“That was not an answer.”
“I wasn’t aware you asked a question.”
“You didn’t need one.” I fold my arms and continue watching him as we move through the corridor. “You’re brooding.”
His mouth curves in a faint smile. “I do not brood.”
“You brood constantly,” I reply. “You brood with enthusiasm and flair, like a man who treats emotional tension as a performance art.”
“That is a harsh accusation.”
“It’s an accurate accusation.”
He chuckles under his breath but continues walking without meeting my eyes, which only heightens my suspicion. I reach out and grab his forearm, forcing him to slow.
“Bron,” I say quietly.
“Yes, Tilda.”
“What’s wrong?”
For a moment he simply studies me. The corridor around us remains busy with movement as other contestants pass on their way to the briefing chamber, camera drones floating overhead and technicians adjusting equipment along the walls. The sounds blur into a background hum that fades beneath the weight of the moment between us.
“Nothing,” he finally says.
“That answer is deeply unconvincing.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You never ‘just think.’ You narrate your thoughts like a man hosting an interstellar variety program.”
A short laugh escapes him, though it lacks its usual warmth. “Perhaps I’m evolving.”
“Perhaps you’re hiding something.”
He lifts one brow, but the faint tension in his shoulders betrays him.
“Bron,” I repeat gently. “Talk to me.”
For a brief instant I see the conflict in his expression, as though he is considering whether to speak before some internal barrier rises again behind his eyes.
“It’s the final,” he says lightly. “Everyone’s tense.”
“That explanation doesn’t match what I’m seeing.”
“Well,” he replies with a crooked grin, “I am also handsome and mysterious, which can be confusing.”
I smack his chest with the flat of my palm.
“Ow.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Correct.”
“Stop it.”
“Impossible.”
