Page 73 of The Gaybor War

His fingers press a little harder, just enough to anchor me, and I finally let myself lean in. Not for another kiss—not yet—but close enough to memorize the curve of his jaw, the heat of him, the way he smells like sunlight and trouble.

"Carter," he says softly.

I want to answer. I want to pull him closer and forget the world exists. Instead, a car door slams somewhere down the street, followed by the distant rumble of an engine. Reality comes rushing back.

Reluctantly, I step away. Just enough to give us both room to breathe.

Benji's mouth curves. "Don't think this ends here."

I huff out a laugh. "I wasn't planning on it."

Heat and hunger flash through his eyes. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he lets go of my wrist, and I immediately miss the contact.

Which feels unfair. I've spent weeks treating this like a problem to solve. Something to analyze. Contain. Avoid. But standing in Benji's foyer, watching him smile at me like I'm finally speaking a language he understands, I realize the problem was never him.

It was me. And for the first time since moving to Morningwood Estates, that doesn't feel terrifying. Just inevitable.

Chapter 20

Ido not pace.

I stretch.

There is a difference.

Pacing is anxious. Pacing is undignified. Stretching is deliberate. Stretching is what someone does when they’ve just been kissed in their foyer by a man who alphabetizes his spice rack and then walked home pretending his legs weren’t shaking.

I roll my shoulders. Lift my arms. Twist at the waist.

My reflection watches me from the hallway mirror—hair slightly mussed, mouth still a little swollen. I look pleased. Annoyingly so.

"Well, that happened."

Carter Reed wants me bad. He wants this dick—er—ass? At least, I hope he does. Is he even a top? He better be, ‘cause I sure as shit am a bottom. He gets that about me, right? It’s obvious?

I replay it nonstop. Not the kiss itself, but the moment after. The way Carter didn’t bolt. The way he stayed, breathing like he’d run a mile, eyes dark and undecided and absolutely ruined.

That part? I savor.

I pad into the kitchen, open the fridge, and stare into it without seeing anything. I’m not hungry. I’m wired. My entire nervous system is doing jazz hands.

I did not expect him to come over tonight. That’s the part that keeps looping.

Carter doesn’t act on impulse. He schedules impulse. He color-codes it. If he showed up at my door, it wasn’t because he lost control. It was because he ran out of excuses.

Interesting.

Dangerous.

Thrilling.

I lean back against the counter and let myself feel it—just for a second. The want. The satisfaction. The terrifying little bloom of hope I absolutely refuse to name.

No. We’re not doing that.

Hope leads to expectations. Expectations lead to disappointment. Disappointment leads to dramatic monologues, and I’ve promised myself I’m only allowed one per quarter.

Instead, I do what I do best. I plan.