Page 83 of The Gaybor War

"Well," I say finally, unpacking the containers. "I hope it goes well."

He smiles warmly at me. "Thanks. I like that you asked."

Something about that sticks with me. Maybe because I realize I don't ask enough. About his work, his life—about anything that exists beyond the version of him I already know.

Dinner ends up happening at the island with open cartons between us and knees occasionally bumping beneath the counter.

It's surprisingly easy. No verbal sparring. No neighborhood nonsense. Just conversation. Benji tells me about an author who rejected an entire cover because it wasn't emotionally horny enough.

I still don't know what that means, but he insists it's a real thing.

I tell him about work—nothing confidential, just enough for him to tease me about my love of order and my refusal to admit spreadsheets can be beautiful.

"They are beautiful," I insist. "They’re honest."

He hums thoughtfully. "You’re an earnest man, Carter Reed."

"I’m practical."

"Same thing."

I tell him about my brother, how he never met a boundary he didn’t want to test. Benji admits he moved here because he wanted somewhere quieter, then laughs because clearly that didn’t work.

I laugh so hard I nearly choke. "You chose the wrong neighborhood."

"I chose the right antagonist," he counters.

I shake my head, smiling. There’s a pause as he forks another bite, watching me over the rim of his glasses. Assessing, but gently. As though he's enjoying himself. As though he likes being here. With me.

"You should come with me," he blurts.

I blink. "Come where?"

He tilts his head. "The book signing."

I laugh, short and disbelieving. "I don’t think I’m the target audience."

"Please. You’d be terrible at blending in. But it’d be fun."

"I don’t do fun." It's my automatic response anytime I hear that word.

He smiles as if he’s heard that before and already filed it away as something to challenge. "You look like you could use some." His smile turns sly. "And you'd get to watch me be adored by hundreds of strangers."

“Ah, now we get down to the truth.”

"I thought you'd appreciate the honesty."

I should say no. I don't travel spontaneously. I don't attend book conventions. And I definitely don't spend weekends following attractive neighbors around unfamiliar cities.

The answer should be obvious.

Instead, I picture it. Benji behind a table talking about something he loves. Confident, happy, and completely in his element. And unexpectedly, I want to see it.

Not because of the books. Because of him.

"I'll think about it."

His smile is small but victorious. "That’s all I ask."