No alarms. No scrambling to throw on clothes or pretending I didn't forget a homework assignment. Just the soft thrum of wind against the window and a distant lawnmower a couple houses down.

My parents were already gone by the time I got downstairs. There was a note on the fridge from my mom that just said: Have fun. Be good. Don't burn down the house. Love you. Under it was a smiley face drawn in her rushed handwriting.

I texted Alan.

"You still coming over today?"

He replied instantly.

"Yeah :) be there in an hour or so. Gonna stop by the bakery first."

I grinned. Of course he was.

By the time I'd picked up the living room a little and thrown on something clean (well, clean-ish), I heard his car pull up. I tried to act casual as I opened the door, like my heart hadn't started racing the second I saw him through the front window.

He was carrying a paper bag and balancing two coffee cups in a tray with his elbow.

"Look who brought bribes," I said, holding the door open.

"You better be grateful. I risked my life in the line for these." He stepped inside, handing me one of the cups. "Pumpkin spice. Because I'm festive like that."

I raised an eyebrow. "You mean basic."

"I'm reclaiming the term," he said, already kicking his shoes off. "We make it look good."

We migrated to the couch without even really deciding to. The bakery bag had a few still-warm pastries inside—something flaky and cinnamon-sugary—and we sat with our legs tangled on the floor, backs leaning against the couch, sharing bites and pretending not to watch each other chew.

"So," I said after a long stretch of silence. "No school for five whole days. What're we gonna do with all this freedom?"

Alan smirked. "Be wildly unproductive and eat too much? Isn't that what Thanksgiving break is for?"

He had a point.

We ended up flipping through movies for a while before giving up and just playing music on my phone. Alan leaned his head back against the couch, his eyes fluttering shut as the playlist switched to some soft, lo-fi acoustic track. The kind of song that felt like you should be staring out a rainy window or confessing your love on a rooftop.

"You ever think about how weird this all is?" he asked quietly.

I glanced at him. "This like... you and me?"

He nodded, his eyes still closed.

"I used to think I'd never let anyone see this part of me," he went on, voice soft. "Then you just... showed up. And it didn't feel so scary anymore."

That's the thing about Alan. When he lets himself be open—really open—it feels like you've been handed something sacred. Something breakable. Like holding light in your hands.

I didn't know what to say, so I just nudged his knee with mine and said, "I'm glad you did."

He opened his eyes, turned his head slightly to look at me. There was a warm kind of smile on his face. "Me too."

We spent the rest of the afternoon doing a whole lot of nothing: talking, listening to music, pulling out the box of old board games from the hall closet and playing a wildly competitive round of Scrabble that I absolutely dominated. (Okay, maybe he let me win. But I'm taking the victory.)

When it started to get darker, I threw a couple blankets down in the living room and turned on the small fireplace. Alan curled up next to me, close but not quite touching, and we watched the flames flicker for a while. I could feel his shoulder brush mine every so often, just enough to make my chest do that weird stuttery thing it always did around him.

"I like this," he said quietly.

"What? Sitting around like old people?"

He rolled his eyes and lightly punched my arm. "No. Just... being here. With you."

I turned my head and met his eyes. "Me too."

It wasn't even about the stuff we were doing—it was just the fact that he was here. That this was something we could have. That we were slowly building a world that belonged just to us, even if it only existed in stolen afternoons and quiet, unspoken promises.

Eventually, we ended up curled up together on the floor, the room lit by nothing but the fireplace and the streetlight glow through the curtains. His head rested on my chest, and I had one arm around him, my fingers brushing the hem of his hoodie absently. We didn't talk much. Didn't need to.

"I keep thinking about the beginning," he mumbled sleepily, his voice barely a whisper. "How scared I was."

I ran my hand gently through his hair. "You're not scared anymore?"

He shifted, looking up at me. "Still scared. But not of you. Just... everything else."

I kissed the top of his head. "We'll figure it out."

He nodded against me.

And maybe we didn't have all the answers. Maybe the world outside still didn't make sense. But right then—in that soft, firelit quiet—I knew one thing for sure:

This thing between us? It was real. And it was worth it.