I pull back first.
Not because I didn’t feel it.
Because I did.
“If we do this,” I say, searching his face, “can I trust you? Like… actually trust you?”
He doesn’t get defensive.
Doesn’t laugh.
“I’m not a saint, Stell,” he says. “Never pretended to be.”
Honest.
“But those girls?” he continues, shaking his head. “Background noise. You’re different. You get the grind. You get what it costs to be here.”
His hand squeezes mine.
“Other girls want time and attention I don’t have. You don’t. You’re built for the same life I am.”
My chest tightens.
“If you give me a real shot,” he says, voice softer now, “I wouldn’t mess that up. You’d be the only one.”
That lands.
Because Kane doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
We start walking again, slower now.
The waves fill the silence while my brain tries to catch up with my heart.
Safe.
Possible.
Good.
At the dorm steps, he stops.
“So?” he asks lightly.
I study him — the Henley, the cocky grin softened by nerves he’s pretending he doesn’t have, the pine-and-clove scent that already feels familiar.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “But I’m not committing after one date, Callahan.”
His smile returns, easy.
“Fair.”
He brushes a kiss against my temple this time. No pressure.
No claim.
And that might be why it lingers.
As I walk inside, one thought follows me up the stairs:
Kane makes sense.
So why does choosing still feel complicated?
