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“I like her,” he says. “Not for sport. Not for ego.”
“Same.”
Silence.
Then he nods once.
“We’re not playing dirty.”
“No.”
“We let her choose.”
“Yeah.”
“But I’m not backing down.”
“Me neither.”
We hold eye contact.
Not enemies.
Not quite friends.
Something forged under fire.
Kane smirks slightly.
“May the best man win.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Or the one she actually wants.”
We clink coffee mugs instead of glasses.
It’s not war.
It’s competition.
And somehow?—
That feels right.
