Page 134 of The Gaybor War

No response.

I pull into the Starbucks drive-through, order his drink and my usual iced hazelnut latte, and try not to dissect the sudden heaviness pressing against my ribs.

It doesn’t work.

By the time I make it home, park, and cross the street to Benji’s house with the drinks sweating in my hands, my thoughts have gone somewhere uncomfortable.

Because it’s not about four dollars. It’s about instinct. About wanting to be the one he texts when he’s tired. Or lazy. Or needy. Or just in the mood to be mildly demanding.

It’s about wanting to be his go-to man.

His I forgot cream for my coffee man.

His I ran out of self-tanner and I look tragically pale man.

His Can you grab me a drink because I don’t feel like putting on pants man.

And realizing how deeply I don’t want to be temporary in that role.

I knock once and let myself in.

Benji is in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing soft lounge pants and one of my old college sweatshirts that he stole because it “carried my scent”. The sight of it hits hard.

He looks up, smiling. "You’re a hero."

I hand him the drink. "You’re a diva."

"Same thing." He takes a sip and sighs dramatically. "God, that’s good."

I watch the way his shoulders relax. The way he leans back against the counter, eyes closed in sheer bliss. And suddenly I’m very aware that I’m standing in the middle of something I never meant to enter, but can’t imagine not being a part of now.

"You didn’t have to," he says lightly, lifting the cup. "Next time I’ll⁠—"

"No."

The word comes out sharper than I intend.

His brows knit. "Okay. What’s happening right now?"

I drag a hand down my face. "I don’t want you paying me back for things."

"Carter—"

"I don’t split like that," I cut in. "Not with people I care about."

Silence fills the kitchen, thick enough to suffocate. Benji’s humor falters.

I’ve never seen him so caught off guard. It eases some of my irritation. My voice comes out softer. "I care about you, and if we start Venmo-ing each other for coffee and gas and takeout, it feels like we’re building an exit ramp. I don’t want that."

He swallows hard. "God, this is why I don’t do serious."

I tense. "Benji⁠—"

"Serious gets you crying into a tub of Cool Whip while watching old One Direction interviews," he blurts. "Serious gets you hurt. Serious is a scam."

My chest aches at the raw emotion in his voice. Did I misread things? Does he not want this?

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I like you. Way more than is convenient. And I don’t trust that. I don’t trust that it won’t blow up in my face."