Chapter 23
Iwake up before my alarm, which is irritating because my alarm is set for five-thirty. I lie there staring at the ceiling for a full minute before accepting the obvious.
I'm excited.
I thought I’d be nervous or conflicted or even having an existential crisis.
But no, I’m excited. Which feels deeply embarrassing.
Across the street, Benji is probably still asleep. Or doing yoga. Or color-coding luggage tags. I have no idea what his travel habits are, and somehow that thought occupies more space in my brain than it should.
I throw the covers back and start my morning routine.
Coffee. Shower. Suitcase. Check suitcase. Check suitcase again.
The suitcase remains successfully packed.
By six-thirty, I'm standing in my kitchen with a travel mug in one hand and absolutely no reason to leave for another twenty minutes.
My phone buzzes.
Benji: IMPORTANT QUESTION.
Oh good, he’s up.
It's 6:31 in the morning.
Benji: Exactly. This is when important questions happen.
No, this is when coffee happens.
Benji: How many emergency snacks are you bringing?
I look at the pile of protein bars currently sitting on my counter.
Define emergency.
Benji: Oh no. You packed snacks.
Everyone packs snacks.
Benji: Not enough snacks to survive a minor economic collapse.
That's a wild accusation.
Benji: Is it?
I glance at the counter. Then at the tote bag. Then back at my phone.
Mind your business.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Benji: See you in twenty minutes, Travel Almonds.
I stare at the nickname. Then, despite myself, I smile.
It's still there ten minutes later when I lock my front door and head across the street.
Benji bends to lift his suitcase, and I have exactly half a second to be a decent human being.
I fail immediately.
The jeans are the problem. Not because they're tight. Because they're not. They're relaxed, broken-in, perfectly fitted in a way that suggests confidence rather than effort. Which is somehow worse. They look tailored by someone with a personal vendetta against my composure.
I clear my throat and focus on the trunk while he tosses the suitcase inside.
"Got it," he says. He straightens.
And then I see the shirt.
It’s black, soft, and hugs every deliciously toned muscle beneath. Very misleading until you read the white lettering stretched across his chest like a dare.
I prefer my books like I prefer my men: gay AF.
I blink. Once. Twice.
Benji watches my face with undisguised delight. "Good morning."
I point to his shirt. "That is a choice."
"It is."
"You're wearing that in public?"
"That's generally how shirts work."
"You know exactly what I'm asking."
"I do." He beams. "And yes."
"People are going to see you."
"I certainly hope so."
This is how the trip starts. Not with traffic or coffee or polite small talk, but with Benji Stewart’s ass and a declaration of gay literary smut standing in my driveway at seven in the morning.
I open the driver’s door before I can say anything else incriminating. "Get in the car."
He chuckles as he rounds the hood. "Bossy already. Road trips really bring that out in you, huh?"
I do not respond. Instead, I start the engine. As he settles into the passenger seat, I catch movement across the street.
Kiki is standing on her porch holding a mug. Watching.
Candace is beside her. Watching.
Shania is actually using binoculars.
I close my eyes. "Don't."
"They're waving."
"I know."
"Should we wave back?"
"We absolutely should not."
Benji immediately rolls down the window and waves.
The women lose their minds. I pull away from the curb before they can organize a parade.
We make it exactly three minutes before the next problem presents itself.
Benji reaches for the radio.
"Don’t."
He freezes, hand hovering. "Wow. That was immediate."
"I just—" I sigh. "We haven’t even merged onto the highway."
"That’s when the real passive-aggressive damage happens."
Undeterred, he clicks the knob. The speakers fill with something upbeat and aggressively pop. Glittery. Optimistic. Sung by a man who sounds like he owns at least three mesh tank tops.
I glance at him. "Is this… a Broadway dance remix?"
"It’s joy, Carter."
"It's aggressively enthusiastic."
"You say that like it's illegal."
"I'm still gathering evidence."
Benji laughs and turns it up slightly. I leave it.
His eyebrows shoot up. "Really?"
"I'm choosing peace."
"Wow, that’s personal growth."
"Don't ruin it."
He begins to hum along, tapping his foot to the beat. Unfortunately, he has a nice voice. I discover this against my will.
I catch him watching me out of the corner of my eye—amused, smug, entirely too pleased with himself—and I realize this is how it’s going to go. Not silence. Not polite conversation.
This.
Music wars, commentary, shirt-based provocations, and a man who considers irritation a love language.
The first hour passes surprisingly quickly. The music war settles into an uneasy truce. He plays something ridiculous. I play something boring. He mocks me. I mock him.
We establish a ceasefire somewhere outside the city. He steals one of my emergency granola bars.
"Did you seriously pack twelve of these?"
"I planned."
"You planned for a natural disaster."
"I planned for you."
He pauses and smiles. "Oh."
The smile does something unpleasant to my pulse, and I stare harder at the road.
"You know," he drums his fingers against his thigh, "for a man who pretends to hate fun, you’re very good at road trips."
"I don’t hate fun."
"You hate my fun."
"That’s different."
We stop for lunch when hunger starts making both of us argumentative. The restaurant is one of those places that can't decide whether it's a diner or a bistro.
Benji studies the menu as if he's reading one of his romance novels.
"This sandwich sounds emotional."
"It's corned beef."
"Listen to this description." He clears his throat. "'Tender brisket piled high with house-made slaw and tangy mustard aioli. It reads like foreplay. I can taste it already. Or do I want the bread pudding with a side of fruit? Creamy and sweet, but sensible."
I decide to pretend to ignore him, but I have to reach under the table to readjust myself. The food arrives. It's good. Conversation gets easier.
Work. Travel. His latest impossible HOA feud. My brother. His college roommate who accidentally joined a roller derby team because he thought it was a networking event.
By dessert, we're both relaxed enough that neither of us notices until it's already happened.
The chocolate cake arrives. Benji takes a bite. His eyes close. "Oh, wow."
I make the mistake of looking up. His expression is entirely too satisfied for a man eating baked goods. He takes another bite. Slowly.
I immediately regret maintaining visual contact, and I take a long sip of water that does nothing to cool me off. He goes in for another bite, slower this time.
"Carter."
"What?"
"You're staring."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
I stare at the wall and think about spreadsheets and the PH balance of the soil around my hydrangeas. Anything to avoid watching his throat bob as he swallows.
"You make eating dessert weird."
"I am literally eating cake."
"Exactly."
He laughs so hard he nearly chokes. The sound settles somewhere inconvenient inside my chest. Eventually he slides the plate toward me.
"Try it."
I do, and damn it, it's excellent.
Benji looks unbearably smug. "See?"
"I hate when you're right."
"No, you don't."
The annoying thing is that he's correct.
"I’m paying," I say automatically when the server comes.
Benji arches a brow. "Because you’re driving?"
"No, because I’m paying. That’s that."
"Cute, but I invited you. I’m paying."
"I don’t need you to—"
"I insist," he says lightly, already handing over his card. "Let me do something nice without turning it into a moral dilemma."
I close my mouth.
We get back in the car with the windows down and the music lower, as if we’re both pretending something has cooled off.
It hasn’t.
His elbow presses against mine as we merge back onto the highway, and it stays there. Neither of us moves.
"Okay." His voice is calmer, less mischievous. "Truce?"
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.
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.
"And this—" he pauses, thoughtful, "—is for confidence."
I shift my weight, jaw clenched, painfully aware that my pants have decided now is the time to revolt. I stand very still, hoping he doesn’t notice the situation developing south of my dignity.
Benji glances over. His smile changes, sharpens.
"Oh," he says lightly. "Is this weird?"
I laugh, short and humorless. "You’re unpacking underwear like a villain, monologuing and calculating an evil plan."
He beams. "God, I’ve missed you. Those six hours in the car were too quiet."
He zips the suitcase shut and gestures toward the bed as if this is all perfectly reasonable.
"Relax, Carter. We’re adults."
I don’t sit. I don’t respond. There is one bed. One room. And Benji Stewart, barefoot now, entirely too comfortable in shared space.
My pulse is loud, and my thoughts are not helpful. Because I’m dying to see him in those underwear later… in our bed.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at absolutely nothing. A few months ago, the idea of sharing a hotel room with Benji Stewart would've sounded like a threat. Now he's unpacking his life beside mine for the weekend, and my biggest concern is whether I'm smiling too much.
The truth lands with uncomfortable clarity.
The bed isn't what has me nervous. It's how much I'm looking forward to waking up beside him.