Page 65 of The Gaybor War

Benji is none of those things. He's color and noise and disruption. He's the human equivalent of throwing glitter into a filing cabinet.

And somehow, instead of exhausting me, he's become the part of my day I look forward to.

That's the problem. Not that I want him.

It's that I don't seem to want less of him.

By the time I escape the office, my jaw aches from clenching. In the car, I exhale, tell myself the day is over, but then my phone rings through the speakers.

My brother's name flashes across the dash. I consider letting it go to voicemail.

Unfortunately, he's persistent.

"Hey." My tone is careful. Neutral.

"So," he says immediately. "How's suburbia?"

"Fine."

My brother lives in a condo downtown. He can’t fathom why an unmarried man with no kids would want to settle down in a gated prison—his words.

"Uh-huh. And the neighbor?"

I tighten my grip on the wheel. "What neighbor?"

"The annoying one. With the body."

I say nothing.

"And the tempting smile," he adds, twisting the knife.

Still nothing.

"The one you definitely don't spend an alarming amount of time thinking about."

I sigh. "He’s not—" I stop. Re-route. "He’s… a lot."

Mark laughs. "There’s that tone."

"What tone?"

"The one where you pretend you're complaining while describing your future husband."

I nearly drive over a curb. "Jesus Christ."

"I'm serious. Six months ago, if I asked about your neighbors, you'd tell me property values and noise ordinances. This guy gets an entire character study."

"He's objectively difficult."

"Mm."

"He inserts himself into everything."

My brother hums. "You kissed him."

I nearly miss a stop sign.

"I did not⁠—"