Page 137 of The Gaybor War

"Which words?"

He smiles sweetly. "Structural… festive… danger?"

I sigh. "You weren’t listening."

"Carter, those have to be the tightest pair of jeans you own. And when you flip those pancakes, you do this little thing with your butt." He shimmies side-to-side just so.

As I stare at him, he takes another sip of coffee like he didn’t just say that.

I can’t hold back the laugh that breaks from me. The smug satisfaction on his face is immediate.

His eyes warm with laughter. "Oh, good. I was worried I’d lost my touch."

"Don’t distract me." I point the spatula at him. "I simply refuse to let you turn twinkle lights into a public safety hazard unsupervised."

He slides off the stool and steps into my space, hip bumping mine. "So we’re doing this… together?"

"We’re containing you. For the safety of the neighborhood."

"As a team."

"As a disaster prevention measure."

He grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Sure, babe."

My mouth opens, closes, and reboots. "Don’t call me⁠—"

Too late. He’s already stealing bacon off the plate.

"Admit it," he says around a mouthful of bacon. "You’re mentally sketching decor placement."

"I’m planning load distribution."

Benji licks his fingers clean. Slowly. Deliberately. "That sounds super hot and messy. I can’t wait."

I sigh, but it comes out softer than intended. "No inflatables."

He gasps. "Don’t even start with that nonsense, Carter. That’s cruel."

"Five max."

"Six."

"Four."

"Five and a half."

"This is how it starts," I mutter.

He leans in and kisses my cheek, quick and warm, like punctuation.

"Merry Christmas, neighbor. Now, let’s discuss the caroling."

I watch him retreat to his stool, heart doing something reckless in my chest, and realize I’ve already lost. And it’s only November.

Later, after the dishes are washed, the kitchen reset to pristine order, the house settles into that quiet, drowsy lull that only exists on slow Sundays. Rain taps faintly against the windows. My coffee cools untouched.

Benji is sprawled across my couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, tablet balanced on his thigh, stylus flicking with quick, confident strokes. He’s been like this for nearly an hour—murmuring to himself, zooming in and out, muttering about lighting and shadows and jawlines like a man possessed.