Chapter 17 – The Cracks in the Walls
The mansion buzzed with post-challenge energy. Laughter echoed from the lounge where contestants relived their slips and pratfalls on the obstacle course. A few replayed the footage on the giant TV, cackling when someone face-planted into the inflatable wall.
I wasn't laughing.
I'd slipped away quietly, ducking behind the stage curtain where the producers stacked unused props and half-broken set pieces. The dim backstage smelled faintly of sawdust and paint. A single bulb overhead flickered like a bad mood.
It was blessedly quiet.
Finally, I could breathe.
I dropped onto a folding chair, pressing my hands against my thighs to still the restless tapping of my fingers. My chest still felt tight, my body humming with the memory of earlier—the rope binding me to Dante, the brush of his hand, the way his voice softened when he said, Never did before.
The words clung to me like burrs I couldn't shake off.
I exhaled slowly. Pull yourself together, Alexis. He's just another contestant. Just another obstacle. Nothing more.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
Of course.
Dante leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the half-light. His hair was still damp from the quick shower they'd let us take post-challenge, dark strands curling at his temple. The clean, sharp scent of his soap reached me before his words did, stirring up memories I had no business entertaining.
"Thought I'd find you hiding back here," he said softly.
I bristled, more from the way my heart leapt than from his words. "I'm not hiding. I'm… regrouping."
He stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet click. The hum of voices outside dulled instantly, leaving just us in the dusty backstage cocoon.
"Regrouping," he echoed, amusement tugging at his lips. "That's your word for running away?"
"I didn't run. I walked. Casually."
"Uh-huh."
He moved closer, not crowding but close enough that I felt the shift in the air. I stared at the scuffed floor, willing my pulse to calm.
"I just needed space," I muttered.
His voice gentled. "Space from me?"
The question hit harder than I expected. My gaze shot up to his, and for once there wasn't any teasing glint in his eyes. No smug challenge. Just… sincerity.
"Yes," I whispered. Then, softer: "No. I don't know."
Dante exhaled, a sound half-sigh, half-laugh. He dragged a crate closer and sat down across from me, elbows resting on his knees. The posture was relaxed, unguarded.
"You've always been bad at lying to yourself," he said.
I wanted to argue. To throw up every wall I'd spent years building. But the fight drained out of me the longer I looked at him.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small packet—granola bar, one of the crew snacks. He tore it open and held it out.
"You skipped lunch," he said simply.
My throat tightened. "You were watching me?"
He shrugged. "Old habits. I notice things."
I hesitated, then accepted the granola bar. His fingers brushed mine as I took it. Just a flicker of contact, but enough to send a spark zipping up my arm.
I broke off a piece, chewing mechanically. It wasn't about the snack. It was about the gesture—the quiet thoughtfulness. Dante wasn't one for grand displays. He never had been. He showed care in moments like this, small and deliberate, the kind that slipped under your skin before you realized they mattered.
Silence stretched, comfortable and aching at once. Finally, I found my voice.
"Why are you being… nice to me?"
His brows knit, genuinely puzzled. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because I ghosted you," I said flatly. The words tasted bitter even now. "Because I left without an explanation. Because I broke us."
He leaned back, studying me, his expression softer than I deserved. "Yeah. You did."
The honesty stung. But then he added quietly, "Doesn't mean I stopped caring."
My chest tightened, heat pricking at the corners of my eyes. I blinked hard, refusing to let tears betray me.
"You should hate me," I whispered.
He shook his head slowly. "Hate takes too much energy. And despite everything… I can't."
For the first time in years, something inside me cracked. Not shattered, not collapsed—just a hairline fracture, enough to let light seep through.
My lips wobbled into a reluctant smile, fragile and small. "You're impossible."
He smiled back, and the sight of it—real, unguarded, warm—nearly undid me. It wasn't the smirk he wore for the cameras, or the cocky grin from our challenge banter. It was Dante, the boy who once sat with me on rooftops eating cheap takeout, the man who'd always seen me even when I tried to hide.
It was the first tender smile we'd shared since everything fell apart.
And it broke me open in the gentlest way.
The air between us shifted, not heavy this time, but lighter, fragile, filled with unspoken possibility.
Neither of us moved closer. Neither of us needed to.
But I knew the cameras didn't need to roll for this moment to be dangerous.
Because the walls I'd built—the ones I swore would protect me—were cracking.
And Dante was slipping through.
⸻
Later, when I finally slipped back into the chaos of the house, contestants eyed me curiously, whispering about where I'd been. I brushed past them, cheeks warm, heart unsteady.
But one truth pulsed steady beneath the noise, as undeniable as the smile that lingered in my memory:
For the first time in years, I'd let him see me.
And I wasn't sure I wanted to close the door again.
⸻