I’m not distracted this time. Not fogged up with Benji’s ridiculous arms or his polite smile or the way he says “ma’am” like I’m both his teacher and his sin. No, I’m clear-headed and alone and free to soak in every quiet, wholesome detail of his space.
There’s a sticky note on the fridge that says “trash tomorrow.” His handwriting is neat. Practical. Slightly tilted. It feels intimate, like a glimpse inside his brain.
I consider stealing it.
I do not steal it.
Growth.
His couch has a blanket folded with military precision. There’s a dent where his body rests, soft and deep. I want to curl up right there, but I don’t.
Rhys would be proud.
Benji’s bookshelf is alphabetized. The coffee mugs are all big enough for two-handed sipping. There are three unopened scented candles in the drawer under the sink. He has intentions.
God, he’s such a good boy it makes my teeth hurt.
I drift to the hallway and peek through the cracked door to his room like a raccoon in a crime documentary.
There she is, officer. That’s the one. We caught her rubbing her face on the bedsheets and whispering “mine” into his laundry hamper.
The room smells like him. Like soap and warmth and something unshakably Benji. I breathe it in. My whole spine goes soft. My soul sighs. My panties? Absolutely furious at the lack of dick, but we’re soldiering on.
I don’t mean to take anything. Not really.
But there it is. Peeking out from the top drawer.
A shirt. Heather grey, probably soft. It’s a little scrunched, like he tugged it off lazily. Maybe in a rush.
I press it to my face.
Benji.
I fold it neatly and tuck it into my bag like I’ve just acquired a rare and precious artifact.
Something to hold onto when I miss him.
I blow a kiss to the room and quietly slip back out, locking the door behind me.
Sticker heart.
Task one: Complete.
Task Two: Margo.
She’s only a few doors down from Benji. Unacceptably close. I don’t like how close her bed is to his. The same walls that hear Benji moan might hear her too, and honestly, that’s a form of terrorism.
She wants him. I saw it. The lingering touches. The look she gave him at the pool. She’s still damp from the idea of riding him like a pool noodle on dollar beer night. And what does she do with that horny little brain of hers? She tries to blackmail him into her bed.
Blackmail.
Like some kind of lingerie-wearing loan shark.
She needs therapy.
Luckily, I know a great group. I’ll save her a chair and stare at her until she stops ovulating.
But this is about message delivery. And I’m nothing if not poetic. Subtle, but clear. Civilized, but a little scary.
