you don’t expect him to be the one who throws you off.

you’re focused on proving you belong there—timers, measurements, not shaking when the cameras drift too close—until he stops at your bench. he leans in the way people do when they’re pretending to be casual but very much are not. patterned jacket, sharp boots on grass that still smells like rain. he looks at your bake, then at you.

“this is… ambitious,” he says, eyes glinting. “i like ambitious.”

you tell him it’s inspired by a 60s tea room in margate. you say it without apology, already bracing yourself.

his eyebrows lift. “of course it is,” he replies. “you’ve got that look about you. mod but dangerous.”

you laugh before you can stop yourself. later, when you watch the clip back, you notice the way he smiles right after—like he’s pleased he got that reaction.

it becomes a pattern.

he lingers at your station longer than necessary. makes comments just sharp enough to feel personal. you push back, teasing, bold in that way that feels safer because it’s wrapped in jokes and broadcast standards. when you hand him a spoon to taste, your fingers brush. you swear it’s accidental. you also swear he could’ve avoided it.

“careful,” he murmurs once, just out of mic range. “you’ll get me in trouble.”

you don’t know if he means the judges. or himself.

between takes, you catch him watching you from across the tent. not staring—tracking. like he’s tuned in to your frequency and hasn’t decided what to do about it yet. you start dressing a little more you on filming days. sharper eyeliner. louder prints. he notices. he always notices.

the moment it clicks—really clicks—is when you’re packing up and he casually asks where you’re staying. not on camera. not as a joke.

“there’s a pub near mine,” he adds lightly. “good for… decompressing.”

it’s said like an option. not a proposition. which somehow makes it worse.

later, in your hotel room, you sit on the bed with your phone in your hand, heart thudding, realizing this wasn’t just banter. realizing he wasn’t indulging you—he was flirting. matching you. choosing you.

you text first.

he replies immediately.

and suddenly the tent, the cameras, the careful distance—all of it feels like foreplay you didn’t know you were consenting to.

two weird people. same wavelength. finally off mic.