Page 40 of The Gaybor War

He tilts his head, eyes twinkling, a slow smile stretching his lips. He doesn’t move immediately. And I realize with a sinking thrill that for the first time… I didn’t mean it.

When he finally leaves, the house feels colder, and I’m left alone and wanting. I sink onto the edge of the bed, rubbing my temples, trying to will my pulse back to normal.

It hits me, sharp and unrelenting, that he might have taken my words as rejection.

And when it comes to Benji? Rejection is never the end of the story.

It only leads to one thing…

Revenge.

I groan, burying my face in the pillow. He’s ridiculous, infuriating, and impossibly… captivating.

And somehow, I’m already bracing for the next round.

Chapter 13

Ibarely make it across the street before the spiral hits.

Not a cute spiral. Not a "hmm, interesting plot twist development" spiral. A full-bodied, arms-flailing, internal monologue Broadway production.

Okay. Fine. Great. Wonderful.

I was invited into his home. Into his bedroom. I touched his shirts. He wanted to touch me. And then—bam. Emotional fire drill. Exit stage left. Curtains and applause.

So, let’s break it down. For clarity. For science.

Possibility one: Carter Reed is straight.

Unlikely. I have eyes.

Possibility two: Carter Reed is gay but terrified of joy.

Strong contender.

Possibility three: Carter Reed wanted me until he didn’t, and now I’m the anecdote he tells his therapist about "a lot of neighbor energy."

Rude, but possible.

Possibility four: Carter Reed wanted me too much and panicked.

Ding ding ding. Winner. Print it on a mug.

Yes. That’s the one. That has narrative symmetry. That feels correct in my bones.

I nod to myself, satisfied, even though I have zero evidence and one bruised ego.

Because here’s the thing—when he told me to leave, his voice wasn’t cold. It wasn’t dismissive. It was tight. Controlled. A man slamming the brakes because the road ahead looked suspiciously fun and fraught with sexual peril.

Which means this wasn’t rejection.

This was fear. And fear, as we all know, is just attraction wearing a beige cardigan.

Unlocking my door, I kick it shut behind me and immediately begin pacing. I light a candle. I don’t remember buying it, but it smells like eucalyptus and spite, so it feels appropriate.

"Okay. So we’re doing this."

Because if Carter thinks pulling away is going to make me less present, he’s severely underestimated my commitment to proximity.