Page 96 of The Gaybor War

I nod. "Truce."

He glances over, eyes warm. "You’re doing great, by the way."

"Doing great at what?"

"Not combusting."

An inelegant snort shoots from my mouth.

The road stretches ahead—long, open, and dangerous. Miles of restraint. Miles of shared air and accidental contact and things not being said.

And I know—absolutely, unmistakably—that this trip is no longer about where we’re going. It’s about how long we can pretend we don’t know exactly what’s waiting when we get there.

"So." My tone is casual, eyes forward, hands locked on the wheel. "Tell me what I can expect from this… gathering."

Benji’s grin is immediate and deeply unhelpful.

"Overeager women. Lots of rainbow-dyed hair. And peens."

I blink. "Peens?"

"Everywhere," he confirms cheerfully.

I glance at him. "But you said it’s mostly women."

"It is," Benji says it patiently, like I’m the slow one here. "But peens are the love language of gay romance readers."

I open my mouth and then close it. He’s already warming up.

"Peen earrings. Peen keychains and tote bags. Crocheted peens. Squishy rubber peens. Peens on shirts. Peens on⁠—"

"Okay," I cut in. "I get it."

He looks offended. "I hadn’t even gotten to novelty stationery and pens."

I sigh. "So. A bunch of thirsty, literature-loving people with colorful hair."

"Yes."

I nod slowly. Everything I am not, my brain unhelpfully supplies.

Benji watches my reflection in the windshield. "Trust me, you’ll fit right in."

I glance at him again. Dubious feels generous. "Really."

He holds it for half a second—just long enough for hope to flicker—then breaks into laughter. "Oh no. You’re going to stick out like a sore thumb."

My jaw tightens.

"But," he adds, softer, smiling in a way that feels dangerously sincere, "they’re going to love you anyway."

I return my attention to the road, pulse doing something unnecessary.

"That’s comforting," I say dryly.

He hums. "You say that now."

The highway stretches ahead in long ribbons of afternoon sunlight. The car fills with music and the unspoken certainty that I am driving directly into a room full of strangers, genital-themed crafts, and whatever fresh hell Benji Stewart considers fun.