Page 61 of The Gaybor War

Inappropriate? Really? Is that the best he can come up with? As if one of us is underage, or in a delicate position of power over the other instead of merely neighbors, one of them fighting an attraction he doesn’t want to feel.

"You’re not pulling away."

The washer hums behind us, prefilling with hot water. The room tightens. Warms. Holds its breath. For one dangerous moment, I’m certain he’s going to close the distance. Call my bluff. Press his mouth to mine and pretend later that it was an accident.

I lean in just enough that he could.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales sharply and steps back as if he’s pulled himself from a ledge. "Your chili was good," he says grudgingly. "Congratulations."

I smile gently. "Thank you."

I wring out the shirt and hand it to him. Our fingers brush. Skin to skin. A quiet acknowledgement neither of us names.

"For what it’s worth, I didn’t come over to gloat."

"I know."

I don’t leave. I should. I know I should. The moment is already sharp enough to cut skin. Staying is reckless. But my hand lingers on the doorframe. My feet don’t move. Behind me, the washer pauses. And suddenly there's nothing in the room but me, Carter, and everything we're not saying.

"I can—" he starts, then stops. Tries again. "You don’t have to⁠—"

"I know." I turn back. "I’m not."

That’s the truth. I’m not here to push. I’m here because walking away feels worse.

He nods stiffly, bracing for impact. "Okay."

Okay. A short word doing an irresponsible amount of work.

We stand there with the shirt crumpled between us like a ceasefire. Neither of us breaks the stalemate.

"You do this on purpose," he says finally.

"Do what?"

His gaze drags over me and back. "Make it impossible to think."

My pulse jumps. "Carter..."

"This is a bad idea."

"Maybe."

His jaw flexes.

"If you ask me to leave, I will."

He doesn't. He just keeps looking at me like walking away is the last thing he wants.

The space between us hums. Finally, he takes a cautious step closer, bunching the shirt in his hands. His dark eyes implore me—to act, to retreat, to do something. Something to save us both.

The pause snaps.

Carter surges forward as if he’s been holding his breath for days, mouth finding mine with a sound that’s half frustration, half relief. It’s not careful. It’s not exploratory. It’s a kiss that says enough thinking.

I laugh into it—soft, startled—and then I’m kissing him back, hands fisting in the front of his shirt as though I need proof he’s real.