Page 127 of The Gaybor War

She takes candy from both of us and runs.

Carter tracks her retreat with narrow eyes. "Traitor."

By the time the sidewalks finally empty, we’re both slumped in our chairs, candy buckets ravaged, and the candles in our pumpkins have burned down to nothing. For a moment, we just sit there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the stillness settle.

Until Carter breaks it. "You know, this used to be my least favorite night of the year."

"And now?"

He glances sideways at me. "Now it’s… good."

The simplicity of it hits harder than anything dramatic could.

"Careful," I say gently. "That’s how they get you."

His mouth curves into a small smile. "You already did."

"Come on, Reed. Let’s go inside. You’ve been dying to get me out of this costume all night."

Carter stands and stretches, working the kinks from his back. "Not for the reasons you think."

"We’ll see about that."

Carter mentions Thanksgiving the way he mentions the weather. Casually. Offhandedly. As if it’s not a looming social minefield with a side of pie.

"My brother and parents are coming over for Thanksgiving," he says, scrolling through his phone. "They’ll be here Thursday afternoon."

"Oh," I reply, far too quickly. "Fun."

Fun, yes. Families. Holidays. Expectations. A buffet of deeply avoidable discomfort. Very fun. I immediately spiral.

Not externally. Externally, I am the picture of breezy indifference. Internally, I am staging a full theatrical production titled Why Am I Like This?

Because I want him to invite me.

And I also absolutely do not.

Because meeting someone’s parents is a thing. A big thing. A capital-T Thing. Especially when you’re not sure what you are yet, except very much something.

And Carter Reed’s parents feel like they would notice things.

So I spend the rest of the afternoon acting completely normal, which unfortunately for me looks like reorganizing my spice drawer and alphabetizing my tea collection.

Carter notices.

"Why are you alphabetizing cinnamon?"

"It was out of order."

"There are two jars."

"That’s too many for chaos."

He studies me for a moment. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You reorganized the junk drawer."