Page 33 of The Gaybor War

He sits on the edge of the bed to adjust the hem, leaning just a fraction closer, and I’m acutely aware of everything—how close his leg is to mine, how every small movement seems deliberately provocative.

"Are you done yet?" I try again, sharper this time.

He looks up, smile turning wicked. "Almost. But don’t worry, Carter. I’ll return this eventually… maybe."

Damn him, I’m utterly screwed.

Benji crouches to grab a stack of folded shirts from the lower shelf, but instead of handing them to me, he fans them out like a deck of cards.

"Hmm," he says, tilting his head, "these are too boring. Navy? Chino? Carter, honey, who are you trying to impress—your accountant from 2008?"

I scowl. "They’re… practical. Neutral. Not screaming ‘look at me!’"

"Exactly!" he exclaims, tossing a beige button-up over his shoulder. "Screaming is fun. Life is fun. These are… not fun."

He’s standing way too close again, brushing past my arm as he rearranges my neatly stacked chinos into some kind of playful, chaotic mountain. I bite my lip, trying not to notice how the light catches the planes of his torso.

"Seriously," I mutter, attempting to reclaim some authority, "I don’t need a stylist."

He squints at me, grin widening. "Oh, I think you do. And I’m volunteering."

I groan, backing toward the dresser, which somehow only makes him lean in more. "You’re insane."

"And yet," he says, plucking a striped polo from the pile and holding it like a flag, "you can’t look away."

I try to focus on the task—folding, sorting, pretending this is all normal—but my hands keep shaking. Not with fear. With something else entirely.

He flips a shirt over and holds it up to me. "Picture this at the next HOA mixer. Instant conversation starter. Trust me."

I stare, my tongue twisted and tied. "I… I don’t… No one’s… I⁠—"

Benji laughs, sliding past me again. "Relax, Carter. I’m just rearranging. You’ll thank me later."

Yeah. I’ll thank him later… probably in ways I’m definitely not supposed to be thinking about right now.

As Benji sifts through my wardrobe, tossing things this way and that with alarming glee, my brain wanders to a very dangerous place.

What would I find if I cleaned out his drawers?

No. Stop. Absolutely not. That’s a terrible idea.

I imagine mismatched socks, novelty boxer briefs with pineapples or tacos, maybe even some wildly impractical hats. Speedos, thongs, jockstraps and bikini briefs. My pulse ticks up at the thought, and immediately I chastise myself.

That doesn’t help anything. It only proves how much I’m already thinking about him. About his stupid grin. About the way he somehow makes everything in my life feel suddenly small, dull, and… boring.

I shake my head, trying to focus on the task at hand. Folding. Sorting. Keeping the closet intact. Anything to stay grounded.

And yet, every time he leans closer, laughs, or picks up a perfectly neutral gray T-shirt and holds it like it’s damning proof of my lackluster personality, my brain betrays me again.

He’s impossible. And I’m in deep trouble.

Benji plucks a crisp white button-up from the pile and holds it up dramatically, letting it drape over his arms.

"Oh, Carter," he sighs, as if I’ve just handed him the crown jewels. "This one’s perfect. It says… ‘I have a master’s degree in finance, but I’m secretly wild.’"

I blink, trying to think of something clever, but I’ve got nothing. "It… doesn’t say that."

He winks, twirling the shirt in the air. "Oh, it does. You just need someone to interpret. Luckily, you have me."