Chapter 16
I’m mid–spiral.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Pacing my living room, ranting to myself at full volume, sweating through a cropped cutoff tee that used to be a normal T-shirt before I took scissors to it in a moment of melodramatic clarity/instability.
"This is what happens when you care," I announce to my ficus. "You end up in a recycling bin over a brother."
The ficus remains unsympathetic.
I drop to the floor, reach under the couch, and slide out my ab roller with a vengeance. If my dignity is bruised, at least my core can be immaculate. My shorts are short—aggressively so—and my stomach is on full display because if I’m going to suffer, I might as well suffer hot.
I’m halfway through my third set, muttering, "Never spy again, Benjamin, never—" when there’s a knock at the door.
I freeze.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
Oh no.
I scramble upright, chest heaving, hair damp, skin flushed, and abs absolutely doing the most. I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror.
I look… unfairly good. Worked over in the best way.
I open the door to see Carter standing there. His gaze drops immediately. It’s not even subtle or dignified. Straight to my stomach like it’s magnetized.
He clears his throat. Once. Twice. "Hi."
"Hi," I say, breathless for reasons that are definitely cardio-related.
There’s a beat where neither of us speaks. His eyes flick back up to my face, then down again.
"How is it you look like that?"
"Like what?" I ask innocently, popping a hip.
He gestures vaguely at my torso. "That. I’ve never once seen you dressed for the gym. And you certainly don’t run well."
Rude. Accurate. But rude.
"Gym?" I scoff. "Please. I’ll have you know I do a very serious home workout every night."
He blinks. "You’re joking."
"Thigh master," I continue, counting on my fingers. "Resistance bands. Ab roller. Arm weights."
His mouth twitches. "My God. You’re like a walking nineties exercise infomercial."
"Excuse you," I say, affronted. "This body is tighter than Jane Fonda’s and Suzanne Somers’s."
That does it. He laughs. A real one. Quick and surprised, slipping out before he can stop it.
Carter steps inside without asking, then seems to realize he did that and stops short, hands flexing at his sides. His eyes drift south again.
Interesting.
I don't know what he's looking at exactly, but I'd like to believe my dedication to core strength isn't going unnoticed.
"I just—" he says, then sighs. "I came to check on you. After earlier."
"Oh. So you did notice my dramatic fall from grace." It’s a rhetorical, self-inflicted joke. Of course he noticed. He witnessed the entire sad debacle.
"I noticed you nearly concuss yourself over my garbage cans," he says dryly. "Yes."
I toss out what I hope is a charming grin. "They came out of nowhere."
He snorts, then sobers, gaze lifting to my face. "You okay?"
For a second, I consider deflecting. Making a joke. Turning it into a performance.
Instead, I shrug. "Yeah. My ego took the bigger hit."
He nods as if he understands that more than he wants to.
Another charged silence settles in. His eyes keep tracking back to the expanse of skin between my shirt and shorts, trying not to look and failing.
"Well," I say lightly, "since you’re here… want to judge my form?"
His eyes snap up. "I—what?"
Trailing into the living room, I drop back to the floor, grab the ab roller, and flash him a smile. "Fair warning. This is where most people realize they’re in love with me."
"Benji—"
I roll forward. Smooth. Controlled. Very impressive. When I roll back up—making sure to squeeze the muscles in my ass extra tight just for him—Carter is staring. Hard.
I wipe sweat from my brow. "See? Suzanne would be proud."
He swallows, face tight with restraint. "You’re… exhausting."
"Yeah, but you’re still here." I rise slowly, stepping just a little closer than necessary.
He doesn’t move away, and neither do I.
For a man who came over with an excuse, Carter Reed is suddenly very quiet. Which, in Carter Reed language, is either a crisis or a breakthrough.
The mood shifts subtly, but I feel the moment the teasing burns off, and something more fragile is left behind. Carter’s eyes aren’t tracking my body anymore. They’re on my face now. Curious. Careful.
"You didn’t have to come over," I say softly. "You know that, right?"
"I know. I wanted to."
That affects me more than anything flirtatious could.
I nod, my voice quieter than it’s been all day. "Why did you really come over, Carter?"
He exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I don’t do things halfway very well. And you’re very much not a halfway person."
I smile, but it doesn’t quite stick. "No, I’m not."
We’re standing so close. Not touching. Just inside each other’s space, as though the room shrank while we weren’t looking. I can see the pulse in his throat. He notices me noticing.
Oh, no. Nope. Not doing this. Feelings are how streaming services trap you into six-hour binges and emotional devastation.
Focus, Benji.
"I don’t think you’re ridiculous," he blurts. "I mean—you are. But not in the way you think I mean."
I blink. That wasn’t what I expected.
"You make things… louder," he continues, choosing his words carefully. "And sometimes that scares me. But sometimes it just reminds me I’ve been too quiet for too long."
My chest tightens. So do my short shorts, because a self-aware man makes my dick hard every time.
Before I can overthink it, I reach out, fingers brushing his wrist. A connection. A question.
His breath stutters, but he doesn’t pull away.
For one suspended second, it feels inevitable. His gaze drops to my mouth. Mine flicks to his. The space between us narrows until I can feel the warmth of his breath, smell clean soap and something faintly citrus.
I lean in.
So does he.
Not enough. Just almost.
And as I part my lips in anticipation of his kiss, he sighs regretfully, and my stomach drops.
Carter stops himself with visible effort, forehead dipping until it rests lightly against mine.
"Benji," he murmurs, as if he’s grounding himself. "If we do this… I don’t want it to be another thing I rush and regret."
I close my eyes, swallowing the disappointment—and the respect.
"Okay," I whisper. "Then don’t rush."
He pulls back slowly, hands fisting at his sides as if it costs him something to step away.
"I should go," he says, voice low.
"Yeah," I agree, even though every part of me wants him to stay.
At the door, he pauses, glancing back. "For what it’s worth… I’m glad it was my brother."
My smile is soft. "Me too. I don’t think I’d survive the embarrassment otherwise." Or the raging jealousy.
A corner of his mouth lifts. Then he leaves. And the quiet he leaves behind isn’t cold this time. It’s charged.
I stand there for a long second after the door closes, hand still hovering as if I might open it again by accident.
Like my body hasn’t gotten the memo that the moment is over.
Of all the ways this could’ve gone, Carter Reed standing in my living room looking like he wanted to kiss me and was terrified of what would happen after was not on my bingo card.
I don’t chase him. I don’t text him. I don’t spiral into a full mental investigation of what that almost meant.
Growth.
I grab my water bottle, take a long pull, then immediately abandon the idea of finishing my workout. There’s no burning this off. Not tonight.
Instead, I lean back against the counter and let the quiet settle. It’s energized. As though something’s been set in motion and is just waiting for the right excuse to tip.
"Okay, we’re doing this the slow way."
Which is terrifying.
Which is new.
Which—if I’m being honest—might be exactly what I want.