Chapter 26
The ballroom hums with energy, alive with the constant undercurrent of voices layered over laughter, the shuffle of feet, the rustle of tote bags and glossy prints being passed from hand to hand.
I stand at the edge of it, coffee cooling in my grip, and watch Benji work.
He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t hover.
He belongs.
He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that reads: REAL LIFE COVER MODEL with a bold arrow pointing straight up at his face.
I snort into my coffee before I can stop myself. It’s ridiculous. It’s arrogant. It’s completely unnecessary. It’s also so aggressively Benji that my chest does something small and traitorous.
Bold, sensual art prints and vibrant covers featuring men in moments of intimacy, tension, and longing fill his table.
Color and emotion leap off every surface.
His banner hangs behind him, bright and unapologetic, his name printed large above a montage of his work. The line in front of him barely moves.
A woman in a rainbow cardigan steps forward, clutching a print as if it's something precious. Her hands tremble as she speaks. I can’t hear the words, but I see her expression shift, nerves melting into excitement.
Benji leans forward, elbows braced on the table, chin resting on his hands, giving her his full attention.
He listens. Really listens.
Whatever he says makes her laugh, then blink rapidly as if she’s fighting tears. He reaches out, touching her hand lightly. She nods, nods again, then hands him her print to sign.
Benji writes carefully, adds a little flourish, then slides it back to her with a soft smile that feels entirely sincere. She walks away hugging it to her chest. And then there’s another person. And another. And another.
Some bring books for him to sign of the covers he’s illustrated, the characters he’s helped bring to life. Some bring prints. Some bring phones, flipping through photos of their favorite designs. Others offer shaky gratitude and loud enthusiasm.
Benji meets every single one exactly where they are. He explains design choices, talks about color theory, body language, and representation. Why scars matter. Why softness matters. Why joy matters.
He doesn’t just make things pretty. He makes people feel seen.
A young man steps up next, voice barely steady. He gestures at one of Benji’s covers of two men pressed forehead to forehead, eyes closed, intimacy glowing between them.
"This is the first time I ever saw something that looked like how I feel. Like… like my life could look like that."
Benji’s expression shifts instantly. Softens.
"That means everything," he says quietly. "It’s why I do this."
The guy leaves, blinking hard. Something tightens behind my ribs.
Benji Stewart does not create chaos. He creates connection. He builds bridges between fantasy and possibility. He makes people brave. He is purpose wrapped in glitter and ego and a T-shirt that absolutely did not need to exist, but somehow does. And I am standing here, watching strangers love him.
The realization lands slowly. Then all at once. Pride. Awe. Protectiveness. And, beneath it, something softer. A gentle, unexpected jealousy—not sharp or bitter, just aware—conscious of how much of him the world gets. And how much of him I want.
"Are you with him?"
I start, glancing sideways. A woman with a neon pink streak in her hair and star-shaped earrings smiles at me, curiosity shining in her eyes.
"Sorry?"
She nods toward Benji. "Are you his partner?"
The word lands low in my gut. I could correct her, but I don’t.
"I’m… with him," I say instead.
Her smile widens. "Good. You look like you keep him grounded."
Something inside me loosens.
"Someone has to," I mutter.
She laughs and steps into line. I turn back to Benji. And I can’t help but see him differently now, not as my infuriating, magnetic, impossible neighbor, but as a man whose work helps people feel real in their own skin. He doesn’t just draw desire. He draws hope.
When he finally looks up and catches me watching, he beams. Familiar and glossy. The smile he saves for me. And standing there in that crowded ballroom, surrounded by strangers who adore him, I realize something that feels both wonderful and terrifying: I’m falling for him.
I don’t think I ever truly saw him before today.
When the line finally thins, the ballroom starts to exhale. Benji stretches, rolling his shoulders, fingers flexing as if he’s shaking off the last of the adrenaline. His smile softens as he looks up and finds me still there.
"Hey. You survived."
"Barely."
His laugh is real, unguarded. "Come here."
I step closer to the table, lowering my voice. "You were… incredible."
His brows lift in surprise. "You mean my shirt?"
"I mean everything."
Something flickers across his face—vulnerability, maybe—before he covers it with a grin. "Careful, Reed. Compliments make me powerful."
"Too late for that."
He glances at the dwindling line, then back at me. "Are you doing okay?"
I nod. Then hesitate. "Actually… would you sign something for me?"
That makes him pause. "Yeah?" he asks carefully. "What do you want me to sign?"
I gesture vaguely at the table. "One of the prints."
His smile turns curious. "You don’t strike me as the wall-art guy."
"I’m not."
"Then why?"
I meet his gaze with honest eyes. "Because I want something that proves I was here," I say quietly. "That I saw this."
Benji’s throat bobs. He reaches for a print—one of his softer covers of two men sitting close, foreheads touching, something unspoken shimmering between them—and slides it toward himself. He signs slowly, thoughtfully, then adds a small inscription before handing it to me.
"For the record, you make an excellent event roadie."
I snort. "High praise."
Our fingers brush as I take the print. Neither of us pulls back right away.
"Thank you."
I glance down at the inscription. To my hottest fan.
My mouth twitches.
He nods, his expression soft and sincere beneath the teasing. "Anytime."
As I step back, the glossy surface catches the overhead lights and my reflection. I barely recognize the man staring back at me. His shoulders are looser. His mouth is softer. His eyes are brighter. Warmer. Unguarded.
I look like a man falling in love.
And instead of feeling scared shitless, I feel… ready.