Page 142 of The Gaybor War

"Yeah," I admit quietly. "Here I am."

Benji’s smile is softer than the glitter, warmer than the lights. He hands me a tiny flamingo ornament wearing a Santa hat.

"Go on, Captain Regulation. Make it worse."

I hang it on the lowest branch. Immediately, the tree becomes objectively better, which I refuse to acknowledge.

We finish sometime after midnight, when the glitter has migrated into my hair, my sleeves, and—somehow—the inside of my socks.

Benji collapses onto the couch with a dramatic groan. "I need a drink. And possibly a chiropractor."

"You need a support group." I lower myself beside him. "For people addicted to sparkle."

He hums thoughtfully. "I’d run that group. Obviously."

"Obviously."

The warm glow of the room envelopes us. Rainbow light bounces off the ornaments, reflects against the walls, and casts everything in soft color. It’s absurd. It’s overwhelming. It’s… kind of beautiful.

The comfortable silence wraps us in a moment, shoulders brushing, knees barely touching. Not quite cuddling. Not quite not. My gaze drifts to the tree again, to the riot of color and personality. And tucked among the neon and leather and disco balls, I spot it.

One of my ornaments. A small glass cardinal, deep red, delicate, simple. It’s been hanging on my family’s trees for years before my mother passed it down to me.

I frown. "Did you steal my bird?"

Benji doesn’t look guilty in the slightest. "Borrowed."

"That ornament is older than both of us."

"All the more reason to give it a more exciting life."

"You put it next to a Daddy Santa in a harness."

"Character development," he says lightly.

I shake my head, but my chest does something strange and inconvenient. "You could’ve asked."

He glances over at me, his expression softening. "Would you have said yes?"

I hesitate. "…Probably."

"See? Efficiency."

I snort, but I don’t argue further. I like seeing my things in his home, and I’d love to see his stuff in mine. Benji leans his head back, eyes half-lidded, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.

"You know," he says quietly, "your tree is very pretty."

I blink. "You called it emotionally unavailable."

"I said very regulation-coded. There’s a difference." He shifts slightly, his arm brushing mine. "But it’s nice. Calm. It feels safe."

The word squeezes my heart. "Thanks," I say, just as quietly.

We fall into an easy silence again. Eventually, he stands with a sigh. "I’m grabbing water. Want one?"

"Sure."

While he’s in the kitchen, I find myself staring at the tree again. At the cardinal. And before I can overthink it, I reach out and pluck one of his ornaments from a branch—the ridiculous little flamingo in a Santa hat, glittering obnoxiously. The antithesis of everything about my tree.