Page 31 of The Gaybor War

I should be thinking about the fiscal year, not the guy next door who sunbathes as if he’s auditioning for a calendar shoot.

But the truth sneaks in anyway, quiet and uninvited.

Benji’s the kind of gay man I never had the courage to be.

He exists as though he’s unapologetic about taking up space. About being seen. About being himself.

Meanwhile, I’m dressed in a collared shirt and polite restraint, pretending not to notice how every part of him feels like color splashed across my carefully neutral life.

And the worst part?

I think he knows.

I try to focus on work. I really do. But every spreadsheet cell looks like his stupid sunglasses. Every time my coworker laughs too loud, I flinch, half expecting to hear him shout something across the yard. I’ve typed "Morningwood" into a client report twice today and had to backspace before anyone noticed.

By five o’clock, my brain’s fried. I shut my laptop, promise myself I won’t think about him again, and head home with the windows down to clear my head.

And then, naturally, the radio betrays me.

Mariah Carey’s Fantasy.

I groan, smack the steering wheel, and consider driving straight into a lake. Because all I can see is Benji smiling, sun-drunk and humming off-key as those cursed wind chimes twinkle in harmony.

She sings, "Sweet, sweet fantasy, baby," and I swear even the traffic light turns pink just to mock me.

I change the station, hit static, and go back. She’s still singing.

By the time I turn onto Cockburn Street, I’ve lost the battle. Mariah’s still crooning. My hand’s still drumming on the steering wheel as if I’m auditioning for a boy band. And there’s still a traitorous part of me thinking about sunscreen glistening on someone else’s skin.

I round the corner and see him.

Benji’s kneeling in his yard, hair pushed back messily, earbuds in. The late light hits his shoulders in a way that makes me want to file another complaint—against the sun this time. A smear of dirt streaks his arm, and somehow that’s worse. He’s supposed to be ornamental, not human.

He sees me before I can look away, lifts one hand in a lazy wave, and beams.

The breeze catches his wind chimes. The same ones that started this whole mess. They tinkle like laughter.

I lift my hand in return, mostly because ignoring him would feel too deliberate.

He mouths something I can’t hear—probably another joke—and goes back to pruning a shrub that doesn’t need pruning.

I park in my driveway and sit there a full minute, telling myself not to look again.

I look again.

He’s still there, humming, unbothered, magnetic in that infuriating way that makes me wish I’d never bought this house.

My phone pings.

Morningwood Minute: Welcome home, Carter! Don’t forget HOA meeting Thursday night!

Perfect. Just what I need—another night trapped in a room with him and his damn smirky smile flashing in my head.

The HOA meeting is already a circus the second I walk in. Half the members are arguing about whether the Block Captain initiative requires actual captains or just morally ambiguous volunteers, and the other half are fighting over the correct shade of pastel for the community sign.

And there’s Benji. Sitting in the front row, legs crossed, shades perched on his nose as if he’s moderating a runway show. He waves at me smugly.

I flop down beside him, careful not to touch, careful not to breathe wrong. After a moment, I lean just slightly closer and whisper, "Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?"