Chapter 32
Atext from Benji comes through just as I'm locking my office.
Benji: Could you pretty please with sugar on top stop by Starbucks and pick me up a lemon berry sparkler?
I smile despite myself.
You know you own a car, right?
Benji: I do. But you happen to be driving right past Starbucks. It's called strategic resource allocation.
I shake my head as I unlock my car.
That's not what that means.
Benji: Says the spreadsheet whisperer.
Benji: Pleeeease?
I slide in behind the wheel.
Fine.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Benji: You're my favorite.
Benji: I'll Venmo you.
My hand pauses halfway to the ignition, and a heaviness settles in my chest. Before I can analyze the feeling, I reply.
Don't.
His reply doesn't come immediately.
Benji: Don't what?
I lean back against the headrest, suddenly more awake than I was thirty seconds ago.
Don't Venmo me. It can’t be more than four dollars, can it?
Benji: Oh, I plan to do this often. It adds up quick.
The feeling in my chest tightens. Not sharply. Not painfully. Just… wrong. My pulse is ticking too fast for something this meaningless.
Don’t split things with me.
Several seconds pass.
Benji: Carter… It’s lemonade.
It’s not about the drink. I don’t want us keeping score.
No response.
I pull into the Starbucks drive-through, order his drink and my usual iced hazelnut latte, and try not to dissect the sudden heaviness pressing against my ribs.
It doesn’t work.
By the time I make it home, park, and cross the street to Benji’s house with the drinks sweating in my hands, my thoughts have gone somewhere uncomfortable.
Because it’s not about four dollars. It’s about instinct. About wanting to be the one he texts when he’s tired. Or lazy. Or needy. Or just in the mood to be mildly demanding.
It’s about wanting to be his go-to man.
His I forgot cream for my coffee man.
His I ran out of self-tanner and I look tragically pale man.
His Can you grab me a drink because I don’t feel like putting on pants man.
And realizing how deeply I don’t want to be temporary in that role.
I knock once and let myself in.
Benji is in the kitchen, barefoot, wearing soft lounge pants and one of my old college sweatshirts that he stole because it “carried my scent”. The sight of it hits hard.
He looks up, smiling. "You’re a hero."
I hand him the drink. "You’re a diva."
"Same thing." He takes a sip and sighs dramatically. "God, that’s good."
I watch the way his shoulders relax. The way he leans back against the counter, eyes closed in sheer bliss. And suddenly I’m very aware that I’m standing in the middle of something I never meant to enter, but can’t imagine not being a part of now.
"You didn’t have to," he says lightly, lifting the cup. "Next time I’ll—"
"No."
The word comes out sharper than I intend.
His brows knit. "Okay. What’s happening right now?"
I drag a hand down my face. "I don’t want you paying me back for things."
"Carter—"
"I don’t split like that," I cut in. "Not with people I care about."
Silence fills the kitchen, thick enough to suffocate. Benji’s humor falters.
I’ve never seen him so caught off guard. It eases some of my irritation. My voice comes out softer. "I care about you, and if we start Venmo-ing each other for coffee and gas and takeout, it feels like we’re building an exit ramp. I don’t want that."
He swallows hard. "God, this is why I don’t do serious."
I tense. "Benji—"
"Serious gets you crying into a tub of Cool Whip while watching old One Direction interviews," he blurts. "Serious gets you hurt. Serious is a scam."
My chest aches at the raw emotion in his voice. Did I misread things? Does he not want this?
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "I like you. Way more than is convenient. And I don’t trust that. I don’t trust that it won’t blow up in my face."
I step closer. Not touching. Just enough that he must look at me.
"I told you before, I don’t do halfway," I say quietly. "Not with work. Not with life. And definitely not with feelings. If I’m here, I’m all in."
His eyes search my face, vulnerability flickering beneath the sarcasm. God, he’s beautiful—and mine. He’s all mine.
"That’s terrifying."
"Good. It should be."
He laughs weakly. "You’re such a control freak."
"True."
"And you’re saying all this over a four-dollar drink."
"Also true."
For a moment, neither of us moves. Then he exhales, shoulders dropping.
"God help me, I’m all in too."
Before I can respond, he steps forward and kisses me. His hands slide into my hair, mouth warm and sure and a little desperate, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he doesn’t hold on. I kiss him back, stroking his tongue, grounding him. Telling him without words that I’m not going anywhere.
When we pull apart, he rests his forehead against mine.
"I don’t want an exit ramp," he murmurs.
"Good."
"Because I’m terrible at goodbyes."
"I know."
He smiles softly. "Okay, Lemon Berry Sparkler Man."
Something in my chest loosens. "Yeah?"
"You’re officially my go-to."
I kiss him again, smiling into his mouth. "This is going to cost me in ways I can’t begin to imagine, isn’t it?"
"You bet."
Perfect. For the first time since this ridiculous thing started, the future doesn’t feel like something I need to control. It feels like something I want to walk into.
Together.
And face whatever comes next.
And with Benji, there’s no telling what that may be. But I’m ready.
Benji is sitting on one of my barstools, wearing my socks with the same casual entitlement he brings to everything else in my life.
He’s curled around a mug of coffee I made, flipping through the Morningwood Monthly while I work the stove. Pancakes in neat, identical circles. Bacon aligned precisely on the paper towel. Sunday breakfast done correctly.
"Shall we begin?" he asks.
I don’t bother to turn. "If this includes the words ‘erected’ or ‘excessive inflation,’ I’m sending you home."
"Oh, sweet summer child."
That’s not reassuring.
He clears his throat dramatically. "The Morningwood Community Tree will be erected at the front gate on December third."
The spatula slips from my hand and clatters against the pan. Of course he chose to lead with that. Behind me, Benji beams. I can feel it.
"Residents are encouraged to bring one favorite ornament to add to the tree," he continues. "Singular ornament, Carter. Not your entire tragic collection of identical snowmen."
"They’re not identical," I mutter. "They represent continuity."
"They represent a profound lack of imagination."
I flip a pancake harder than necessary. "Keep reading."
"Oh, gladly." He skims and inhales sharply. "House of the Holiday is back."
I freeze. A lead weight sinks to the pit of my stomach. Slowly, I turn. "No."
He looks delighted. Unrestrained. Borderline feral.
"Judging criteria include brightness, creativity, originality, structural integrity—"
"We are not doing this."
"—and overall presentation."
"Benji."
"This is a direct challenge."
I set the spatula down carefully. "I heard from Candace that last year got out of hand."
"Because she lost."
"She claims she was sabotaged."
"She had six inflatables and still couldn’t clinch it."
"Because you installed a lighting grid that could guide aircraft."
He shrugs, unapologetic. "Festive excellence requires sacrifice."
I stare at him, irritation and something dangerously close to affection tangling in my chest. "As long as you don’t end up on the evening news."
"Of course not."
He sounds affronted, but we both know it’s entirely possible. I turn back to the stove and point the spatula toward his roofline visible through the kitchen window.
"You realize the front gutters can only support so much weight. If you overload the fascia with anchored lighting grids, you risk structural bowing, especially if there’s ice accumulation."
"Interesting," Benji murmurs.
I pause and slowly glance over my shoulder. He’s watching me over the rim of his coffee mug, expression serenely attentive. Suspiciously serene.
"Did you hear anything I just said?"
"Several words, yes."
"Which words?"
He smiles sweetly. "Structural… festive… danger?"
I sigh. "You weren’t listening."
"Carter, those have to be the tightest pair of jeans you own. And when you flip those pancakes, you do this little thing with your butt." He shimmies side-to-side just so.
As I stare at him, he takes another sip of coffee like he didn’t just say that.
I can’t hold back the laugh that breaks from me. The smug satisfaction on his face is immediate.
His eyes warm with laughter. "Oh, good. I was worried I’d lost my touch."
"Don’t distract me." I point the spatula at him. "I simply refuse to let you turn twinkle lights into a public safety hazard unsupervised."
He slides off the stool and steps into my space, hip bumping mine. "So we’re doing this… together?"
"We’re containing you. For the safety of the neighborhood."
"As a team."
"As a disaster prevention measure."
He grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Sure, babe."
My mouth opens, closes, and reboots. "Don’t call me—"
Too late. He’s already stealing bacon off the plate.
"Admit it," he says around a mouthful of bacon. "You’re mentally sketching decor placement."
"I’m planning load distribution."
Benji licks his fingers clean. Slowly. Deliberately. "That sounds super hot and messy. I can’t wait."
I sigh, but it comes out softer than intended. "No inflatables."
He gasps. "Don’t even start with that nonsense, Carter. That’s cruel."
"Five max."
"Six."
"Four."
"Five and a half."
"This is how it starts," I mutter.
He leans in and kisses my cheek, quick and warm, like punctuation.
"Merry Christmas, neighbor. Now, let’s discuss the caroling."
I watch him retreat to his stool, heart doing something reckless in my chest, and realize I’ve already lost. And it’s only November.
Later, after the dishes are washed, the kitchen reset to pristine order, the house settles into that quiet, drowsy lull that only exists on slow Sundays. Rain taps faintly against the windows. My coffee cools untouched.