Page 41 of The Gaybor War

I will not chase.

I will not pout.

I will not blast music or install a lawn ornament shaped like a gnome mid-thrust.

No. I will be helpful.

I will be civil.

I will be everywhere.

Weaponized compliance clicks into place like a seatbelt.

Every committee Carter joins? I will join first.

Every initiative he touches? I will improve it.

Every HOA meeting he attends? I will sit one chair closer and bring color-coded folders.

And I’ll be sure to look my best while doing it!

I will follow every rule so perfectly it becomes suspicious.

He wants distance? I’ll give him sanctioned proximity and an itemized agenda.

I grin at my reflection in the hallway mirror—bright, composed, and absolutely unhinged.

"Good luck, Carter Reed," I murmur. "You should’ve just kissed me."

I execute the run-in flawlessly.

Which is to say, it looks accidental, but it’s not. I time it to the minute—trash day plus Carter’s predictable schedule equals inevitability.

I step outside with a canvas tote and a neutral expression. No accessories that scream statement. Just a fitted tee and equally fitted shorts in soft colors. Effortless. Devastating. Casual in a way that should be illegal without a permit.

Carter’s already at the curb in a boring business casual ensemble that has me mentally yawning, jaw set as if he’s bracing for impact.

I give him a curt nod and a smile as bland as his blue tie. "Morning," I say at normal volume. My tone is neighborly, almost disinterested.

He blinks once, then again, like he’s buffering. "Morning," he replies cautiously.

Excellent. I ask a safe question. "Did you remember to separate your recycling? They take that seriously in this neighborhood."

He exhales a fraction. "Yeah. The information was part of the welcome packet I received when I moved in."

"Good to know." I adjust my grip on the tote. "You settling in okay?"

Another pause. He isn’t prepared for this version of me. No commentary. No innuendo. No reference to folding clothes in his bedroom while imagining terrible, wonderful things.

"Yeah," he says. "Mostly."

I hum, thoughtful. "That’s good."

And then I do the unthinkable—I stop talking.

The silence stretches between us, and I don’t rush to fill it. I don’t sparkle. I don’t perform. I let him sit in it.

Carter shifts his weight. His eyes flick to my shirt, my face, then away again. He clears his throat.