Chapter 19 #2
Which immediately tells me I was about to give him one.
"I'm just being honest." His gaze holds mine. "You get to decide what you want, Carter. I just figured you should know what I want." He winks and slides his sunglasses back into place. "You'll figure it out."
His tone is easy, but there's something steady underneath it. A confidence I don't have. Then he takes a step backward.
"I'll see you around."
And just like that, he walks away. I stand there like an idiot, watching him go.
The thing is, I expected pursuit. Banter. Pressure disguised as charm. I expected Benji to keep pushing until I decided what this was.
Instead, he handed me the decision and walked away. The safety net was imaginary. And for the first time since I met him, I realize Benji Stewart isn't asking me to choose him.
He's just asking me to choose.
The next day, the universe decides to pile on.
An email hits my inbox mid-morning: URGENT—Food Truck Rodeo Vendor Issue. Apparently one of the trucks double-booked and Eunice is beside herself. I’m CC’d because I’m a block captain now. God help me.
The meeting is at the clubhouse. When I walk in, Benji is already there.
He’s standing at the whiteboard, sleeves rolled, hair styled back, focused as he neatly rewrites the vendor roster in sharp, precise handwriting.
Professional. Efficient. Distractingly attractive.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me.
"Carter." He nods. "Thanks for coming."
His tone is so measured I’m irrationally disappointed by it.
We sit on opposite sides of the table while Benji runs the meeting with crisp authority, assigning tasks and resolving the vendor issue in under twenty minutes. He’s good at this. Better than I would have guessed.
When Eunice asks for vendor recommendations, I glance down at the attendance sheets.
"The Thai truck had significantly higher attendance and better resident feedback," I point out. "It makes more sense to prioritize them over barbecue if we need a replacement."
"Interesting," Benji says.
I glance up. He’s watching me with perfect composure, one elbow resting on the table.
I continue, ignoring him. "The resident surveys specifically cited menu variety and shorter wait times."
"Interesting."
He doesn’t sound dismissive, exactly. Just detached enough to make me wonder if he’s even listening. I keep talking, partly because the data matters and partly because I want his attention badly enough to resent it.
"The average wait time was reduced by nearly forty percent, which suggests better service flow and—"
"Interesting."
I stop. He blinks at me.
"You’re not listening."
One brow lifts. "Untrue."
"What did I just say?"
His neutral expression doesn’t shift.
"Something deeply passionate about noodles."
The answer is immediate enough that I almost laugh. Instead, I narrow my eyes.
"Are you pretending to listen because you’re bored and want me to stop talking faster," I ask, "or are noodles actually a hot topic for you?"
His gaze sharpens, attention finally fully mine.
"Interesting observation."
And suddenly I understand. How many times have I heard him say the exact same line? "Oh my God," I say slowly. "You really aren’t listening half the time."
All this time, I thought he was fully invested and tuned in!
His mouth curves faintly. "Counterpoint, your biceps are visible, so expecting active comprehension feels unreasonable."
The words hit me like a physical force. For a second, I just stare at him. Then, despite myself, I laugh. A real one. Low and helpless enough to make his smile deepen.
Now I know exactly what he’s been doing. He hasn’t been dismissing me. He’s been watching. Distracted.
The meeting wraps soon after. Chairs scrape back as people file out. Benji erases the board while I linger.
"Benji."
He pauses, eraser still in hand, and turns. "Yes?"
There it is again. Patience. No pressure. No performance. Just room to decide what I want. It's unsettling. I feel ridiculous for missing his noise.
"I didn’t say no."
His expression doesn't change. "I know. You also didn’t say yes."
Fair. Annoyingly fair. "I’m… not great at moving quickly."
A hint of a smile ghosts his mouth. "I’ve noticed."
"I’m working on it."
He considers that. Then sets the eraser down. "Okay."
Okay. Not a challenge. Not an ultimatum. Just okay.
Something in my chest loosens. "I'll get there," I hear myself say.
His smile warms. "I know."
He leaves first, unhurried and without a backward glance. As if he's completely confident I'll catch up.
The irritating thing is, I'm starting to think he's right.
For a long time, I sit in my car with the engine off, staring through the windshield while my pulse refuses to settle.
His words replay on an endless loop.
You also didn't say yes.
The problem is that I know exactly why.
Not because I'm unsure, but because I've spent so much time trying to make sure of everything before I move that sometimes I forget moving is part of the process.
I let my head fall back against the seat.
This is ridiculous. I've analyzed him, avoided him, kissed him, and overthought him. At some point, that has to count as an answer.
I look across the street. His porch light is still on. Waiting.
Not for me. Just there.
And somehow that feels worse. Because Benji isn't asking for anything. He's simply left the door open.
The decision is mine.
I stare at his house for another ten seconds.
Then I get out of the car. The walk across the street feels longer than it has any right to.
Every step gives my brain another chance to intervene.
To suggest a better time. A clearer plan.
A version of me that doesn't show up at a man's door armed with nothing but honesty and a bad track record.
But I ignore it and knock.
There’s movement inside. Footsteps. A pause long enough that I almost retreat. Then the door opens, and every word I'd rehearsed tangles on my tongue.
Benji stands there in a soft T-shirt and lounge shorts, looking comfortable and without armor. I want to reach for him, to see if his shirt feels as soft as it seems, to see if he smells as good as he looks.
"Oh," he says. Not surprised. Just… acknowledging. "Hey."
"Hey."
We stand there for a beat, the space between us loaded with everything we didn’t say in the clubhouse.
"I wasn’t sure if you were—" he starts, then stops himself. "What’s up?"
I take a breath. "I'm bad at this."
His mouth twitches. "I know."
A reluctant laugh escapes me. "Yeah. Well. I'm bad at moving quickly. Bad at saying things before I've dissected them into something useless."
His mouth quirks, but he lets me continue.