Page 60 of The Gaybor War

Against my better judgment, I glance back. Benji is already talking to someone else, easy and animated, as if he wasn’t just inches from me a moment ago.

Which, somehow, is worse.

In the privacy of the bathroom stall, I peel the stained shirt over my head and use the plaid overshirt as my main. By the time I emerge, I realize the truth I’ve been avoiding all afternoon:

I don’t just want to win.

I want his attention.

And the worst part is, I don't think Benji Stewart is competing with me anymore.

I think he's waiting for me to catch up.

Chapter 18

Ipin the blue ribbon to my chili-pepper shirt with ceremony.

Not because I care about the win, but because I care very much about the optics.

Then I grab a bottle of club soda, a container of chili for evidence, leverage, or a peace offering, depending on how you squint, and cross the street as if I haven’t been rehearsing this in my head for twenty minutes.

Carter answers the door in a different shirt. Dark, plain, and as boring as the rest of his wardrobe.

His eyes flick to the ribbon. They narrow.

"You’re wearing it."

"Of course I am. Achievements should be displayed. Also, it makes you mad."

"I’m not mad."

"Mm," I say, stepping inside anyway. "Your jaw says otherwise.” I hold up the club soda. "I’m here to save your shirt. Chili stains are stubborn. Like their creators."

He exhales through his nose, conflicted, then steps aside. "Laundry room’s this way."

As we pass through the kitchen, I drop the container of chili on the counter and follow him. It’s a tight space. Just a washer, dryer, and shelves carefully arranged with fabric softener and detergent. In fact, it’s so carefully arranged, you could shoot a Tide commercial in here.

Carter hands me the shirt without meeting my eyes. I pour the club soda slowly, watching the stain fizz and lift.

He leans in, as if to micromanage my sanitation procedures, because he’s Carter, that’s what he does.

"You smell like chili."

I glance up slowly. "On my breath, or are you just thinking about me again?"

Color creeps into his face.

"I meant—" He stops, recalibrates. "It’s… noticeable."

I step closer. Not enough to trap him. Just enough to make the space between us feel intentional.

"Would you like to taste it?"

Carter goes completely still. Suspended, as if his body is waiting for instructions his brain refuses to give.

His gaze drops—to my mouth, the curve of it, the faint smile I don’t bother hiding. When his eyes lift again, they’re darker. Focused.

"This is inappropriate." His voice comes out rough.