KARA

Eli is easy to be around.

That becomes clear on what I think is our fourth date—though we've stopped calling them dates. We're at his place, takeout containers scattered across his coffee table, some documentary about urban planning playing on mute while we argue about whether pineapple belongs on pizza.

"It's a fruit," Eli says, stealing one of my fries. "On bread. With cheese. It's basically a deconstructed dessert."

"By that logic, tomatoes make pizza a fruit salad."

"Don't give me ideas."

This is comfortable in a way that surprises me. No heat, no edge, no careful navigation around attraction. Just... friendship.

I catch him glancing at his phone again. Third time in ten minutes.

"Expecting someone?" I ask.

He sets it down too quickly. "Cass. He's been weird lately."

"Weird how?"

Eli pauses the documentary. "He's been asking about you. About us. What we do, where we go." He looks at me directly. "He's never asked about any girl I've dated."

Something twists in my stomach. "Maybe he's just being a good friend."

"Maybe." But Eli doesn't sound convinced.

"So…" he says, tone teasing but eyes sharp. “Why don't you just pick him and put the poor guy out of his misery?”

Kara’s laugh is dry. “Why don’t you just dump me and put him out of his misery?”

Silence. Brief, but loaded.

It’s the first time either of them has acknowledged the obvious: that this isn't a love triangle—it’s a game of delay tactics.

He grins, not denying it. “Touché.”

Kara sips her drink, feeling the cold slide down her throat.

She knows why Eli’s still in it. Why he hasn't backed out, even though the energy between them is as platonic as it gets. Cass needs to feel like he earned her. That he won her, not by default but by conquest. If Eli taps out now, the illusion is shattered. The game is over. No satisfaction, no victory.

And guys like Cass don’t just want to win.

They want to feel the win.

“Besides,” she says, glancing sideways at Eli, “you’re not exactly rushing for the exit either.”

We sit with that admission. The documentary drones on about zoning laws and public transportation while we both process what we're actually doing here.

"So what now?" I ask.

"Now we stop pretending this is going anywhere," Eli says. "But maybe we don't blow it up yet."

"Why not?"

"Because Cass is finally showing signs of being human about a woman. And you..." He tilts his head. "You're not ready to walk away from him either."

I want to argue, but the words stick in my throat.

"One more week," Eli suggests. "Give him time to make a move. Give yourself time to decide if you want him to."

"And if he doesn't make a move?"

"Then we call it what it was—a really long audition for friendship."

I laugh despite myself. "Is that what this is?"

"Best friendships start with low stakes," he says. "No expectations, no pressure. Just... seeing if you like spending time with someone."

"And do you? Like spending time with me?"

"Yeah," he says simply. "You're good company, Kara. Even when you're lying about half your motivations."

That hits closer to home than I expected. "What makes you think I'm lying?"

"Because I know what someone looks like when they're trying to convince themselves they want something they don't actually want." His voice is gentle. "I've been there before."

The air shifts. This isn't flirting or romance or even the pretense of either. It's honesty.

"What gave me away?" I ask.

"You never look at me the way you look at him."

Simple. Direct. True.

"Even when he's not in the room," Eli adds, "you're looking for him."

I want to deny it, but what's the point? We've already established we're both using this situation to avoid dealing with what we actually want.

"So we're friends," I say. "Actual friends. Who happen to be pretending to date while we figure out our real feelings for other people."

"Sounds about right."

We shake on it, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Later, as I'm leaving, Eli stops me at the door.

"For what it's worth," he says, "I think you should tell him the truth. About whatever's really going on with you."

My chest tightens. "What makes you think I'm not being truthful?"

"Because people don't usually move to a new city and immediately start dating two best friends unless they're running from something or toward something specific." His voice is gentle. "And you don't strike me as the running type."

He's right, of course. But knowing that and being ready to act on it are two different things.

"One more week," I repeat.

"One more week."

But as I walk to my car, I can't shake the feeling that a week might be too long to keep pretending I don't already know how this ends.

The question isn't whether I want Cass.

It's whether I'm brave enough to risk everything for the chance that he might want the real me back.