Page 82 of The Gaybor War

Benji preens just slightly. "I make books irresistible."

"With shirtless men?"

"I'm a specialist."

I shake my head.

"For romance readers," he says unapologetically. "Some of us were called to do important things, Carter."

I snort.

"I was called to convince the world that men are sexy beasts and more desirable than they have any right to be. And, obviously, to spread the gay agenda."

"Obviously."

"I do God's work."

"You're ridiculous."

"And employed."

The thing is, underneath the jokes, he's good. Really good. I expected something flashy. I didn't expect this. The cover is polished. Professional. Every detail looks deliberate.

Not good for Benji. Just good.

Maybe he notices something in my expression because his grin softens.

"People think covers are easy," he says. "They're not." He taps the screen. "You've got maybe three seconds to convince someone to click. Color. Typography. Composition. Every choice matters."

His mouth curves. "Also abs."

"Naturally."

"Mostly abs."

I laugh despite myself. And then I realize he's stopped performing. He's talking about something he genuinely cares about. It's strangely compelling. The same way listening to someone describe a favorite hobby becomes interesting simply because they love it. I watch him explain font hierarchy and visual balance with the same enthusiasm he brings to HOA warfare.

Somehow that's even more attractive.

We move toward the kitchen with the food, and I clock the suitcase near the spare bedroom. "You going somewhere?"

"Oh. Yeah. Book signing."

I pause. "A signing?"

“I’ll be out of town for a couple of days."

Something about that lands oddly.

The idea of Benji somewhere else. Not as my neighbor. Not as my personal disruption. Just... Benji. Existing in a world I know nothing about.

"What’s that like?" I ask before I can stop myself.

His eyebrows rise slightly, as though he's surprised I asked. "Loud," he says after a moment. "Fun. Exhausting." He leans against the counter. "People come up and tell me what books meant to them. They'll point at a cover and tell me it made them buy the book. Or they'll tell me a series became their comfort read during a rough year." The humor fades around the edges. "It's nice."

I try to imagine it. Laughing. Talking. Being appreciated for something he built. And suddenly I realize I've never really considered what Benji looks like outside Morningwood. Outside our ridiculous street. Outside whatever role I've assigned him in my head.

The thought settles somewhere uncomfortable. Because now I want to.