Page 113 of The Gaybor War

They squeal. One of them notices me.

"Oh!" She coos. "You must be his boyfriend."

My brain misfires. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Benji slides a casual arm around my waist.

"This," he says smoothly, "is Carter. My court-appointed supervisor, occasional life coach, and full-time pirate."

"Full-time dilf pirate," Captain Hat corrects.

I choke. Benji absolutely loses it. He eats this attention up. I loathe attention.

The next hour is a blur.

Fans swarm him from every direction, hugging, laughing, demanding photos. He takes every single interaction in stride, glowing, vibrant, and completely in his element.

People compliment his art. His creativity. His kindness. They thank him over and over again. And I stand there beside him, increasingly invisible, increasingly aware of how enormous his world is. Until someone grabs my arm.

"Wait," a woman in rainbow suspenders says, squinting at me. "You’re the guy from the table earlier."

"I—"

"You looked at him as if he hung the moon."

Did I? My throat tightens. "I just⁠—"

She smiles gently. "We all saw it."

And then she’s gone, swept back into the chaos. Benji glances at me.

"You okay?"

I nod, then pause and shake my head. "This is… a lot."

He leans closer, voice low. "Too much?"

"No," I say honestly. "Just… big."

He studies me, then shifts his stance, turning his body slightly toward mine, anchoring himself to me in the middle of the storm. It’s subtle. It’s everything.

Later, someone challenges him to a limbo contest. He wins, naturally. Someone else insists on taking a group shot that requires me to stand directly behind him, hands on his hips, which I survive, barely.

At some point, he presses a drink into my hand and brushes his thumb across my knuckles, murmuring, "Still with me, Captain Blackbeard?"

"Regrettably."

His grin softens. "Good. I’m dying to dance with you."

Thank God, because I’m dying to get my hands on him.

He tugs me toward the center of the room, where bodies sway and pulse under warm, colored lights. The music is loud enough that conversation becomes optional, which is a blessing, because I’m not sure I could form coherent sentences right now, anyway.

Benji turns to face me, eyes twinkling, mouth curved, playful and inviting. He sets my hands at his waist as if he’s placing them exactly where they belong.

"Relax, it’s just dancing."

"That’s a lie," I mutter. “It’s foreplay.”

He laughs and moves closer, the press of him unmistakable as our bodies fit together in a way that feels alarmingly natural. The beat settles into us, slow and heavy, and I’m no longer thinking about crowds or glitter or pirate costumes.