“Left,” I say.
He moves.
“Center.”
He moves again.
A shock pulse erupts from the rail. He takes it on the baton, grunting with effort.
“Hold.”
He braces.
I slam the control sequence into place, one, four, two, three, reverse pivot, confirm?—
The whole tower lights gold.
A bridge shoots out to the finish platform.
“Go!” I shout.
We sprint.
The final stretch is chaos. Platforms jerking underfoot. Crowd roaring. My lungs burning. Bron at my side instead of behind me now, matching pace, one hand hovering at my back without quite touching. Close enough to catch me. Careful enough not to throw me off balance.
We hit the finish marker together hard enough to stagger.
A horn blasts overhead.
“Lane Seven advances!” Captain Photonic bellows.
The audience explodes.
For a second all I can do is bend over with my hands on my thighs and drag air into my lungs. My heart is trying to kick its way out through my ribs. Sweat trickles down my spine under the training suit. Everything smells like ozone, hot steel, and adrenaline.
Beside me, Bron is laughing. Not performance-laughing. Not flirting. Just raw relief, bright and breathless.
I straighten slowly.
Across the arena, the results ribbon updates. Our names flash green.
Advanced.
Bron turns to me, flushed and wild-eyed and far too beautiful under all this noise. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy that a little.”
“I’m not a complete psychopath,” I say.
His grin widens. “That’s not a no.”
I should step away.
Instead I’m still standing there, too close, breathing the same charged air, feeling the aftershock of him listening when I told him to listen. Following when I said move. Guarding my space while I solved the path in front of us.
The dangerous part isn’t the attraction. I know what that feels like.
The dangerous part is the shape of trust.
A camera drone floats nearer, hungry for reaction.
