Page 149 of The Gaybor War

Moving in together turns out to be forty percent unpacking and sixty percent arguing about where things belong.

The first few days are a blur of cardboard, half-empty coffee cups, and Benji discovering—over and over—that I label everything. Pantry shelves. Closet sections. Tool drawers. At one point, I catch him peeling a sticker off a box just to see how long it takes me to notice.

(It takes six minutes.)

We settle into something easy, something comfortable. Shared breakfasts. Shared showers. Shared evenings curled together on the couch, critiquing bad reality television and HOA emails with equal fervor.

For a brief, miraculous window of time, Morningwood Estates is calm.

Which, in hindsight, should have been our first warning.

"Benji," I call down the hallway, "for the love of God, stop hiding my antique teapot collection in the closet!"

"You don’t even drink tea!" he shouts back. "What are we, the Golden Girls?"

"They were icons."

"Shut up, Rose," he mutters just loud enough for me to hear.

I finally find the last box wedged behind a stack of mismatched throw pillows and slam the hall closet door shut in triumph.

There’s a deep, bone-satisfying sense of completion that comes with knowing everything has a place. Even Benji’s chaos has begun to settle into something recognizable—colorful, loud, but ours all the same.

For a rare, perfect moment, the house is quiet. Then something catches my eye through the front window.

"Benji, come here. Hurry up," I call from the living room, voice pitched somewhere between intrigue and impending disaster. "You’re going to want to see this."

He appears beside me instantly, curiosity fully activated.

"Who are we spying on?" he asks, already pulling up the Morningwood Minute group chat. "Oh. Ohhh. That must be Eunice’s nephew."

A truck idles across the street as a tall, broad-shouldered man hops out, stretching as if he’s being filmed for a very specific audience. His shirt rides up, revealing a flash of toned abs before he tugs it back down.

Benji inhales sharply. "He looked right at us."

"Can he see us?"

Across the street, the man glances toward our window and smirks.

Benji gasps. "He saw us."

We stare as he kicks the post of the For Sale sign until he can pull it out of the ground. He tosses it near the front curb.

"That’s a violation," I murmur.

When he bends down, all I can think is how good his ass looks in those worn blue jeans.

"He better be straight," Benji says darkly.

"Why?" It’s hard to mask the amusement in my tone.

"Because I cannot compete with that." Benji folds his arms and scowls. "I am emotionally fragile."

I laugh, sliding an arm around his waist. "Relax. You’re irreplaceable."

He leans into me, eyes still glued to the window.

"Tell the truth. When I moved in, were you crouched in front of this window thinking the same thing about me?"