Page 145 of The Gaybor War

The admission lands harder than the fall.

"You don’t have to pretend with me."

His gaze flicks to mine, something raw and unguarded slipping through the usual sparkle.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "I think I know that."

Snow flurries drift down lazily around us. Christmas lights blink overhead. From across the street, one of my synchronized speakers begins playing a tinny version of All I Want for Christmas Is You.

Our breathing slows. The moment stretches. His thumb brushes the collar of my coat, and I wish we weren’t lying on the hard, icy ground surrounded by prying eyes, but in a warm, cozy bed with fewer layers between us.

"You didn’t hesitate," he says.

"I didn’t think."

"Same thing."

Something tight loosens in his expression. "Guess we really are on the same team."

"I don’t want to lose—" I start.

He looks at me, and I stop. Silence thickens. We’re too close. Breathing the same air. The space between us heating. Slowly, inevitably, he tilts his head. His warm breath puffs across my numb lips, making them tingle. Then⁠—

"Oh my GOD, are you two okay?"

We jerk apart as Eunice Dobbins barrels across her lawn in slippers and a quilted housecoat. Behind her, half the street peers from their windows, apparently thrilled to witness what will absolutely become a Morningwood legend.

Benji groans. "Well. There goes the moment."

"Probably for the best," I mutter, sitting up.

Eunice skids to a stop in front of us, squinting. "Are either of you injured?"

"No," Benji says. "But my pride is devastated."

She narrows her eyes. "Why were you lying on top of him?"

"Team-building exercise," Benji replies smoothly.

I bite my lip.

Eunice sniffs. "Disgraceful," she mutters, already composing the newsletter update in her head.

As she stomps away, Benji looks back at me, eyes sparkling with mischief, mouth curved.

"Temporary truce?" he asks again.

"Temporary," I agree.

But the way we’re looking at each other? The heat, the tension? Neither of us believes it.

The Morningwood Carolers assemble by the front gate in matching scarves and uneven rows, clutching lyric sheets and battery-powered candles, looking as though they’re about to reenact a very low-budget nativity scene.

Benji watches them with the focused intensity of a man judging an Olympic event.

"Okay." He takes a sip of his spiced cider, contemplating. "Strong enthusiasm. Questionable pitch. It’s a bold choreography choice for people who do not know choreography."

"They’re retirees, Benji."