Page 92 of The Gaybor War

It's 6:31 in the morning.

Benji: Exactly. This is when important questions happen.

No, this is when coffee happens.

Benji: How many emergency snacks are you bringing?

I look at the pile of protein bars currently sitting on my counter.

Define emergency.

Benji: Oh no. You packed snacks.

Everyone packs snacks.

Benji: Not enough snacks to survive a minor economic collapse.

That's a wild accusation.

Benji: Is it?

I glance at the counter. Then at the tote bag. Then back at my phone.

Mind your business.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

Benji: See you in twenty minutes, Travel Almonds.

I stare at the nickname. Then, despite myself, I smile.

It's still there ten minutes later when I lock my front door and head across the street.

Benji bends to lift his suitcase, and I have exactly half a second to be a decent human being.

I fail immediately.

The jeans are the problem. Not because they're tight. Because they're not. They're relaxed, broken-in, perfectly fitted in a way that suggests confidence rather than effort. Which is somehow worse. They look tailored by someone with a personal vendetta against my composure.

I clear my throat and focus on the trunk while he tosses the suitcase inside.

"Got it," he says. He straightens.

And then I see the shirt.

It’s black, soft, and hugs every deliciously toned muscle beneath. Very misleading until you read the white lettering stretched across his chest like a dare.

I prefer my books like I prefer my men: gay AF.

I blink. Once. Twice.

Benji watches my face with undisguised delight. "Good morning."

I point to his shirt. "That is a choice."

"It is."

"You're wearing that in public?"