Page 66 of The Gaybor War

"You did," he says calmly. "Because if you hadn’t, you’d be complaining about the HOA or lawn maintenance. Instead, you sound like a man arguing with himself."

"That’s not evidence."

"It’s a pattern. You only spiral like this when you care."

I pull into my driveway and cut the engine, sitting there with the sudden, awful quiet. Across the street, Benji’s house is lit up, curtains half-drawn.

I don’t look directly.

I absolutely look directly.

"He’s a bad idea."

My brother laughs softly. "You know, normal people usually say things like, 'I don't have feelings for him.'"

"I don't need a courtroom defense strategy."

"You kind of do."

I lean my head back against the seat. The silence stretches.

Then Mark's voice softens. "You’re allowed to want things, Carter. Even messy ones."

"I don’t want messy."

"You never do. You want honest. And you just hate when it doesn’t come wrapped in beige. Just don't overthink yourself out of something good."

I let out a tired breath. "That's very optimistic."

"No." Mark chuckles. "Optimistic would be assuming you've figured this out already.

The line goes quiet for a second. I glance toward Benji's house one last time.

"Goodnight, Mark."

"Goodnight. And tell your boyfriend I said hello."

"He's not my⁠—"

The line goes dead.

I sit there longer than necessary, staring at my front door, hoping it might give me instructions. It doesn’t. Maybe because it’s painted a garish lemon yellow and all it’s capable of is looking ugly.

Across the street, a shadow moves past Benji’s window. I catch it in my rearview mirror, because, yes, I’m still looking. He’s probably spying on me.

I don’t go over.

I don’t text.

I do, however, want.

And that feels like the most dangerous part.

I go inside and do all the right things. Hang up my keys, wash my hands, heat up leftovers and eat them standing at the counter because sitting reminds me I’m eating alone. I scroll through emails I’ve already read and reorganize the junk drawer that holds nothing important except my need for control.

None of it works.

Every quiet corner of the house is full of him. I keep thinking about how he didn’t rush the kiss. How he stopped. How that felt like respect instead of retreat.