Chapter 25
TILDA
By the time the compound quiets for the night, I have run out of convincing ways to pretend Bron’s changes are temporary.
I keep trying, because that would be easier.
Temporary things can be dismissed. Temporary things can be admired from a safe distance and then filed away under pleasant anomalies.
A reckless man listens for a few days, steadies himself for a challenge, remembers to put someone else first in the moment it matters, and then eventually the old gravity takes him back.
That is the version of the world I have trusted for years.
It is neater. It protects me from having to revisit old decisions with honest eyes.
It protects me from the possibility that I made a choice for Jesse out of fear that later hardened into certainty long after certainty stopped being accurate.
Unfortunately, reality has developed a rude attachment to nuance.
I see it in the way Bron moves now, in the small practical ways change announces itself long before anyone says the word out loud.
He stretches properly after challenges instead of brushing off strain like pain is an insult to his image.
He studies the upcoming event briefings instead of skimming them for the dramatic bits.
He eats actual meals between training blocks rather than whatever terrible impulse-food he can snatch on the run.
He asks questions. Not flashy questions meant to entertain a room.
Real ones. Timing. Route logic. Mechanical vulnerabilities.
Worst-case scenarios. This afternoon, after the obstacle run, I watched him sit with one of the recovery trainers while she checked his shoulder where the sweep arm clipped him, and he actually listened to her instructions instead of grinning through the pain and promising to be “heroically irresponsible later.” There was no performance in it.
No look around the room to see who might be watching.
Just attention. Compliance. The quietly astonishing behavior of a man learning that indestructible is not the same thing as dependable.
That should not affect me as much as it does.
It absolutely does.
The lounge is subdued tonight, more intimate than celebratory, because the field has narrowed enough now that every surviving couple understands exactly how near the end has become.
The overhead lighting has been dimmed to amber again, painting everything in softened gold, and the room smells like spiced tea, grilled vegetables, warmed protein bread, and the faint clean bitterness of the disinfectant crew that always sweeps through before evening downtime.
People speak in lower voices when the competition gets serious.
Even the laughter changes. It carries less bravado and more relief.
I stand at the beverage station pouring hot tea into a thin ceramic cup, letting the steam warm my face while my thoughts run in too many directions at once, and when Bron steps up beside me I know it is him before I look because I have always known him that way—by presence, by heat, by the subtle shift in the air that happens when he enters a space I am already occupying.
“You’re making that face again,” he says.
I keep my attention on the tea. “What face?”
“The one that says you’re either solving an engineering failure or planning to emotionally audit someone.”
“That is not a real expression.”
“It absolutely is.”
I finally glance at him. His hair is still damp from a shower, pushed back from his forehead.
He is wearing a plain black shirt with the sleeves rolled, and there is something almost offensively unfair about how ordinary he looks when ordinary suits him this well.
The old Bron always carried a kind of charged theatricality with him, a sense that he was ready to convert any room into a stage at a moment’s notice.
This Bron looks quieter. More grounded. Like he has finally stopped trying to take up every inch of available air and figured out there is power in simply standing still.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
He reaches past me for a mug and the clean mineral warmth of his skin drifts through the steam. “Dangerous hobby.”
“For you, maybe.”
He pours his own tea and leans one shoulder against the counter, close but not crowding. “How’s your day been, Robertson.”
I look at him more fully then, because he knows exactly what he’s doing with the surname. He only uses it when he is trying to sound formal and failing because the intimacy underneath it gives him away. “Long.”
“Mm.”
“My son informed me this afternoon that one of the daycare toy bins contains a ‘suspicious duck.’”
Bron’s mouth curves. “That feels actionable.”
“He was extremely serious.”
“Did he explain the duck’s crimes?”
“No, and apparently I lacked the investigative instincts required to earn further detail.”
“That’s tragic,” he says. “You used to be good with leads.”
I try very hard not to smile at that and fail enough for him to notice.
His own expression softens in response, not triumphant, just quietly pleased in a way that lands much harder than flirting ever did.
He wraps both hands around the mug, the fossil still in his pocket—I know it is there because I caught him touching the fabric over it twice during dinner as if confirming the thing had not disappeared.
We stand there a moment longer while contestants drift through the lounge behind us in loose, tired clusters.
Someone near the far wall is playing cards badly.
Somewhere else a pair of eliminated-athlete-turned-commentary-favorites are debating whether the producers manipulate wind speeds between heats.
The sound of it all forms a low human tide under the hum of climate controls.
“You were good today,” I say before I can talk myself out of it.
Bron glances sideways at me. “That sounded almost complimentary.”
“It was observational.”
“Ah. Clinical praise. My favorite.”
“I mean it.”
His posture shifts, the joking ease giving ground to something more attentive. “Thanks.”
I take a slow sip of tea. It tastes of citrus peel and black spice and the edge of something floral I cannot identify. “You didn’t take the center line when it opened. A month ago you absolutely would have.”
“A month ago I was an idiot.”
“That timeline is generous.”
He huffs a laugh. “Fair.”
“And you didn’t leave me at the barrier.”
“No.”
“You could have.”
He looks down into his mug before answering. “Didn’t want to.”
I let that sit between us. The room around us seems to recede by increments, not because it has gone quiet but because my attention has narrowed without permission.
I know there are safer topics available.
Rankings. Strategy. Jesse’s current obsession with categorizing screws by moral character. Instead I hear myself ask, “Why not.”
His eyes lift to mine again. “You really want the polished answer or the ugly one.”
“I’m too tired for polished.”
He nods once, accepting the terms of the exchange. “Because it stopped mattering to me whether I looked brave a while ago.” He rolls the mug lightly between his palms, watching the steam unwind. “What matters now is whether the people I care about get through the day.”
Something in my chest goes very still.
That sentence should not feel revolutionary. It does.
I look away first because if I keep holding his gaze I may say something I have not prepared for. “Well,” I say, too dryly, “that is inconveniently mature.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. I was aiming for mildly impressive.”
I laugh despite myself, and the sound seems to settle us both into an easier rhythm.
We drift toward one of the quieter seating alcoves near the observation windows, a curved nook with low couches and a view out over the compound’s exterior lights.
Beyond the glass, Fratvoy One’s night has settled in a deep indigo sweep over the training grounds, the distant floodlit arenas glowing like mechanical constellations.
The glass is cool near my shoulder when I sit, and the seat dips under Bron’s weight a moment later, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the cushion but with a careful inch of space between us.
It is the kind of restraint that speaks louder than any touch.
For a little while we say nothing. The quiet is not empty.
It has shape. Breath. History. I can hear the clink of mugs in the lounge behind us, the faint rattle of the vent system, the distant muted cheer from some late replay highlight on the overhead screens.
Bron rests his forearms on his knees and looks out at the lit grounds for so long that I begin to think he might stay silent all evening.
Then he says, very softly, “He called a duck suspicious.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Yes.”
“That’s incredible.”
“He has opinions.”
“He absolutely does.”
I turn the mug between my hands. “He likes you.”
Bron does not answer right away. When he does, his voice is rougher than before. “I know.”
“You didn’t expect that.”
“No.” He smiles faintly without humor. “Honestly, I expected a lot more distrust and maybe an object thrown at my head.”
“He saves that for people who earn it.”
“That’s comforting.” He exhales and leans back, tipping his head against the couch. “I don’t know what I was expecting. Something harder, maybe. Something I’d have to force my way through.” His gaze slides to me. “He just… looked at me and decided.”
“He does that.”
“Terrifying little talent.”
“It’s one of his best.”