Page 97 of The Gaybor War

And somehow—against my better judgment—I don’t turn the car around.

I say nothing at the front desk. That’s my first mistake. I just stand there while Benji leans against the counter, chatting with the clerk as if this is any other hotel, any other trip, any other version of reality where my pulse isn't behaving like a malfunctioning smoke detector.

"Reservation for Benjamin Stewart."

The desk clerk smiles, types for a moment, and slides two keycards across the counter. Benji thanks her and heads for the elevator, and I follow.

The ride up is uneventful. Unfortunately, my brain is not. I’m painfully aware of my breathing. I stare at the numbers lighting up, willing them to move faster, slower—anything but forward.

By the time we reach our floor, I've convinced myself to be normal about whatever room we're assigned. Hotels have options. Two beds. Pullout couches. Chairs. Floor space.

Civilized solutions exist.

At the end of the long carpeted hall, he slides the keycard into the slot, and the door opens to reveal a king-size bed.

Singular and centered like an accusation. My cough comes out rougher than intended, my body attempting a reset that does not take.

I stay by the door, hands flexing uselessly at my sides as awareness fills me. A very sudden awareness of things I'd managed not to think about during the drive.

Behind me, Benji wheels his suitcase inside. "Oh." He drops his bag beside the dresser and looks at the bed. Then back at me. A smile tugs at his mouth. "It's a very large bed."

"That's not helping."

"I wasn't trying to help."

I rub a hand over the back of my neck. The ridiculous part is that this shouldn't be surprising. We're here together. We're dating. Or whatever version of dating exists when one participant treats flirting like an Olympic sport, and the other requires a written agenda before experiencing emotions.

Still. Seeing the bed makes everything feel slightly more real.

Benji catches whatever expression crosses my face. His smile softens.

"Hey." I look at him. "We're okay."

The simple certainty of it settles something in my chest. Not all of it. Just enough.

I glance back at the bed one more time. "Right."

Benji follows my gaze. Then, because he's Benji, he nods thoughtfully and says, "At least neither of us snores."

"You don't know that."

"I choose to believe the best about you, Carter."

He unzips his suitcase and starts to unpack, and my heart drops into my stomach.

Shirts first, which is harmless. Then jeans. Then underwear. I look away too late.

They’re black, tiny, and cut in ways that feel deliberately unfair. My chest tightens, breath catching before I can stop it. This is not helpful. None of this is helpful.

To make things worse, Benji narrates, naturally. I think he narrates his entire life.

"This one’s for the signing." Toss.

"This one’s for the after-party." Toss.

I focus on the wall, the carpet, anything that is not the very real awareness spreading through my body like a problem I refuse to name.

He tosses another pair. Darker. Smaller.