“That’s a setup.”
“It can be both.”
She huffs a laugh and swings her legs over the side of the bed. For a moment we just sit there in the dim morning light, two people very aware that whatever this is between us now has crossed out of memory and back into the present tense. There are still too many sharp edges in our history for me to call it safe. But it no longer feels impossible either. And because I apparently woke up today in a truth-telling mood, I hear myself say, “I’m not doing this halfway.”
Tilda pauses with one hand in her hair. “Doing what halfway.”
“Any of it.” I look at the floor because it’s easier to say important things to a patch of composite than directly to the woman who can flatten me with one expression. “You. Jesse. Whatever comes next. I’m not saying I suddenly know how to be perfect at family life, because that would be a ridiculous lie and you’d rightly hit me with an object. But I’m done acting like fame or money or a crowd’s approval are worth more than the people I love.”
The silence that follows is not empty. It’s weighted. Listening.
When I finally look up, Tilda is very still.
“You mean that,” she says quietly.
I laugh once under my breath. “Yeah. Irritating, isn’t it.”
She shakes her head a little, as if the answer she wants is caught somewhere deeper than speech. “Bron…”
“I know prize money matters. Gods know I know that. And I know winning matters for you and Jesse too, for reasons that aren’t vanity. But if this whole thing goes to hell tomorrow and I have to choose between some grand final and making sure you two are safe, there is no choice.” I shrug, wincing slightly at the shoulder. “That part’s easy.”
Something flickers across her face then, quick and bright and dangerous. Hope, maybe. Or grief starting to loosen. Maybe both.
“That’s a very serious thing to say before caffeine,” she mutters.
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain insomnia.”
“Also true.”
She gets up to start the coffee unit, and the smell of bitter roast begins to spread through the room while I sit there feelingweirdly steadier for having said it aloud. Some promises don’t become real until another person hears them. Maybe that’s all adulthood is in the end—choosing what to witness yourself becoming.
The central rankings hall feels like a church built by sadists.
The lighting is too bright, the architecture too theatrical, the atmosphere too tightly wound with fear. By the time we get there, the remaining contestants have already gathered in a rough crescent beneath the giant holo board, each pair pretending to be less invested than they are. Everyone’s trying on some version of composure, but desperation has a smell to it—sweat hidden under clean fabric, coffee on anxious breath, the dry electric tang of too much adrenaline in a closed space. The field has thinned enough now that there is no crowd to hide in. Only serious competitors remain. Strong ones. Cunning ones. Couples who’ve figured out how to survive each other as well as the course designs.
Captain Photonic materializes on the upper display with the solemn glee of a man preparing to announce casualties in an entertaining format. “Champions,” he booms, “the latest composite rankings are now live.”
The board flashes.
Names reorder.
Numbers climb and fall.
I feel Tilda tense beside me before I even consciously see the results.
Top five.
We made top five.
She exhales once, slow and controlled, but I know her well enough now to hear what that breath cost. Zack and Dartha make it. Vanna and Pajack too. Two other couples I’ve spent weeks trying not to underestimate round out the survivors. Below the line, seven names fade into the gray of almost.Around the hall, reactions bloom in staggered waves: one pair hugging so hard they nearly fall over, another dissolving into quiet tears, one of the eliminated contestants swearing with almost admirable creativity while production assistants circle like vultures with better posture.
“Final five,” I say softly.
Tilda keeps her eyes on the board. “Yes.”
“That sounds like terror wearing grammar.”
