Chapter 15
TILDA
The lounge after an elimination challenge carries the strange emotional texture of a victory that doesn’t feel entirely like one.
Surviving means relief, but it also means watching other contestants quietly disappear from the compound, their rooms emptied and their names erased from the rankings board as if they were never here at all.
Tonight the production staff has dimmed the lights and turned the music louder in an effort to manufacture celebration, but the mood is complicated in a way no amount of cheerful lighting can fix.
The air smells faintly of grilled meat, synthetic citrus drinks, and the metallic undertone that always lingers in this place after a physically brutal challenge.
Around the room, clusters of contestants talk too loudly, laugh a little too hard, and cling to the fragile comfort of having made it through another round alive.
I sit near the end of one of the curved lounge couches with a glass of sparkling something in my hand, though I have no intention of drinking it.
My muscles still ache from the elimination course we barely survived, and every time I close my eyes I can still feel the violent jolt of the final obstacle under my boots.
Adrenaline is a strange thing; it burns through the body during a crisis and then leaves behind a hollow, humming exhaustion that feels almost like a fever.
I try to focus on the music drifting through the room and the low murmur of voices around me, but my attention keeps wandering across the lounge until it settles—inevitably—on the tall figure leaning against the bar.
Bron stands there with the casual posture of a man who has never met a room he couldn’t eventually charm into liking him.
The bartender laughs at something he says, and he flashes that familiar half-crooked grin that used to send entire concert crowds into hysterics.
He has rolled the sleeves of his shirt halfway up his forearms, revealing the faint gleam of gold scales that shimmer subtly under the warm lounge lights.
For a moment I allow myself to watch him the way I used to years ago, studying the relaxed confidence in his shoulders and the way he carries himself like gravity itself occasionally forgets to apply to him.
Then he turns his head slightly and our eyes meet.
The effect is immediate and unwelcome. Something tightens in my chest before I can stop it, and I look away a fraction too late to pretend I wasn’t staring.
Across the room, Bron raises one eyebrow with faint amusement, the expression so familiar that it feels like someone has quietly reached into my ribcage and twisted a memory loose.
He pushes away from the bar a second later and begins walking toward me.
“Don’t,” I murmur under my breath, though the warning is clearly meant for myself more than for him.
Predictably, he ignores it.
Bron drops onto the couch beside me with the comfortable ease of someone who has occupied that space many times before. “Hey,” he says, his voice carrying the faint rasp of someone who spent the day shouting over engines and wind.
“Hello,” I reply without looking directly at him.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard again.”
“I’m always thinking.”
“That explains a lot.”
I keep my eyes on the condensation sliding down the side of my glass. The droplets gather at the bottom and drip slowly onto the table in tiny cold circles, and I focus on that simple, unimportant detail because it feels easier than acknowledging the quiet presence sitting beside me.
“That elimination course was brutal,” Bron says after a moment.
“Understatement.”
“You handled it well.”
“I handled it correctly,” I reply, because precision feels safer than praise.
He tilts his head slightly. “That’s what I meant.”
“No,” I say calmly. “You said well. I’m clarifying.”
For a moment he simply watches me, the amusement in his expression fading into something more thoughtful.
“You always do that,” he says eventually.
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into a technical problem instead of an emotional one.”
“That’s because technical problems are easier to solve.”
“And emotional ones?”
I finally look at him. “Are usually disasters.”
A faint laugh escapes him, though there’s something quieter beneath it. “Well,” he says, stretching his legs out in front of him, “that explains the last two years.”
The words land with unexpected force. I feel them like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through thoughts I have spent a long time keeping carefully contained.
“We’re not doing this tonight,” I say firmly.
“Doing what?”
“Digging through the past like it’s some archaeological dig.”
He rests his elbows on his knees and studies me with unsettling focus. “You left.”
“Yes.”
“You vanished.”
“Yes.”
“No explanation.”
“I had my reasons.”
“Care to share them?”
“No.”
Around us the lounge grows louder as the night wears on. Someone starts a chant near the far side of the room, and a cluster of contestants begins dancing badly to a song that sounds vaguely like something Bron probably mocked at least once in his life.
Bron shakes his head slowly. “You know what drives me crazy about you?”
“Everything?”
“You act like what we had was some brief experiment that didn’t work out.”
“That’s because it didn’t.”
“That’s not how it felt.”
I swallow and look away again. Memories have a way of creeping up on you in places like this, especially when exhaustion strips away the mental defenses you usually rely on.
“You were chaos,” I say quietly.
“And you loved it.”
“For a while.”
“And now?”
“Now I have responsibilities.”
His gaze sharpens slightly at that word. “What kind of responsibilities?”
The question lands between us with a quiet spark of danger. I set my glass down on the table with deliberate care.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Start digging again.”
He studies my face, clearly recognizing the shift in my tone. “That’s interesting,” he murmurs.
“Bron.”
“You get real tense whenever that topic comes up.”
“Because you keep poking it.”
“Because something about that kid doesn’t add up.”
My heart stumbles.
“We are not having that conversation again.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
For a moment neither of us speaks. The silence between us thickens, filled with everything that has gone unsaid since the day I walked out of his life.
Then Bron sighs and pushes himself to his feet. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere quieter.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
I should stay where I am. The lounge is crowded and noisy and safe in the way public spaces often are when two people are carrying a history they shouldn’t revisit.
Instead I stand and follow him out into the corridor, telling myself the entire time that this is simply another conversation we should have finished years ago.
The hallway outside the lounge is dimmer and cooler, the music fading behind us as we walk toward the contestant housing wing.
Bron stops outside my door, and for several seconds neither of us says anything.
The quiet here is different from the silence in the lounge; it feels heavier, more intimate, like the air itself knows something important is about to happen.
“You know,” he says at last, his voice softer now, “we never actually finished that conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“The one we were having when you left.”
My fingers hover over the door panel. “That conversation ended.”
“No,” he says gently. “It paused.”
“That’s not how endings work.”
“Maybe not.”
The shift in his tone sends a faint shiver up my spine. He is closer now, though I don’t remember him stepping forward.
“You’re still angry,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because anger means you still care.”
“I care about winning this competition.”
He smiles faintly. “That’s not what I meant.”
The hallway suddenly feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
“Bron,” I whisper.
“What?”
“This is a mistake.”
“Probably.”
For several long seconds we stand there in the quiet corridor, balanced on the edge of something dangerous and painfully familiar.
Then he reaches out and touches my wrist with a light, tentative motion that somehow carries more electricity than a dozen reckless gestures ever could.
The contact sends a warm spark racing up my arm, the same impossible reaction my body used to have every time he came near me.
I close my eyes.
“Tell me it didn’t matter,” he murmurs.
“It didn’t—”
The lie collapses halfway through the sentence.
Because the truth is standing right in front of me.
His fingers tighten slightly around my wrist. “Tilda.”
When I open my eyes again, the expression on his face isn’t smug or triumphant.
It’s hopeful.
That single detail is exactly why I should walk away.
Instead I step closer.
What follows isn’t a careful decision so much as a collision between years of unresolved anger, attraction, and unfinished conversation.
The door slides shut behind us almost as an afterthought, and the quiet room beyond it fills with the sound of two people who never quite managed to stop wanting each other.
Much later the storm finally burns itself out, leaving behind the quiet aftermath of tangled sheets and unsteady breathing.
The room smells faintly of warm skin and the citrus soap used in the compound showers.
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling for a long moment before the weight of reality slowly settles back into place.
Bron shifts beside me and lets out a quiet breath. “Well,” he says, his voice softer than usual, “that answers one question.”
“What question?” I ask without turning my head.
“Whether the chemistry disappeared.”
I already know the answer to that, and the knowledge sits heavy in my chest.
It never disappeared.
It only waited.
Which is precisely why this was such a terrible idea.
I push myself upright and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Bron watches me with an expression that looks more thoughtful than satisfied.
“You regret it already,” he says.
“Yes.”
“That was fast.”
“I told you this was a mistake.”
“Didn’t feel like one a minute ago.”
“That’s because emotions make people stupid.”
He laughs quietly, though there’s no real humor behind the sound. “You’ve always been good at brutal honesty.”
I rub my hands over my face and feel the reality of everything pressing down on me again—the competition, the secret I’m still hiding, and the dangerous truth that tonight proved something I was desperately hoping had changed.
The attraction between us never disappeared.
It simply waited for the moment when I was tired enough and reckless enough to let it back in.