KARA

The thing about dating Cass Westcott is that he never lets you prepare.

Tuesday night, I'm expecting dinner and a movie—standard first-date territory. Instead, he shows up with mini golf clubs and a thermos of coffee spiked with Bailey's.

"Trust me," he says, grinning like he's planned something illegal.

The course is one of those ridiculous themed places—windmills, tiny castles, a hole that requires you to hit the ball through a clown's mouth. I'm terrible at it. Cass pretends not to notice when I spend five minutes trying to get past the rotating lighthouse.

"You know," I say, lining up another impossible shot, "most guys would offer to help by now."

"Most guys haven't seen you negotiate with a bartender," he replies. "I'm not underestimating you."

I miss again. The ball ricochets off three different obstacles before rolling backward.

He laughs—not at me, but like he's genuinely delighted by the chaos I've created.

That's when it hits me: he's having fun. Real fun. Not performing-for-an-audience fun. The kind where you forget you're supposed to be impressive.

"Here," he says finally, moving behind me. His hands cover mine on the club, adjusting my grip. "Feel that? You're fighting it. Let the club do the work."

His voice is soft against my ear. I can smell his cologne, feel the warmth of him pressed against my back. For a second, I forget this is supposed to be an act.

I take the shot.

Hole in one.

We both stare at the ball sitting in the cup like it's performed a miracle.

"Beginner's luck," I mumble.

"Or maybe you just needed someone to believe you could do it."

The way he says it makes me look up. His eyes are serious now, like he's talking about more than mini golf.

This is the problem, I think. He makes everything sound like it means something.

But what if it does?

Stop.

I clear my throat. "Your turn, hotshot."

Thursday, he takes me to a bookstore.

Not just any bookstore—one of those cramped, maze-like places where books are stacked floor to ceiling and the owner's cat judges you from his perch on the poetry section.

"This is your idea of a date?" I tease, following him through narrow aisles.

"Best dates involve learning something new about each other," he says, running his finger along spines. "Show me what you read when nobody's watching."

It's a trap, obviously. Whatever I pick will reveal something about me I hadn't planned to share. But I find myself gravitating toward a slim volume of poetry tucked between two philosophy texts.

"Mary Oliver," I say, pulling it out. "I know, I know. Every girl in her twenties goes through a Mary Oliver phase."

He takes the book, flips through it. "Why this one?"

"She writes about paying attention. About noticing the world before it passes you by." I pause. "I spend a lot of time planning what comes next. Sometimes I forget to see what's happening now."

He's quiet for a moment, still looking at the pages.

"Read me your favorite," he says.

"Here? In the store?"

"Here."

I find the poem I've memorized, the one I turn to when work gets overwhelming and the future feels too big to hold.

"Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

When I finish, he's watching me with an expression I can't read.

"That's why you moved here, isn't it?" he says. "The wild and precious life thing."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Because he's right and he's wrong and he's getting too close to things I can't let him see.

He buys the book without asking.  Just takes it to the counter with two others he's chosen—something about urban design and a cookbook for people who hate cooking.

Outside, he hands me the poetry collection with a smile that makes my chest ache.

"For when you need reminding," he says.

I tell myself to focus on the inconsistencies—the gaps between who he claims to be and who he actually is. But the contradictions I find aren't the ones I'm looking for.

The contradictions start small.

He claims he never texts twice, but my phone buzzes with follow-up messages: "Did you get home safe?" and "That bookstore cat definitely had opinions about us."

Stop reading into it. Stop enjoying it.

He says he doesn't do repeat dates, but suggests mini golf again "because I need to see if that hole-in-one was actually skill."

It's just competitive. Don't make it more than it is.

He insists he never stays, but lingers at my door for twenty-minute conversations about nothing—favorite childhood cereals, whether aliens would understand sarcasm, the proper way to eat a taco.

He's bored. You're convenient. That's all.

I keep mental notes, like evidence:

Says he doesn't care about impressions, tips the coffee shop barista 50% and remembers her dog's name

Claims emotions are inefficient, spends an hour helping an elderly man fix his phone in the park

Insists on keeping things light, asks serious questions about my sister when he thinks I'm ready to answer them

The last one catches me off guard. We're walking through downtown after dinner, and he says, casually, "You don't have to talk about her if you don't want to. But if you do... I'm listening."

It's the first time anyone has offered without pushing. Without making it about their need to help or understand.

"She was younger," I hear myself say. "By three years. Everyone's favorite—she was funny and spontaneous and made friends with strangers in grocery store lines."

"Was?"

"Is. She... lives across the country now. We don't talk much anymore."

It's not entirely a lie. Kira does live far away now. Just not in the way most people would assume.

He doesn't press for details. Doesn't offer platitudes or solutions.

He just says, "That's hard," and means it.

I'm not supposed to notice when his armor slips.

And every time I think I have him figured out as the careless player who broke Kira's heart, he does something that doesn't fit.

Maybe he's gotten better at hiding it. Maybe he's learned to perform kindness.

But late one night, walking past drunk college kids being too loud and reckless, I watch him tense up. See him steer us across the street, shoulders tight until we're blocks away.

That's not performance. That's someone who's learned to avoid situations that might go wrong. Someone who's been hurt by attention he didn't want.

Stop making excuses for him.

But I can't stop noticing. Can't stop collecting these moments that complicate the story I came here to tell.

The realization unsettles me more than I want to admit.

Because if Cass Westcott isn't the villain I need him to be, then what am I doing here?

And worse—what am I becoming?

Walking home that night, I have to force myself to remember why I'm here. Pull out my phone and reread Kira's last text: Why did you have to break my heart?

The words still cut. Still fuel the fire that brought me to this city in the first place.

But for the first time, they're competing with something else. Something that feels dangerously like doubt.

What if I'm wrong about him?

What if I'm falling for the target instead of completing the mission?

What if I don't want to break his heart anymore?

I push the thoughts away. Lock them up with all the other inconvenient truths I can't afford to face.

Because I came too far to quit now.