Quiet, deliberate distance.
And somehow that hurts worse.
The training floor smells like rubber mats, warm metal, and the faint ozone scent from the automated obstacle rigs humming overhead. Contestants move through their morning drills with the tense focus of people who know the competition is narrowing to its final brutal stretch. Only eight couples will remain after the next elimination. Everyone here understands what that means.
I stand near the strategy console reviewing terrain simulations for the upcoming challenge, though the tablet in my hands might as well be blank for all the attention I’m giving it.My eyes keep drifting across the room to where Bron is working through a balance drill on the elevated beam course.
He moves with the same controlled precision he’s been showing all week.
Measured steps.
No reckless shortcuts.
No flashy leaps designed to impress the cameras.
Just careful, deliberate progress from one platform to the next.
A few days ago that transformation might have impressed me.
Now it makes my chest ache.
He finishes the drill and drops lightly to the mat below. One of the trainers says something to him—probably a correction about stance or timing—and Bron nods quietly before resetting the course markers.
No jokes.
No sarcastic comments.
Just a calm “Got it.”
I lower the tablet slowly.
“What the hell,” I murmur.
“Problem?”
The voice beside me belongs to Dartha, who has been watching the same scene unfold with mild curiosity.
“That,” I say, nodding toward Bron.
Dartha glances over.
“Your partner?”
“My… partner,” I repeat carefully.
She shrugs.
“He looks focused.”
“He’s being polite.”
“That sounds normal.”
“For him it’s suspicious.”
Dartha laughs softly.
“Maybe he’s finally learning.”
