“We are not dead, Tilda. I feel that deserves at least a modest amount of smugness.”
Below us, the elimination line glows red. Two couples at the bottom are already crying. Another pair is fighting in low, vicious whispers right there in front of the beverage station. Somewhere behind me, somebody laughs too loudly in relief and then immediately starts crying too. Reality competition seems to reduce every adult in the room to a weather event.
I set my tray down on the nearest table before I drop it. “Safe is good.”
Bron glances sideways at me. His voice loses some of its bounce. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“That sounded like a lie with decent posture.”
I cross my arms. “I said I’m fine.”
He studies me for a second, and because he has always been an unbearable student of my face, his expression shifts.
Not joking now.
Just watching.
That is somehow worse.
Before either of us can say anything else, a production assistant in a silver jacket claps her hands and calls, “Top thirty couples, please remain in the commons after breakfast for engagement notes.”
Bron mutters, “Engagement notes sounds fake, sinister, or both.”
“It’s both,” I say.
He brightens. “God, it’s nice when we agree.”
I make myself eat half a roll and drink some coffee, though my stomach is too tight to appreciate either. Safe. We’re safe. That’s what matters. Another day in the competition means another day in the compound, another day of guaranteed care for Jesse, another day of not falling backward into the kind of panic that makes my vision narrow.
I should feel better than this.
Instead I feel like I’m standing on a ledge somebody keeps extending one inch at a time.
When breakfast clears, the top couples are herded toward a lounge set off the commons with low curved couches, too-bright lights, and floating camera drones that pretend to be unobtrusive while hovering like metal mosquitoes. The producers call it the “connection bay,” which sounds like something you catch a rash in.
A woman named Seral waits for us with a tablet tucked under one arm. She’s one of the mid-level producers: flawless hair, brisk smile, predator’s eyes.
“Congratulations, everyone,” she says. “Audience response is strong, and we want to build on momentum.”
No one answers.
Seral’s smile doesn’t flicker. “A reminder: viewers respond to emotional authenticity, interpersonal progress, and relationship tension with potential payoff. That means meaningful interaction on camera. Vulnerability. Chemistry. Development.”
Across from us, Vanna snorts.
Seral ignores her. “Some of you are doing very well in that category.”
Her gaze lands very deliberately on Bron and me.
Bron, curse him, actually puts a hand to his chest like he’s being honored.
I close my eyes for one patient second.
Seral continues. “Your pairing tested extremely high in audience investment after the last challenge. We’d like to lean into that. More check-ins. More conversational footage. More unresolved-history beats.”
Bron murmurs, “Unresolved-history beats. Sounds romantic.”
