I sneak a curious glance in his direction: Everything about him is serious, sharp, severe, from the hard set of his jaw to the crisp lines of his pushed-up sleeves. This new version of him is so self-reliant and self-possessed, like a lone cottage on a remote island, that he leaves no room for anyone else to come close. What’s changed? The question nags at my mind. What changed you?

I can’t stop myself from studying him as he’s beckoned over by the teacher, and returns with two blindfolds.

“We’re meant to wear these when we enter, apparently,” he says.

“These?” I raise a skeptical brow as I assess the thin scraps of fabric in his hand. “Will they even do anything? I swear I have dresses made from this exact material and those things are, like, fully see-through.”

Cyrus blinks fast. “Why do you own dresses that are see-through? Does that not defeat the very purpose of clothing?”

“The same reason I own anything in my closet: because it looks good,” I say. Then, unable to resist a chance to fluster him, I add in an offhand tone: “I even brought one of the dresses with me. Want to see me wear it?”

He freezes, blood rushing to his face, the look in his eyes almost panicked. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing until I burst out laughing.

“Don’t worry, I won’t show you just yet. I can’t have you going into shock before the competition is over.”

“I—” He clears his throat. “I wouldn’t go into shock—”

“You almost went into shock just now at my mere suggestion. Also, wait, can you help me put this on?” I nod at the blindfold.

“Yes. Sure,” he says, moving behind me. I expect him to be quick with it, the way the others are—out of the corner of my eye, I see Oliver tying the blindfold so carelessly that it ends up sliding down to Daisy’s chin—but Cyrus’s movements are like him: deliberate, precise. As the world goes dark, I feel his fingers in my hair fastening the ends of the blindfold, taking care not to mess up my bangs.

The world stays dark for the next few minutes while I’m led forward by a hand at my elbow. In the beginning, I try to keep track of where we’re going, the places where the smooth stone underfoot transitions into uneven wooden boards, where I hear the creak of a door opening and closing behind us, where the air turns colder, more compact, and the floral notes of tea waft up to my nose. But then we make one turn after another after another, and my head is spinning by the time we come to an abrupt stop.

There’s a soft click, a lock snapping into place.

Cyrus’s voice sounds from my right. “I think we can remove our blindfolds now.”