I turn from it immediately. “Don’t make this into anything it isn’t.”
His voice, when it comes, is softer than I expect. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
That is such an obvious lie I almost laugh.
But the horn sounds again, calling the next heat, and the moment breaks open. Crew members wave us toward the exit ramp. The crowd keeps roaring. Somewhere behind us, another couple starts screaming at each other under the stadium lights.
Bron falls into step beside me as we head off the course.
“We make a pretty good team,” he says.
I keep my eyes forward. “We make an effective team.”
He hums. “That’s the least romantic phrasing available.”
“Good.”
He glances at me, smiling with one corner of his mouth. “Still counts.”
I don’t answer.
Because ahead of us the competition keeps moving, the cameras keep watching, and I know exactly how dangerous it would be to start believing that surviving something together means you’ve survived each other.
CHAPTER 12
BRON
By the time we clear the exit ramp, my pulse is still trying to headbutt its way out of my chest, and the inside of my mouth tastes like copper, ozone, and the sort of relief a man should probably not confuse with joy.
The arena noise follows us down the corridor in rolling bursts—crowd thunder muffled by steel, the whine of drones, Captain Photonic somewhere overhead still talking like he’s personally leading troops into a glorious siege instead of narrating people nearly falling to their deaths for sponsorship money.
Tilda walks beside me with that clipped, efficient stride of hers, all business, no wobble, no visible crash. Sweat has loosened the hair at her temples. Her breathing is measured again. Her face is back under control.
You’d never know that ten minutes ago she was standing on a moving platform over a bottomless drop, barking orders at me like a tiny battlefield commander while I tried not to get us both cooked.
I grin at the thought.
She glances over without turning her head all the way. “What.”
“That was fun.”
She gives me a flat look. “You’re deranged.”
“I’m alive.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“Strong overlap, though.”
That almost gets her. I see it—the tiny pull at the corner of her mouth before she strangles it dead and looks away again.
Crew handlers herd us toward recovery stations with the rest of the successful pairs. Vanna and Pajack are already arguing with the smooth, vicious intimacy of people who exercise recreationally and judge strangers in parking lots. Zack and Dartha are laughing like they just survived a bar fight together and would happily do it again. Somewhere ahead, one of the eliminated couples is sobbing so hard it echoes.
The compound always smells sharper after a challenge. Burnt circuitry. hot metal. body salt. antiseptic. victory and panic cooked together under arena lights.
We make it to the hydration tables. I grab two electrolyte packs, toss one to Tilda. She catches it one-handed without looking.
“Thanks.”
