I say, without looking at him, “If you’re enjoying this, I need you medicated.”
Seral taps her screen. “The audience loves contrast. Tilda, your restraint against Bron’s expressiveness is testing as compelling. Bron, your visible affection reads as persistent and high-risk, which viewers find engaging.”
“I am a gift to the arts,” he says solemnly.
“Please don’t encourage yourself,” I mutter.
Seral’s smile sharpens. “What we don’t want is emotional stonewalling. If you shut down every avenue of interaction, the audience interprets that as refusal to participate in the full social premise of the season.”
I lean back in my chair. “We are participating. We’re completing the challenges.”
“Yes,” she says, “but this season is built around former couples.”
“And?”
“And the audience expects a relationship arc.”
There it is.
The thing under all the glittering language.
I fold my hands in my lap so nobody sees how hard I’m gripping them. “You’re getting a competitive arc.”
Seral tilts her head. “That may not be enough.”
Bron glances at me. Not smug now. Not joking. Just measuring.
I hold Seral’s gaze. “Then you’ll have to live with disappointment.”
A tiny silence follows that.
One of the drones hums closer. I can hear the faint whir of its stabilizers, the buzz of overhead lights, the far-off clang of training equipment somewhere deeper in the compound. My skin feels too tight. I know what they want. A soft-focus reconciliation. Lingering glances. Confessionals cut to swelling music. They want us to bleed neatly and call it content.
Not with Jesse in this compound.
Not with my life balanced on this insane tower of risk.
Seral makes a note on her tablet. “You should be aware that viewer scoring may reflect perceived emotional openness.”
“Then viewers are welcome to reward us for not strangling each other on live television,” I say.
Across the room, somebody chokes back a laugh.
Seral smiles that hard little producer smile again. “Noted.”
Bron stretches an arm along the back of the couch behind me, casual as breathing. If I shift even two inches, I’ll be touching him. “For what it’s worth,” he says lightly, “I’m open to emotional growth, camera-approved healing, and several categories of dramatic eye contact.”
I turn to him, low and dangerous. “We are not pretending to reconcile for points.”
His mouth twitches. “I didn’t say pretend.”
“Bron.”
Something flickers behind his eyes then—quick, gone. He lifts both hands in surrender. “Competitive partnership. Understood.”
I hold his gaze one beat longer, just to make sure.
Then Seral claps once. “Excellent. Challenge briefing in twenty minutes.”
