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.
CHAPTER 16
BRON
Morning arrives with the particular cruelty of bright light and inconvenient clarity.
I wake slowly, the way a man does when his brain is still sorting through the wreckage of the previous night, and for several long seconds I simply stare at the unfamiliar ceiling panels above Tilda’s bed while my body remembers things my better judgment would rather forget. The compound quarters smell faintly of clean sheets, citrus soap from the shower dispensers, and the warm lingering trace of another person’s skin. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of ventilation systems and the muffled thud of early risers moving around the hallway outside.
Then I turn my head slightly and see Tilda standing near the small kitchenette counter, fully dressed and already halfway through a cup of coffee like she’s trying to burn the last traces of sleep out of her bloodstream.
“Well,” I say hoarsely, “that feels ominous.”
She doesn’t turn around.
“It’s morning,” she replies.
“Not the part I meant.”
She takes another sip of coffee before finally glancing over her shoulder at me. The look she gives me is calm, controlled, and deeply suspicious of my existence.
“Good morning, Bron.”
“Morning,” I say, sitting up slowly and scrubbing a hand through my hair. My muscles protest the movement with a familiar ache from yesterday’s elimination challenge, but the discomfort barely registers compared to the heavier realization settling in my chest.
We crossed a line last night.
Not the kind you can casually step back over.
“You regret it,” I say.
She sets the cup down on the counter with deliberate precision.
“Yes.”
“That was quick.”
“It was inevitable.”
I lean back against the headboard and watch her for a moment. The early morning light from the compound courtyard filters through the narrow window panels, painting a pale stripe across the floor and catching the copper highlights in her hair.
“You know,” I say, “most people at least pretend to be conflicted before jumping straight to regret.”
She folds her arms.
“I am conflicted.”
“That’s comforting.”
Her gaze sharpens.
“Bron.”
“What?”
