Page 107 of The Gaybor War

I huff a quiet laugh, pressing my forehead to his. "Good."

"Remind me never to underestimate you again."

I kiss the corner of his mouth, lingering there for just a second. "Trust me. You won’t."

We stay like that for a moment—tangled, breath syncing, the room hushed around us—letting the heat fade into closeness instead of distance.

And somehow, impossibly, that feels even better.

Chapter 26

The ballroom hums with energy, alive with the constant undercurrent of voices layered over laughter, the shuffle of feet, the rustle of tote bags and glossy prints being passed from hand to hand.

I stand at the edge of it, coffee cooling in my grip, and watch Benji work.

He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t hover.

He belongs.

He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that reads: REAL LIFE COVER MODEL with a bold arrow pointing straight up at his face.

I snort into my coffee before I can stop myself. It’s ridiculous. It’s arrogant. It’s completely unnecessary. It’s also so aggressively Benji that my chest does something small and traitorous.

Bold, sensual art prints and vibrant covers featuring men in moments of intimacy, tension, and longing fill his table. Color and emotion leap off every surface. His banner hangs behind him, bright and unapologetic, his name printed large above a montage of his work. The line in front of him barely moves.

A woman in a rainbow cardigan steps forward, clutching a print as if it's something precious. Her hands tremble as she speaks. I can’t hear the words, but I see her expression shift, nerves melting into excitement. Benji leans forward, elbows braced on the table, chin resting on his hands, giving her his full attention.

He listens. Really listens.

Whatever he says makes her laugh, then blink rapidly as if she’s fighting tears. He reaches out, touching her hand lightly. She nods, nods again, then hands him her print to sign.

Benji writes carefully, adds a little flourish, then slides it back to her with a soft smile that feels entirely sincere. She walks away hugging it to her chest. And then there’s another person. And another. And another.

Some bring books for him to sign of the covers he’s illustrated, the characters he’s helped bring to life. Some bring prints. Some bring phones, flipping through photos of their favorite designs. Others offer shaky gratitude and loud enthusiasm.

Benji meets every single one exactly where they are. He explains design choices, talks about color theory, body language, and representation. Why scars matter. Why softness matters. Why joy matters.

He doesn’t just make things pretty. He makes people feel seen.

A young man steps up next, voice barely steady. He gestures at one of Benji’s covers of two men pressed forehead to forehead, eyes closed, intimacy glowing between them.

"This is the first time I ever saw something that looked like how I feel. Like… like my life could look like that."

Benji’s expression shifts instantly. Softens.

"That means everything," he says quietly. "It’s why I do this."

The guy leaves, blinking hard. Something tightens behind my ribs.

Benji Stewart does not create chaos. He creates connection. He builds bridges between fantasy and possibility. He makes people brave. He is purpose wrapped in glitter and ego and a T-shirt that absolutely did not need to exist, but somehow does. And I am standing here, watching strangers love him.

The realization lands slowly. Then all at once. Pride. Awe. Protectiveness. And, beneath it, something softer. A gentle, unexpected jealousy—not sharp or bitter, just aware—conscious of how much of him the world gets. And how much of him I want.

"Are you with him?"

I start, glancing sideways. A woman with a neon pink streak in her hair and star-shaped earrings smiles at me, curiosity shining in her eyes.

"Sorry?"