Page 67 of The Gaybor War

That’s the thing I can’t shake.

Benji doesn’t do anything halfway. Not outfits, not opinions, not entrances. And yet, with me, he slowed. He read the room. He didn’t push when he could have. He didn’t turn it into a story for the girls or a joke or a performance.

He treated it like it mattered.

God, I absolutely don’t want to admit there might be more to my sassy neighbor than meets the eye.

I sink onto the couch and drag a hand over my face. This is how it starts. Not with fireworks. With doubt. With curiosity. With the unbearable urge to cross the street and see what he’s wearing, or not wearing.

I refuse to act on impulse. I’m not an impulsive guy. Instead, I imagine what would happen if I did.

Benji opening the door barefoot. Some ridiculous shirt that shouldn’t work but does. That look in his eyes—not smug, not teasing, just open. Waiting. Possibly sweaty from his at-home workout routine.

Filled with restless energy, I start to pace again.

God, I’m being dramatic. One kiss doesn’t mean anything. Attraction isn’t obligation. Liking someone doesn’t require action.

All true. Also irrelevant.

I pour a drink I don’t need and carry it to the window. Across the street, his lights dim one by one until only the front lamp stays on. A signal. Or coincidence. I hate that I don’t know which.

My phone buzzes on the counter with a text.

Benji: Your shirt should be clean. No permanent damage. To the fabric, anyway.

I stare at it far too long.

I type, delete, and type again.

Thanks.

Just one word. Boring. Safe. Me.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Benji: Sleep, Carter. You look like someone who’s thinking too hard.

I frown at the screen.

You don’t know what I look like.

Benji: I have a very good imagination.

A laugh catches me off guard.

I set the phone down, then immediately pick it back up and read the exchange again, as though the words might have changed.

This is a terrible idea. The problem is, it doesn't feel like one.

Setting the phone face-down, I finish my drink. Tomorrow will be easier. Distance will reassert itself. The morning will bring perspective.

But as I head to bed, there’s one thought I can’t shake.

I don’t want distance. I want him to knock again.

And for the first time, I stop pretending that's a problem I need to solve.

I spend the afternoon getting absolutely nothing done.