On the Edge of Love (CarlxAlan)

Chapter 32: Carl

I woke up to Alan's hoodie still draped over the arm of the couch, right where he'd left it the night before. The faintest trace of his cologne lingered in the fabric—something warm and sharp and a little sweet. I pressed my face into it for a second, just long enough to feel embarrassed with myself, then tossed it onto the back of the couch.

It was the second day of break, and I already knew it was going to be one of those golden, slow-moving kinds of days.

Alan: still sleepy. wanna go out later? maybe another date?

I grinned.

Me: that was the plan. get dressed. I'm stealing you again.

We decided on a record store in town that Alan liked—one of those cramped, chaotic places with shelves way too close together and employees that judged you based on your taste in music. I didn't care. Alan lit up every time he flipped through the dusty bins, pausing every so often to show me some obscure album with a cover that looked like it belonged in a thrift shop horror movie.

"You would've been one of those guys who made me mix CDs in high school," I said, watching him squint at the back of a vinyl sleeve.

"I still might," he replied with a crooked smile. "Except now it'd be a playlist. I would be careful, it may start to sound like a love confession."

I bumped his shoulder with mine. "I'd play it on repeat until I memorized it."

He looked up at me with this quiet little grin, and for a second I wondered if anyone else ever got to see him like this—unguarded, teasing, entirely soft. I hoped not.

We bought a couple of random records and grabbed hot chocolate from the café next door. It had started to snow just a little—barely more than flurries—but it gave the town this quiet, magical vibe. We wandered down Main Street sipping out of paper cups, and when we passed under one of the hanging string light displays stretched between the buildings, Alan pulled me into this little alcove by a shop window.

There wasn't anyone around. No one watching. Just the sound of cars in the distance and the hum of holiday lights above us.

He looked at me, then glanced at the snow falling behind me.

"I know this is stupid," he said, "but this feels like one of those moments where someone would kiss someone in a movie."

"It's not stupid," I said, already stepping closer.

He kissed me.

Not rushed. Not like we were sneaking around or hiding behind walls. It was slow and sweet, a little clumsy from the cold, and it made my heart do this weird skip thing that almost made me laugh mid-kiss. When we pulled back, our noses were practically touching, and his smile was the kind that made me want to kiss him all over again.

"Yeah," he murmured. "That definitely beat the movies."

Back at my house, we dropped our coats by the door and didn't even bother turning on the lights. The sun was already going down, streaking gold and gray across the windows.

We collapsed on my bed, lying side by side. His arm brushed mine. I turned to say something and didn't even get the words out before he kissed me again.

This one was different.

It wasn't shy, or nervous, or trying to keep it quick like we sometimes did in public. It was slow and warm and real in a way that made my fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt without thinking. Alan shifted closer, one of his hands cupping my jaw like he was still learning how to touch me. Like he wanted to get it right.

We kissed for what felt like forever. Not in a rushed way—just like we didn't want to stop. Every time we pulled back, we hovered there, noses brushing, our breath catching. He looked at me like he couldn't believe we got to have this. Like I was something he hadn't expected but somehow needed anyway.

Eventually, we pulled apart just enough to breathe. He rested his forehead against mine.

"I never thought I'd feel this safe with someone," he whispered.

I swallowed hard. "Me neither."

We didn't say much after that. Just curled up together under the blankets on my bed, facing each other, our legs tangled and our fingers brushing in soft little patterns. The air between us was warm and close and full of quiet promises neither of us said out loud yet.

There was still a whole world outside—one we hadn't told everything to. But in this room, with his hand in mine and his hair brushing the pillow, the world didn't feel so loud.