He had never intended to get this involved. This wasn't a complaint on his part, just a simple fact. When he had first come to Night Vale, he had done so with the intent to study it, and nothing more. However, as time went on, he found he wasn't able to be as clinical as he had at first. He had kept his distance, trying to separate himself from the people and goings-on of the town, but over time, he found he couldn't help but get somewhat invested. He did, after all, have to talk to people occasionally. He had to shop and do interviews and generally go around town, and with talking and time came familiarity, and with familiarity came comfort (at least to a certain degree), and with comfort, attachment. It was simple psychology, and something he should've anticipated, yet it was still a shock when he realized it.
That night at the bowling alley was when it really, truly sunk in that he was no longer an impartial observer. The town had wormed its way into his heart like some kind of parasite, and he'd developed a strange, symbiotic relationship with it. It gave him science to do and mysteries to solve, and in return he solved them and saved them, when and where he was able. This realization is what finally pushed him to call that intriguing, earnest, and, admittedly attractive radio host whose fawning and seemingly unbelievable public declarations had initially startled him and put him off. After all, people don't fall in love that quickly, and there was no staying impartial when one was fraternizing with those being studied. But if one was no longer impartial anyways, then why hold back? Especially when said declarations became more believable through repetition and action. (He didn't think anyone had ever cried over him before. He had been loved, but never adored. Never like that.) So he decided to give it a try, and found that when it stopped feeling like a try and more like something lasting, something significant, he didn't really mind. More than didn't mind, in fact.
At first he had a hard time expressing exactly what he felt. He had always been a bit awkward, and communicating emotions is difficult in the best of times. It's all so subjective. So he took his time. He thought about it. And eventually he settled on words that had never seemed quite right before. Words like "love" and "home" that had always seemed nebulous and unclear has started making sense. Not only did they seem to be the only words that really fit, but they left a warm feeling in his chest. One that he knew was merely caused by rushes of dopamine and oxytocin and a cocktail of other neurotransmitters flooding his system, but which he still appreciated for the way they made him feel more relaxed than he had been in a while. Strange, that a place so full of danger should be the place where he felt most at ease. But he felt like he could be himself in a way not afforded to him by anyplace, or anyone, else. His enthusiasm and scientific tangents were not criticized. His input was valued. He felt accepted. He felt needed. He felt fulfilled. He felt loved.
Carlos the Scientist came to Night Vale on a temporary trip with the intent of studying the town as an impartial, outside observer. He stayed to be part of things. He stayed to be with his wonderful, loving boyfriend. He stayed to study the never-ending mysteries. He stayed for bowling night, and Big Rico's Pizza, and his lab, and the wonderful, terrible, beautiful, horrifying things that made the town and the people what they were.
He came to find mysteries and answers.
He found more than he ever expected.
He found belonging.
He found a home.