“Yes!”
“Good.” She grabs my forearm and drags me back to the correct route. “Now stay where I can save your life without paperwork.”
I bark out a laugh.
Not because any part of this is funny.
Because adrenaline is lightning in my bones and Tilda just yanked me back from becoming fish-related content while scolding me like an incompetent intern, and the whole thing is so violently, unmistakably her that something in me goes hot and bright despite the danger.
“Tilda—”
“Don’t thank me,” she snaps. “Walk.”
I walk.
This time I do exactly what she says.
Right-side path.
Short step.
Pause.
Wait for the swing.
Center cut on her count.
The thing is—and this is deeply irritating to admit internally, let alone out loud—once I stop trying to out-charm physics and actually follow her read, the course starts making sense. Her strategy isn’t cautious in the timid way people accuse caution of being. It’s aggressive in a different language. She sees the shape of the machine and threads us through the places where it wants overconfidence most.
“Plate there,” she says.
I avoid it.
“Low under this one.”
I duck.
“Now. Move.”
We move.
The crowd roars when we hit the midpoint platform without another stumble. Overhead screens cut between our lane and reaction shots from the commentators, who are visibly losing their minds over the “dramatic save.” Somewhere in the noise I hear Captain Photonic booming, “What a recovery from Tilda! Strategy and composure keeping this pair alive!”
Tilda hears it too and mutters, “He can shut up forever.”
“Agreed,” I say, breathing hard.
Second half of the span adds sequence gates. Two floor locks that release the next rail only if depressed in proper rhythm. We figure it out in seconds because she clocks the pattern and I have, at last, stopped acting like the universe will spare me for being handsome.
“Left. Right. Hold.”
“Got it.”
“Now shift.”
“Moving.”
“Don’t overstep.”
