Page 147 of The Gaybor War

Kiki turns slowly toward us, her glare lethal.

Benji clears his throat. "Ah, yes. Well. You see⁠—"

I brace myself.

"Santa is giving the snowman a very enthusiastic hug," Benji says solemnly. "Because winter is hard and the snowman looks like he’s had a rough year."

The silence is deafening. Kiki blinks. Once. Twice. "Move the ornament, Benji."

"Wow," he says bitterly, carefully unhooking it. "Cancel culture is alive and well in Morningwood."

He relocates the scandalous creation to the back of the tree, hidden behind three layers of pine, two candy canes, and a ceramic cardinal.

I squeeze his hand. "You’re lucky I adore you."

"I know," he says lightly, but his eyes soften, and his thumb strokes my knuckle as if the words mean something.

The lights flicker brighter. The crowd applauds. Somewhere behind us, Eunice clears her throat suspiciously. And standing there in the cold, fingers entwined, surrounded by judgmental neighbors and inappropriate ornaments, I realize something simple and extraordinary: This is it. This ridiculous, sparkling, obscene little life was my end goal all along. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Chapter 34

Christmas morning is quiet in a way that feels almost suspicious.

No HOA emails. No emergency group texts. No inflatable violations. And no carolers.

Just soft light filtering through the curtains, vintage rock carols playing quietly from my bluetooth speaker, and Carter standing in my kitchen as if he’s been doing this his entire life.

He’s barefoot, wearing flannel pajama pants and a threadbare college sweatshirt that has seen better decades. He flips pancakes with laser focus, a dusting of flour on his cheek, brow furrowed in intense culinary concentration.

I sip my coffee, watching him.

He glances over with a knowing look. "You spiked that."

I blink innocently. "Excuse me?"

"I can smell it from here." He slides a pancake onto a plate. "And if you deny it, I will personally conduct a taste test."

"I would never⁠—"

He steps in close, cups the back of my neck, and kisses me. The velvet slide of his warm tongue makes my dick stiffen. When he pulls back, one eyebrow lifts.

"Rum," he says calmly.

"Festive rum," I correct. "There’s a difference."

He sighs, but there’s a smile hiding in it. "You’re incorrigible."

"We’ve already established this," I murmur, leaning in to steal another kiss.

We eat on the couch, knees pressed together, a small mountain of torn wrapping paper accumulating on the rug. Carter picks up every scrap the second it falls, tossing it into a garbage bag.

I toss mine over my shoulder like confetti.

"Seriously," he mutters, gathering it all up. "It’s as if you don’t see me cleaning up after you."

"I do it because I see you cleaning up after me."

He shoves the bag at me and reaches under the tree, handing me another gift. A set of rainbow-colored workout bands to match my brand-new upgraded ab roller, and a pair of dangerously skimpy athletic shorts.