She walked around the soaring wooden archway which marked the rear edge of the set. It was majestic and unmistakable, like the doorway of a cathedral, if a kitchen could be a church.

She was busy staring at the archway in awe, dazzled by the shining lights above.

Which was why a second later, she smacked herself right into a soft, solid wall of person.

A person who released a displeased grunt at Dahlia’s face implanting into their chest.

Dahlia bounced back a step, a rubber ball of embarrassment, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. Looking up, she saw the other contestant run a freckled hand through their hair, which was buzz cut on the sides, longer on top. Their hand released, and a flop of strawberry blonde locks fell back over their right eyebrow.

Dahlia cleared five feet, but barely. And this person was tall. Meaning that eyebrow hovered what felt like a full floor above her.

But it was cute, the strawberry hair. It made Dahlia think of leaves changing color in the fall, and Anne of Green Gables, and sunsets reflected off of still water. They hadn’t moved at all since her face met their chest, and the nearness of another body felt grounding somehow, like when your eyes lock onto someone in Arrivals you recognize, the cacophony of the airport finally settling around you.

And so maybe it was the sunset hair or the simple proximity of another sentient human being, but Dahlia opened her mouth and—

“Oh, god. I just ran right the fuck into you. I am so, so sorry. I am just so nervous. Like, I think the last time I was this nervous was at my fourth-grade spelling bee, when I forgot how to spell ‘whistle’ and everyone laughed at me and I maybe peed my tights, just a little. God, wearing tights is the worst.”

Dahlia saw, from the corner of her eye, the other eleven contestants milling around while a producer named Janet began herding them to their assigned cooking stations. Strawberry Blonde Hair kept standing there, staring at her with a blank look on their face. Likely wondering what was wrong with her. Dahlia felt awkward ending the conversation here, but she also didn’t know how to transition smoothly from fourth grade urination—although, for the record, she stood by her assessment of tights—so she simply barreled on, her brain scrambling to find a more relevant way to finish this horrifying minute of her life.