“No one.”
“Liar.”
I roll my eyes.
But the truth is uncomfortable.
Because I don’t know whose attention I want more.
Kane’s attention feels safe.
Chosen. Intentional. Pine and cloves and steady hands at my waist.
Tristan’s attention feels like static electricity under my skin. Like the second before a storm breaks.
Both make my stomach clench.
I hate that too.
At practice, awareness hums even when they’re not looking.
Kane argues spacing with a grin that says he already knows he’s right. Tristan listens, then adjusts — competitive but aligned — pink sneakers squeaking across the floor like punctuation.
They look good together.
That thought annoys me immediately.
I spike harder than necessary.
Coach whistles.
“Cortez.”
“Got it.”
Kane glances over — concern first, always.
Tristan doesn’t.
And somehow that lands heavier.
I don’t want him staring.
I don’t want to disappear either.
God. I’m exhausting.
Later, hallway.
Kane falls into step beside me, pine and cloves again, familiar enough to feel like habit.
“You’re in your head.”
“I’m always in my head.”
He bumps my shoulder, steals my hair tie again, spins it around his fingers like a nervous tell he doesn’t realize he has.
“You don’t have to compete.”
