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That tells me I’m close to something.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she’d like me not to keep walking in that direction.

So naturally I want to.

Before I can ruin my life properly, a production runner appears and informs us in a voice full of artificial pep that there’s a mandatory compound break period before evening interviews and confessional pickup. We’re being encouraged to rest, hydrate, and spend time in designated social zones for “organic capture opportunities,” which is a sentence so grim it nearly makes me miss military jargon.

Tilda exhales through her nose. “Organic capture. Sure.”

“You want me to punch a camera drone on principle?” I offer.

“Yes.”

“Romantic.”

“No.”

She starts walking toward the residential wing. I match her pace.

“You going to sleep?” I ask.

“Attempt to.”

“Attempt?”

She shoots me a look. “Some of us have lives that do not revolve around posturing and near death.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“You contain nonsense.”

“And cheekbones.”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s that tiny almost-smile again. Barely there. Gone before the corridor lights can catch it.

Then we hit the split where the single contestant quarters break off from the family-access suites and restricted childcare wing.

Tilda stops.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just a single stutter in her step, a tiny recalibration.

She turns to me. “I have to go.”

I glance toward the family corridor, then back at her. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“That all the explanation I get?”

She folds her arms. “Why would you get one?”

I grin because I don’t know what else to do with the little sharp stab of curiosity that lands under my ribs every time she puts up a wall I can’t see over. “Because I’m charming. Because shared trauma creates intimacy. Because viewers love a reveal.”

“Goodbye, Bron.”

“Tilda—”