Page 108 of The Gaybor War

She nods toward Benji. "Are you his partner?"

The word lands low in my gut. I could correct her, but I don’t.

"I’m… with him," I say instead.

Her smile widens. "Good. You look like you keep him grounded."

Something inside me loosens.

"Someone has to," I mutter.

She laughs and steps into line. I turn back to Benji. And I can’t help but see him differently now, not as my infuriating, magnetic, impossible neighbor, but as a man whose work helps people feel real in their own skin. He doesn’t just draw desire. He draws hope.

When he finally looks up and catches me watching, he beams. Familiar and glossy. The smile he saves for me. And standing there in that crowded ballroom, surrounded by strangers who adore him, I realize something that feels both wonderful and terrifying: I’m falling for him.

I don’t think I ever truly saw him before today.

When the line finally thins, the ballroom starts to exhale. Benji stretches, rolling his shoulders, fingers flexing as if he’s shaking off the last of the adrenaline. His smile softens as he looks up and finds me still there.

"Hey. You survived."

"Barely."

His laugh is real, unguarded. "Come here."

I step closer to the table, lowering my voice. "You were… incredible."

His brows lift in surprise. "You mean my shirt?"

"I mean everything."

Something flickers across his face—vulnerability, maybe—before he covers it with a grin. "Careful, Reed. Compliments make me powerful."

"Too late for that."

He glances at the dwindling line, then back at me. "Are you doing okay?"

I nod. Then hesitate. "Actually… would you sign something for me?"

That makes him pause. "Yeah?" he asks carefully. "What do you want me to sign?"

I gesture vaguely at the table. "One of the prints."

His smile turns curious. "You don’t strike me as the wall-art guy."

"I’m not."

"Then why?"

I meet his gaze with honest eyes. "Because I want something that proves I was here," I say quietly. "That I saw this."

Benji’s throat bobs. He reaches for a print—one of his softer covers of two men sitting close, foreheads touching, something unspoken shimmering between them—and slides it toward himself. He signs slowly, thoughtfully, then adds a small inscription before handing it to me.

"For the record, you make an excellent event roadie."

I snort. "High praise."

Our fingers brush as I take the print. Neither of us pulls back right away.