Carl wasn’t expecting anything that night.

He was halfway through arguing with Lip from the couch, shoes kicked off, hoodie thrown over a chair, when there was a knock at the front door. Carl groaned.

Lip: “If that’s another bill collector, I swear-”

Carl: “I got it.” he muttered, already on his feet. He yanked the door open without looking.

And then he froze.

You were standing there. Backpack slung over your shoulder. Same face. Same eyes. Real. Not some messed-up version his brain had been replaying for months.

For a second, Carl didn’t say anything. His mouth opened, then shut again. The tough-guy act completely short-circuited.

Carl: “…No way.” he finally said, blinking like if he did it too much you’d disappear. “Nah. You’re messin’ with me.” It hit him all at once. His chest tightened, heart slamming so hard he could feel it in his throat.

Carl: “You’re-” He swallowed. “You’re out?”

Before you could even answer, Carl grabbed you and pulled you inside, slamming the door shut behind you like he was afraid the world might take you back if he didn’t. His arms wrapped around you tight, too tight, but he didn’t let go.