The realization lands slowly.
He's talking about me.
About us.
About the people in his life who matter, who carry the color pink like a flag, who've somehow become important enough that he's claiming the color itself as something he likes.
It's such aKaiway of saying something meaningful.
Indirect.
Coded.
Requiring interpretation instead of offering clarity.
But still...something.
Still more than he's given anyone else.
I shrug.
"Good enough," I say, because what else is there to say?
What else can you say when your enemy just admitted, in his own convoluted way, that maybe you're starting to matter?
The tension breaks.
Conversation resumes—lighter now, easier, punctuated by the sounds of eating and the occasional comment about the food or the plan or the days ahead.
But something has shifted.
Something fundamental.
We're not just strangers sharing space anymore.
We're not just an alliance of convenience, held together by strategy and survival.
We're... something else.
Something that feels almost like family.
Almost like home.
One-two-three-four.
My toe taps against the floor.
One-two-three-four.
The counting is gentler now.
Less desperate.
More... rhythmic.
Like my brain is settling into something it recognizes.
Safety.
