Chapter 18
Ipin the blue ribbon to my chili-pepper shirt with ceremony.
Not because I care about the win, but because I care very much about the optics.
Then I grab a bottle of club soda, a container of chili for evidence, leverage, or a peace offering, depending on how you squint, and cross the street as if I haven’t been rehearsing this in my head for twenty minutes.
Carter answers the door in a different shirt. Dark, plain, and as boring as the rest of his wardrobe.
His eyes flick to the ribbon. They narrow.
"You’re wearing it."
"Of course I am. Achievements should be displayed. Also, it makes you mad."
"I’m not mad."
"Mm," I say, stepping inside anyway. "Your jaw says otherwise.” I hold up the club soda. "I’m here to save your shirt. Chili stains are stubborn. Like their creators."
He exhales through his nose, conflicted, then steps aside. "Laundry room’s this way."
As we pass through the kitchen, I drop the container of chili on the counter and follow him. It’s a tight space. Just a washer, dryer, and shelves carefully arranged with fabric softener and detergent. In fact, it’s so carefully arranged, you could shoot a Tide commercial in here.
Carter hands me the shirt without meeting my eyes. I pour the club soda slowly, watching the stain fizz and lift.
He leans in, as if to micromanage my sanitation procedures, because he’s Carter, that’s what he does.
"You smell like chili."
I glance up slowly. "On my breath, or are you just thinking about me again?"
Color creeps into his face.
"I meant—" He stops, recalibrates. "It’s… noticeable."
I step closer. Not enough to trap him. Just enough to make the space between us feel intentional.
"Would you like to taste it?"
Carter goes completely still. Suspended, as if his body is waiting for instructions his brain refuses to give.
His gaze drops—to my mouth, the curve of it, the faint smile I don’t bother hiding. When his eyes lift again, they’re darker. Focused.
"This is inappropriate." His voice comes out rough.
Inappropriate? Really? Is that the best he can come up with? As if one of us is underage, or in a delicate position of power over the other instead of merely neighbors, one of them fighting an attraction he doesn’t want to feel.
"You’re not pulling away."
The washer hums behind us, prefilling with hot water. The room tightens. Warms. Holds its breath. For one dangerous moment, I’m certain he’s going to close the distance. Call my bluff. Press his mouth to mine and pretend later that it was an accident.
I lean in just enough that he could.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he exhales sharply and steps back as if he’s pulled himself from a ledge. "Your chili was good," he says grudgingly. "Congratulations."
I smile gently. "Thank you."
I wring out the shirt and hand it to him. Our fingers brush. Skin to skin. A quiet acknowledgement neither of us names.
"For what it’s worth, I didn’t come over to gloat."
"I know."
I don’t leave. I should. I know I should. The moment is already sharp enough to cut skin. Staying is reckless. But my hand lingers on the doorframe. My feet don’t move. Behind me, the washer pauses. And suddenly there's nothing in the room but me, Carter, and everything we're not saying.
"I can—" he starts, then stops. Tries again. "You don’t have to—"
"I know." I turn back. "I’m not."
That’s the truth. I’m not here to push. I’m here because walking away feels worse.
He nods stiffly, bracing for impact. "Okay."
Okay. A short word doing an irresponsible amount of work.
We stand there with the shirt crumpled between us like a ceasefire. Neither of us breaks the stalemate.
"You do this on purpose," he says finally.
"Do what?"
His gaze drags over me and back. "Make it impossible to think."
My pulse jumps. "Carter..."
"This is a bad idea."
"Maybe."
His jaw flexes.
"If you ask me to leave, I will."
He doesn't. He just keeps looking at me like walking away is the last thing he wants.
The space between us hums. Finally, he takes a cautious step closer, bunching the shirt in his hands. His dark eyes implore me—to act, to retreat, to do something. Something to save us both.
The pause snaps.
Carter surges forward as if he’s been holding his breath for days, mouth finding mine with a sound that’s half frustration, half relief. It’s not careful. It’s not exploratory. It’s a kiss that says enough thinking.
I laugh into it—soft, startled—and then I’m kissing him back, hands fisting in the front of his shirt as though I need proof he’s real.
The laundry basket shifts behind me, the handle bumping into my ass as I stumble back a step. He drops the shirt to the floor and follows without thinking, crowding me in, heat everywhere. The room feels suddenly too small for the amount of want in it.
He pulls back just long enough to murmur, breath wrecked, "This isn’t because the girls want this for us."
I‘m close enough to feel his words against my mouth. "I should hope not."
He kisses me again—slower this time, deeper, memorizing my taste. His slick tongue slides over mine again and again. My hand drops to his waist, and his breath hitches in a way that feels unfairly satisfying.
For a moment, the world narrows to the hum of appliances and the press of his body and the undeniable truth settling between us:
This isn’t gossip.
This isn’t a game.
This is choice.
And Carter is finally making it.
When we finally part, foreheads touching, neither of us says the obvious thing.
We don’t have to.
We both want this—and worse, we already know we’re going to want it again.
As my lips cool, the world rushes back in, dragging reality with it.
Carter exhales first, a shaky breath against my cheek, as if he’s surprised his lungs still work.
My hands are still on his hips. His are still fisted in my shirt.
Neither of us moves right away, because moving would mean deciding something.
"This," he says quietly, not pulling away, "can’t turn into a spectacle."
I snort under my breath. "Relax. I only perform under very specific lighting conditions."
The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, but close enough. Then he finally steps back, putting a few inches of space between us. Breathing room. I watch him run a hand through his hair.
The reset button.
"I mean it, Benji."
His voice is serious.
"I know."
"No group chat theories. No HOA betting pools. No Candace making spreadsheets."
"First of all, Candace already has spreadsheets."
His look sharpens.
I lift both hands. "Kidding. Mostly."
He shakes his head, but there's no real frustration behind it.
"I just..." He hesitates. "I'd like one thing in this neighborhood to belong to us before everyone else gets their hands on it."
The words land harder than the kiss. Because this isn't Carter pulling away. It's Carter asking me to stay.
I stare at him for a second. "Wow."
His brow furrows. "What?"
"That might be the most romantic thing you've ever said."
"That's not what I—"
"No, no. Don't ruin it. Let me have this."
Carter closes his eyes briefly, inhaling a deep, patient breath. "I'm serious, Benji."
The teasing fades from my smile. "I know."
He studies me for a moment, waiting for the punchline. There isn't one.
"Okay," I say quietly. "No spectacle."
Some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
"Although," I add thoughtfully, "we should probably define spectacle."
Carter points at me immediately. "No."
"Because my interpretation and your interpretation could vary wildly."
"Benji."
A reluctant smile threatens the corner of his mouth.
I watch it happen, the way his body relaxes before his mind catches up.
That, right there, is my favorite thing about him.
The reckless streak that breaks free from the staunch, organized part of him that always dominates his personality. The part so opposite of me.
"No announcements," he says.
"Fine."
"No hinting."
"Rude."
"No letting Candace 'accidentally' find out."
I place a hand over my heart. "The fact that you think I'd manipulate Candace is honestly insulting."
Carter just looks at me.
I sigh. "Okay, that's fair."
"Benji."
"I'm listening."
His expression softens. "I just want a chance to figure this out."
The honesty in his voice steals every smart-ass response I have. "You have one."
Something warm settles between us. Not the frantic spark from before.
Better. Steadier. Like we're finally standing on the same side of something.
We finish what we pretended we were doing. The shirt. The stain. Domestic nonsense as a lifeline. I pretend not to watch the way his forearms tense and flex, highlighting every vein and tendon. He pretends not to notice me pretending.
He reaches for the door, then hesitates. "Hey, Benji?"
"Yeah?"
His eyes meet mine. Warm. Certain. A little terrified.
"Thank you. For… not making it a thing."
I tip my head. "Oh, Carter. This is absolutely a thing."
His eyes close briefly. Then, before he can overthink it and before I can say something that violates our brand-new anti-spectacle agreement, he leans in and kisses me one more time.
Quick. Soft. Completely unfair. When he pulls away, I just blink at him.
"That one didn't count," I inform him.
"Why?"
"Too short."
A laugh escapes him. Actual laughter.
My God. I should kiss him more often.
Carter shakes his head and opens the door. "Goodnight, Benji."
"Goodnight, Carter."
I give him a head start before following him out.
I walk home slower than necessary, hoping he’s watching my sway through the window. Across the street, I glance back. His light is still on. Mine is too. The space between our houses feels smaller than it did an hour ago—as if something invisible just stretched across it and tied tight.
I don’t feel rejected. I feel… seen. Wanted.
Which is worse. And better.
And absolutely going to complicate my week.