Page 6 of One Hot Summer

He nods, his gaze never leaving my face. “Some things change. Some don’t.”

I can feel the heat of his body, even from across the couch. It would be so easy to close the distance between us, to lose myself in his arms and forget about all the reasons why I shouldn't. But the rational part of my brain screams at me to maintain the distance. To protect my heart from further damage. I've already lost so much; I can't afford to gamble with what little stability I have left.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Listen, I know this isn’t ideal for you, but I want you to know that you’re welcome here for as long as you need.”

His words are kind, and I can’t help but feel there is some hope to them. Opening that door will be like stepping off a cliff,exhilarating but oh so damn dangerous. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I see a flicker of the boy I fell in love with all those years ago. But then it’s gone, replaced by the guarded expression of the man he’s become. A man with responsibilities, with a son to think about. A man who moved on. We’re not those carefree teenagers anymore. I have a broken heart and shattered dreams. He has a son who needs stability.

Yet as I sit here, mere inches from the man I once thought I’d spend forever with, I can’t help but wonder: what if?

I stand up, needing to put some distance between us before I do something stupid. “I should probably head to bed. It’s been a long day.”

Carson's expression flickers with something—disappointment? Resignation? It's gone before I can decipher it. “Of course. I won’t keep you up, but I did figure you’d want to cozy up on the couch after that long drive.” He hands me a box. “Open it.”

My lips curve and I giggle. “It’s not my birthday. Why would you buy me something?” He doesn’t answer, just waits as I open it. And this man knows me so damn well. “My favorite movie.”

“I wasn’t sure if it still was… but I want you to feel comfortable here and I figure you could use a comfort like this on your first night here.”

I hold the DVD case in my hands, tracing the familiar cover art with my fingertips. The gesture is so thoughtful, so perfectly Carson, that tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back, not wanting him to see how much this simple act has affected me.

“Thank you,” I manage to say. “You didn't have to do this.”

Carson shrugs, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I wanted to. Besides, it's not like I forgot how many times you made me watch it back in high school.”

The memory of those nights spent cuddled on his parents' old couch, my head on his shoulder as we mouthed along to every line. It's bittersweet, tinged with the ache of what we lost.

“Do you want to watch it now?” he asks, his voice low and husky. The invitation in his tone is clear, and for a moment, I'm tempted. So tempted to fall back into our old patterns, to pretend that the years and hurt between us don't exist.

I hesitate, torn between the desire to recapture a piece of our shared past and the fear of opening myself up to more hurt. The logical part of me knows I should decline, head up to my room, and maintain the careful distance I've been trying to keep.

But there's something in Carson's eyes – a vulnerability, a hopefulness – that makes my resolve waver.

“Okay, you know what. I haven’t watched it in forever.”

As Carson sets up the movie, I curl into the corner of the couch, wrapping myself in the soft throw blanket draped over the back. The opening credits start to roll, and I'm hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly takes my breath away.

Carson settles back onto the couch, closer now but still maintaining a respectful distance. The warmth radiating from his body seems to bridge the gap between us, and I find myself hyper-aware of every slight movement, every soft exhale.

As the familiar scenes play out on the screen, I can't help but steal glances at Carson. The way the light from the TV plays across his features, the slight quirk of his lips at the funny parts – it's all so achingly familiar. For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if things were different. If we had found our way back to each other years ago, if we were watching this movie as a family, with Collin nestled between us.

The thought sends a pang through my chest, and I force myself to focus on the movie. But as the main characters share their first kiss, I feel Carson's eyes on me. I turn to meet his gaze, and the intensity I find there steals my breath away.

I can see the struggle in Carson's eyes, mirroring my own internal battle. The desire to reach out, to close the distance between us, wars with the fear of what might happen if we do. We're caught in this moment, suspended between past and present, possibility and caution.

Carson's hand moves, ever so slightly, across the couch cushion. His fingertips are mere inches from my knee. My skin prickles with anticipation, every nerve ending alive and singing.

“Do you ever wonder…” he starts, his voice low and rough. He trails off, leaving the question hanging between us.

I swallow hard. “Wonder what?” I whisper, though I think I know exactly what he means.

His eyes search mine, and I see a whirlwind of emotions there – longing, hesitation, hope. “What if things had been different? If we'd made different choices?”

The words hit me like a physical blow, echoing my own earlier thoughts. I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself. “Carson, I?—”

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers. “Every day since you left.”

The admission hits me, crashing through the walls I’ve built around my heart. I want to tell him I’ve missed him too, that I’ve thought of him every day, wondered what might have been. But the words catch in my throat, choked by fear and doubt. Instead, I reach and cover his head with mine. He inches forward.

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