When You Least Expect It

26

Carson's smile faded slightly, his gaze locking onto mine. "Or something."

"I've got a better idea."

I crossed the room to my bag and rummaged through its contents, my fingers closing around the familiar object. Drawing it out, I held it in my palm, heart pounding with anticipation.

Carson's eyes went to my palm. "Not what I had in mind."

"Come on, you're practically a chimney. Don't be a chicken," I said, trying to ignore the double meaning in his words, flicking it on. Inhaling deeply, I took a drag, laughing softly as I sank back on the bed. Damn, that hit the spot.

Carson reached out swiftly, plucking the joint from my grasp. He smoked a few puffs, exhaling wisps of smoke before carefully resting the joint on the nightstand. He collapsed beside me, and we both sprawled on our backs, looking up at the ceiling. His body heat emanated in waves that seemed to engulf me, his hand slightly grazing mine on the bed. My muscles were so tightly wound that they throbbed with tension. I was so tense, afraid that any move would push us over the edge, knowing deep down, I wouldn't be able to resist once that line was crossed.

Carson tilted his head toward me a moment later. His pupils were dilated, one corner of his mouth sliding upward. "Do you ever," he started, his voice low and suggestive, "think about the stories behind motel room walls?"

I could feel the heat rush to my face, and other places too. "Stories?"

His eyes lingered on my face as he spoke, his voice a soft murmur in the dimly lit room. "Yeah. Like imagine what these walls have seen..."

"And what do you imagine they've seen?" I dared to ask, my own voice barely concealing the desire that pulsed within me.

"If only these walls could talk."

I couldn't think of a witty reply. My thoughts were a jumbled mess. Either he was implying something, or what Ilya said earlier messed with my head.

We lounged in silence for what felt like forever, but who could really tell when you're high? Time sort of just melts away into this fuzzy blur.

I couldn't say if it had been minutes or hours since we last spoke, but Carson shot up from the bed then, putting his head in his hands. "Holy fuck."

I laughed, figured he was just finally feeling the buzz. But when he rose abruptly and stumbled out of the room, I felt a twinge of concern. "I'm gonna grab some water," he said, voice shaky, before disappearing from view.

After Carson left, the room felt emptier somehow, the silence heavier. I sank back on the bed, feeling a heavy sense of solitude settle around me. I couldn't stop thinking about what might have happened if Carson had stayed, if we had slept in the same bed like I had suggested.

I wanted him to stay beside me, and maybe I wanted something more. The closeness we shared, the way he looked at me—it stirred something within me, something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Everything felt fuzzy, like I was swimming in a sea of thoughts. And right there, bobbing in the waves, was the crazy idea of telling Carson how I felt about him. I felt ready to take that leap, ready to risk it all for the chance of something more.

What if I just spilled everything? But then, like a splash of cold water, reality hit me. The last thing I wanted was to jeopardize our friendship and create an awkward rift between us.

Still, throughout that all, there was this tiny voice whispering, "what if?" What if keeping quiet means missing out on something incredible? The thought sent a shiver down my spine, both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.