The young woman strides up, ready to unleash everything she has stored for moments like this. But the old man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t deny, doesn’t leer. Instead, he smiles with a softness that seems almost out of place and tells her she runs exactly like his late wife used to—same stride, same focus, same stubborn little frown. The mention of loss knocks the wind out of her anger. Her shoulders drop, her jaw unclenches, and the fight drains into a shy, embarrassed smile. She apologizes for snapping, touches his arm, even leans in to kiss his cheek before jogging off, lighter now, almost flattered.

Silence settles for a beat. Then he exhales, leans back, and without a hint of shame says to his friend, “That’s three–nil to me.” The spell shatters. What looked like tenderness was just a tactic, rehearsed and perfected. His friend chuckles, complicit. The sweetness of the moment curdles, and what lingers isn’t romance or wisdom, but the cold realization that some men turn empathy into a sport—and women into unknowing points on a private scoreboard.