Page 43 of The Gaybor War

"I like to contribute." I smile, trying not to laugh. "Don’t you?"

He studies me as though I’ve changed languages mid-sentence.

"Right," he says. "Of course."

Another pause.

Behind us, someone yells that the burgers are burning. Between us, the tension sits, unbothered and unmoving.

I lean back on my hands, let the sun do its thing, and say nothing. Carter stands there a second longer than necessary.

"Anyway, I—uh. Enjoy the pool."

"You too," I say easily.

He walks away. I don’t watch him go. I don’t need to.

Because I feel it—the imbalance. The recalibration. The quiet panic of a man who expected noise and got composure instead.

So. Fucking. Delicious.

The universe, unfortunately, does not allow me to enjoy a quiet victory.

"Benji!" Candace calls from the grill area, waving a spatula as though she’s flagging down a helicopter. "Tell Carter he can’t hide over there. We need another body for cornhole."

Carter freezes mid-step. I see it happen. The way his shoulders tense as though he’s bracing for impact. I don’t look at him. That’s the trick.

"Sounds democratic," I say mildly. "But I believe avoidance is his brand."

A few laughs ripple through the group.

Carter exhales through his nose and turns back, because of course he does. The man is constitutionally incapable of appearing rude. He walks over, stopping a careful distance away from me, eyes still doing that thing where they pretend not to know where my legs are.

"I was busy," he says.

"Busy," I repeat, nodding. "Right."

I finally glance at him, just a flicker, and catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. He looks unfairly good today. Sunglasses, a crisp T-shirt, and sleeves just short enough to suggest biceps. Annoying.

Cornhole teams are assigned with zero regard for fairness or skill. Carter ends up across from me. He tosses his first beanbag and misses. Hugely.

"Wind," I say helpfully.

"There is no wind," he mutters.

"Fine, a strong breeze then," I clarify.

He shoots me a look, and I smile back politely.

Carter bends to pick up another beanbag, and I hate—hate—how my brain notes the line of his back, the way his shirt pulls taut across his broad shoulders. I tear my gaze away and focus on the game. Weaponized normalcy. Stay the course.

"You’re quiet today," he blurts, low enough that only I hear.

I toss my bag and sink it clean. "Am I?"

"Yes. It’s… noticeable."

I shrug. "People contain multitudes."