My face goes cold.
His mistake registers instantly. He straightens, just a little. “Right. No. Sorry.”
I hold his gaze. “Do not call me that.”
“Understood.”
For one brief, shining moment I think maybe he’ll finally hear the tone I’m using and react like a sane person would when confronted by the embodiment of unresolved consequences.
Instead he smiles again, slower this time, careful around the edges.
“Still terrifying,” he says. “Good. I’d hate to find out time had made you boring.”
I laugh once, sharp as broken glass. “And I’d hate to find out time had made you self-aware, but apparently we’re both adjusting.”
A nearby contestant coughs into his drink to cover a laugh.
Bron glances sideways, notices the attention gathering around us, and instead of backing off like any reasonable adult, seems to relax into it.
Of course he does.
He was born under a spotlight or hatched in one or whatever exactly happened to make him like this. Give Bron an audience and his pulse probably settles.
He leans one shoulder against the edge of the nearby table, all easy elegance. “All right. Message received. You’re furious.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Fury requires energy.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m sure you’ll recover.”
He tips his head, studying me. Not in the gross obvious way some men do, but in that focused, dangerous way he always had, like attention from him is a form of touch. “You really didn’t know I’d be here.”
“No. I did not receive the advance warning bulletin for former mistakes.”
That gets another involuntary flicker from the people closest to us. I can feel them pretending not to listen.
Bron exhales through his nose, almost laughing. “Gods, I missed you.”
My stomach turns over so violently I want to slap him.
Instead I say, “That is not an appropriate thing to say to me.”
His eyes sharpen. “It’s true.”
“And irrelevant.”
“Tilda—”
“No.”
The word comes out low and flat enough that it cuts him off.
For half a breath we just look at each other.
The music in the hall swells around us, some lush orchestral nonsense with too much percussion. Waitstaff drift by with silver trays. A drone arcs overhead, pauses, then keeps moving when it doesn’t get immediate drama. Shame. Give it ten more seconds.
Bron’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I’m not trying to start a fight.”
