Page 53 of The Gaybor War

He snorts, then sobers, gaze lifting to my face. "You okay?"

For a second, I consider deflecting. Making a joke. Turning it into a performance.

Instead, I shrug. "Yeah. My ego took the bigger hit."

He nods as if he understands that more than he wants to.

Another charged silence settles in. His eyes keep tracking back to the expanse of skin between my shirt and shorts, trying not to look and failing.

"Well," I say lightly, "since you’re here… want to judge my form?"

His eyes snap up. "I—what?"

Trailing into the living room, I drop back to the floor, grab the ab roller, and flash him a smile. "Fair warning. This is where most people realize they’re in love with me."

"Benji—"

I roll forward. Smooth. Controlled. Very impressive. When I roll back up—making sure to squeeze the muscles in my ass extra tight just for him—Carter is staring. Hard.

I wipe sweat from my brow. "See? Suzanne would be proud."

He swallows, face tight with restraint. "You’re… exhausting."

"Yeah, but you’re still here." I rise slowly, stepping just a little closer than necessary.

He doesn’t move away, and neither do I.

For a man who came over with an excuse, Carter Reed is suddenly very quiet. Which, in Carter Reed language, is either a crisis or a breakthrough.

The mood shifts subtly, but I feel the moment the teasing burns off, and something more fragile is left behind. Carter’s eyes aren’t tracking my body anymore. They’re on my face now. Curious. Careful.

"You didn’t have to come over," I say softly. "You know that, right?"

"I know. I wanted to."

That affects me more than anything flirtatious could.

I nod, my voice quieter than it’s been all day. "Why did you really come over, Carter?"

He exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I don’t do things halfway very well. And you’re very much not a halfway person."

I smile, but it doesn’t quite stick. "No, I’m not."

We’re standing so close. Not touching. Just inside each other’s space, as though the room shrank while we weren’t looking. I can see the pulse in his throat. He notices me noticing.

Oh, no. Nope. Not doing this. Feelings are how streaming services trap you into six-hour binges and emotional devastation.

Focus, Benji.

"I don’t think you’re ridiculous," he blurts. "I mean—you are. But not in the way you think I mean."

I blink. That wasn’t what I expected.

"You make things… louder," he continues, choosing his words carefully. "And sometimes that scares me. But sometimes it just reminds me I’ve been too quiet for too long."

My chest tightens. So do my short shorts, because a self-aware man makes my dick hard every time.

Before I can overthink it, I reach out, fingers brushing his wrist. A connection. A question.