I open my eyes to leather seats, soft overhead lighting, and the unmistakable hum of a private jet slicing through clouds. If you had told me a year ago I’d be flying in a Gulfream G650 with my boss, Caroline Mason, I’d have laughed in your face. But here I was, Ethan, 23, assistant to one of the most high-profile corporate executives in New York.
And at that moment, sitting across the aisle from her in that tightly controlled cabin, I had never felt more out of place. She hadn’t said a word since takeoff. Caroline was a force. Everyone in the company called her the glacier, composed, commanding, untouchable. At 42, she had built her empire from scratch. And here I was, a guy fresh out of undergrad, keeping her schedule and triple-checking her green juice orders.
I’d been summoned to accompany her to a conference in San Juan. Last minute as always. No. How was your weekend? No smile, just a forwarded itinerary at 11 p. And a car waiting at 6:00 a.m. M. She was seated near the window in a charcoal blazer, hair tied in a neat shinon, eyes fixed on her tablet. I tried not to fidget. My palms were sweating. Not from nerves.
Okay, maybe partly, but because the clouds outside looked darker than usual. The first jolt caught everyone off guard. It wasn’t the small bump you usually get flying over the ocean. It was sharp, sudden, and followed by another. The seat belt sign dinged on, and a few of the crew exchanged looks.
Caroline’s eyes stayed on her screen, unfazed. I buckled in, adjusting my grip on the armrest as the plane rocked again. Just turbulence,” she muttered without looking up. But the next few seconds proved her wrong. The jet dropped, not gradually, not like in a dream. It dropped like the floor had vanished beneath us.
A flight attendant stumbled into the aisle, catching herself on the wall, her eyes wide with panic. Then came the alarms. Cabin lights flickered. Oxygen masks deployed overhead, swaying wildly. People were shouting now. One of the pilots voices came through the intercom, cracking with static. Brace, impact, losing altitude. Caroline and I locked eyes. For the first time, I saw her facade crack.
Just a flicker, a micro expression. But it was enough. Without thinking, I reached for the oxygen mask above her and handed it over. Her hand brushed mine as she took it. Everything went white. The noise was deafening. metal screeching, something tearing, the gut-wrenching sound of the fuselage splitting apart.
We hit something hard, and I felt my body slam forward, the seat belt cutting into my chest. The world flipped sideways. Something fell on me, then silence. When I came to, my ears were ringing. The cabin was torn open, the roof gone. The smell of smoke and sea salt was thick in the air. My head throbbed. My legs still worked barely. I unbuckled myself and stumbled toward the nearest opening in the wreckage. A warm breeze hit me.
The ocean, white sand, palm trees, a sky that had returned to blue like nothing happened. But the jet was ruined. Half of it tilted at an angle, broken across a ridge of rocks just above the shore. Caroline, I croked. I found her slumped against her seat, a gash above her eyebrow. She was conscious but dazed. I crouched beside her. “You okay?” I asked. She blinked.
“What? Where?” We crashed. “We’re alive.” I looked around. I think we’re the only ones. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. She looked around at the wreckage, then at me. Something in her changed. A quiet horror crept in. Not panic, just the slow, heavy realization of what had just happened.
We were stranded and nobody knew where we were. The sun was beginning its descent when we started moving again. Caroline sat on a flat piece of fuselage, pressing a strip of torn cloth against the cut on her head while I combed through the wreckage for anything useful. The pilots hadn’t made it. Their side of the jet had taken the worst of the impact. One look was enough to know.
I stood still for a long moment after I found them, letting the truth settle in. Then I backed away quietly. There was no point telling Caroline. She already knew. I brought out two duffel bags from the back of the plane, both half soaked but still zipped shut. Inside some clothes, a bottle of sparkling water, a tablet case that had shattered, and a few packs of fancy protein bars that probably cost more than my entire week’s grocery bill. Caroline’s fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled through her phone.
She tried again and again. Then she held it up toward the sky, walking a few paces in either direction along the beach. “No signal,” she said flatly. I checked mine, too. “Same thing, dead air. We’re not getting rescued today,” I said. She didn’t reply. Just stood there motionless, staring out at the sea as if she were calculating something. What’s the plan then? I asked.
She turned back toward me, her eyes sharper now, more focused. We stay by the wreckage. It’s our best chance of being found. They’ll look for the plane. Yeah, but for how long? They don’t even know where we went down. They will. They track flight paths, emergency beacons, all of that. I glanced up at the sky. It was clean now.
soft orange blue light spilling across scattered clouds. Calm, peaceful, like the island was mocking us. There’s no shade out here, I said. No water either. We need to go inland, find a stream or something. We don’t know what’s in there, she said, gesturing to the jungle beyond the beach.
Thick green vegetation loomed just a few hundred feet away, dense, humid, alive with sounds I didn’t recognize. So, we just wait here and hope someone sees us before we dehydrate. She crossed her arms. This isn’t a survival movie, Ethan. The smartest move is to remain visible near the wreckage. I exhaled, frustration bubbling under my skin. I wanted to yell, but it wouldn’t help. We were both scared.
She just didn’t show it the same way I did. I stood up and scanned the treeine. I’m going to check it out. Just a little way in. We need fresh water. If we don’t find it soon, don’t be reckless. I won’t go far, I said, already walking. I’ll yell if I see a tiger or something. She didn’t laugh. Of course, she didn’t.
The moment I stepped into the trees, the air changed, heavier. The sounds of birds and insects surrounded me instantly. Vines tangled at my feet, and I had to push through ferns and low branches. The deeper I went, the more surreal it all felt, like we’d been dropped into another world. I didn’t find water, but I did find a ridge.
From there, I could see more of the island, hills, thick jungle, and not a single sign of civilization, not a road, not a tower, nothing. By the time I got back to the beach, Caroline was pacing. She stopped when she saw me, her jaw tight. You were gone 40 minutes. I told you I wouldn’t go far.
And if something happened to you, you think I’d survive out here alone? Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. She turned away, hiding her face. That was the first real moment. The first time she stopped being Caroline, my boss, and became just a person, human, fallible, scared. Look, I said gently. I get it. You want to stay put. fine, but we’ve got to work together. This isn’t your boardroom. I’m not your assistant here.
We’re in this equally. She didn’t speak for a long time. Then, with her back still turned to me, she said, “Do you know how many contingency plans I’ve written in my life? Emergency protocols, response strategies, backup generators for our backup generators. I planned for everything except this.” I let the silence sit between us for a while before I nodded. Yeah, same here.
That night, we slept under a sheet of aluminum from the fuselage propped up by driftwood. The stars overhead were endless, beautiful in a way that felt cruel, like the universe was reminding us just how far from home we were. Caroline lay a few feet away, arms crossed, her face unreadable. But I noticed she kept her eyes open for a long time. So did I.
By the third morning, the silence between us wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Caroline sat by what was left of the wreckage, scrolling uselessly through her dead phone, as if willing it back to life. I was crouched near a driftwood pile, trying to make a spear from a snapped broom handle and a sharp shard of metal.
We were both trying to look busy, but the tension was real. Do you want to die dehydrated next to a luxury aircraft? I muttered. or maybe give the jungle a chance. She didn’t look up. We’ve been through this. I dropped the stick with a sharp clatter, right? Because we’re supposed to wait patiently like obedient employees until someone comes to save the powerful Caroline Mason.
She slowly raised her eyes to mine, calm, controlled. “You think I like this?” she said, standing. You think I want to be stuck here baking on sand, listening to you whine about how we’re not doing enough? I stared at her, whining. I’ve been the one moving, searching, trying. You just sit there rationing one protein bar a day like that’s going to change anything. I’m trying to keep us alive.
No, I said, stepping closer. You’re trying to stay in control even now. Her jaw clenched. She looked away, but not before I saw the flash of something in her eyes. Not anger, guilt. I turned and walked off before I said something worse. This time, I went deeper into the trees.
The brush was thick, but I pushed through. I found something small berries on low shrubs. They looked edible, but I wasn’t sure. I remembered my mom once saying that birds eat toxic berries, too. So, watching animals wasn’t always safe. Still, I picked a handful. When I returned, Caroline was limping toward a tree at the edge of the beach. “What happened?” I called out, running to her.
She sat down quickly, wincing as she touched her ankle. “I tried climbing for coconuts.” “You what?” “I thought we needed water,” she said, her voice tight with pain since you were off playing Explorer. Her left foot was swelling. I knelt beside her, carefully examining it. “You twisted it. I slipped halfway up and landed wrong.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she looked at me for real this time. The sarcasm was gone. So was the cool demeanor. “Because I didn’t want to be useless,” she said, her voice quieter now. “You were right. I’ve been pretending like I’m still in control, but I’m not. Not here.” I let out a breath. “Well, welcome to the club.” I helped her hobble back to the shelter.
there. I took off her shoe gently, using a clean piece of cloth from one of the bags to wrap her ankle. She winced but didn’t complain. I found berries, I said. She raised a brow. Are they safe? No idea. She smirked faintly. Great. I laughed, surprised both of us. That night, we shared one protein bar and split one of the coconuts I finally managed to get down.
Her ankle was propped up on a driftwood log. The fire crackled low between us. Colorado, I said after a pause. She looked at me. What? I grew up there. Did some camping when I was a kid. Never thought it had actually come in handy. She nodded slowly. I was raised in Chicago. Learned early how to bluff my way through boardrooms full of men who wanted to prove they were smarter than me.
Is that why you never smile? That got a raal laugh from her. Soft and brief. I smile. Just not often at junior assistants who leave protein bar wrappers lying around. Fair, I said. For a long while, we just watched the fire. The sky above was clearer than ever. Stars stretching like a blanket over the ocean.
I messed up, she said quietly, climbing that tree. Yeah, you did, she smirked. I’m saying sorry. I looked over. I know it wasn’t dramatic. There was no swell of music, no tearful monologue, just a moment, real simple human. And for the first time, we weren’t boss and assistant. We were just two people who needed each other.
The fourth day brought heat that clung to everything. Our clothes, our skin, even our breath. Caroline barely moved that morning. Her ankles still swollen despite the makeshift wrap. I could tell it was bothering her, but she didn’t say anything. That was her style. Quiet pain, quiet strength. I, on the other hand, was on a mission. I’m going to build us something better.
I said, brushing sand off my knees. We can’t keep sleeping under that aluminum sheet. She looked up from where she sat with her legs stretched out, a piece of coconut shell in her hand. And what exactly are you planning to build? A beach condo? I grinned. Cabin, obviously, with a hot tub. maybe a rooftop deck.
She didn’t smile, but I saw the flicker of amusement in her eyes. That was enough. I took to the jungle edge, gathering whatever driftwood, palm frrons, and vines I could find. I remembered enough from old camping trips with my uncle. Triangle shelters, a-frames, not types I hadn’t thought about in years. It wasn’t much, but my hands remembered even when my brain didn’t.
By mid-after afternoon, sweat soaked through my shirt and my arms were covered in cuts and mosquito bites. But I had a structure small, slanted, open on one side, but solid enough to keep the wind and rain off us if the weather turned again. Caroline watched from her spot near the fire pit. I’ll admit, she said once I’d finished tying off the last corner.
That’s not completely terrible. High praise. She lifted the coconut shell again like a toast. For me, it is. While I worked on the shelter, she had gone through the supplies, separating everything into neat little piles, protein bars, medical kits, bits of metal, wires, batteries.
She made an inventory in a tiny notebook she found in the emergency pouch. I’ve rationed us for 10 days, she said as we sat under the new roof that evening. Maybe longer if we’re careful. After that, don’t say it, I said. She didn’t. We watched the fire again. The silence between us not awkward anymore, more like comfortable.
I used to work 14-hour days, she said suddenly, eyes fixed on the flames, meetings, pitches, flying between cities. My phone was never off. I didn’t respond. I knew she didn’t need me to. I thought if I kept moving fast enough, I wouldn’t have time to feel anything. I looked over. Feel what? She hesitated, then with a shrug. Loneliness. Regret. Take your pick.
Her voice didn’t crack, but it dipped like she wasn’t used to saying those words out loud. I leaned back on my elbows, feeling the rough palm mat under me. You ever been married? Divorced? She said 6 years ago. He wanted to move to the coast, have kids. I wanted another promotion.
Sounds complicated, more like incompatible. I nodded, letting her have space. The fire snapped between us. What about you? She asked. Anyone waiting for you in New York? I shook my head. Nope. Last girl I dated dumped me because I canceled too many plans to pick up your dry cleaning. She gave me a look. That can’t be true. It is, I said with a grin.
Though she also said I lacked ambition. Caroline’s brows lifted. And do you some days? Yeah, I said honestly. I mean, I didn’t grow up dreaming of being someone’s assistant, but I needed a job and you offered one. I figured I’d figure it out as I went. She studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she looked away, lips pressed in something close to a smile. You’re not what I expected, she said. Same to you.
We didn’t talk much after that, but something had shifted. She didn’t sit with her arms crossed anymore. She didn’t correct me when I poked fun at her ration notes, and I didn’t feel the same pressure to prove myself every second. That night, when we lay side by side under the driftwood roof, not touching, not speaking, I felt her hand brush mine for just a second.
Not by accident. She didn’t pull away. Neither did I. The storm didn’t announce itself. It crept in quietly. A sudden gust of wind. The thickening of the air. The dark roll of clouds sliding over the horizon like a slow wave. By the time I noticed, the sky had turned a bruised gray and the jungle behind us had gone eerily silent.
Caroline stood at the edge of the shelter watching the water. That doesn’t look good. understatement of the year,” I muttered, grabbing the extra palm leaves and shoving them inside. Within minutes, the first drops fell. Then the wind hit sharp urgent as if it had been waiting for an excuse. Our fire sputtered and died in a single hiss.
I crouched beside the shelter, reinforcing the edges, trying to secure them with whatever driftwood I hadn’t already used. Caroline was right behind me, one hand bracing her wrapped ankle, the other holding the supply bag tight against her chest. Then the sky opened. Sheets of rain slammed down. Thunder cracked close enough to shake the ground beneath us. The roof bent under the weight of the water.
I dropped to my knees, arms raised to hold one of the corner supports in place. Ethan. Caroline’s voice cut through the noise. It’s collapsing. The back wall gave way, snapping under pressure. Wind whipped inside, spraying sand and water across our faces. Caroline was trying to crawl back inside, pulling the bag with her when a loud crack.
Maybe a palm tree snapping made her flinch and drop flat to the ground. I crawled toward her. “Hey!” I shouted. “Stay down!” The roof wavered again. I lay beside her, pulling the remains of the shelter over our heads as best I could. We were soaked to the bone, pressed shouldertosh shoulder, the wind howling like a freight train just outside our fragile bubble.
She was shaking from cold, from fear, maybe both. I wrapped an arm around her, not carefully, not politely, just instinct, human to human, survival to survival. She didn’t resist. In fact, she pressed in closer, burying her face into my chest. For a long time, we just stayed like that, breathing, bracing, holding. I hate this, she whispered at one point, her voice barely audible over the storm.
I know. I hate not being in control. I hate that I can’t fix this. I didn’t have an answer, so I didn’t give one. I just held her tighter, trying to be something solid in a world that felt like it was coming apart.
When the wind finally eased and the roar of the rain softened into a whisper, she let out a long breath. “I haven’t felt safe in years,” she said. The storm was still fading, but that confession hit harder than the thunder ever had. I didn’t speak. I just rested my chin lightly against the top of her head. Eventually, we crawled out from under the ruined shelter. The beach was a mess.
Debris everywhere, soap supplies, palm leaves scattered like confetti from a wild party no one asked for. We sat there in silence, dripping, exhausted. Caroline leaned against me, her head resting lightly on my shoulder. No pretense, no distance, just her, just me. Later, when we rebuilt the shelter with stronger support and a deeper foundation, she didn’t direct or critique.
She worked beside me, dragging branches with her wrapped ankle, tying knots with shaky fingers. We barely spoke. We didn’t need to. That night, with the wind finally quiet and the stars peeking out again, we sat by a new fire. She didn’t sit apart from me this time. She sat close. “I don’t know what we are out here,” she said, staring into the flames.
“Neither do I,” I admitted. But the warmth between us wasn’t just from the fire. It was something real, quiet, steady, something that didn’t need to be named. Not yet. The days after the storm felt different. Not easier, not less dangerous, but lighter. We began to fall into a rhythm. Every morning, I checked the perimeter of the beach, looking for any signs of a passing boat or aircraft.
Caroline handled inventory, rewrapping her ankle each day, keeping the food and water carefully measured. She still moved stiffly, but the swelling had gone down a little. She was healing slowly. One morning, we found a shallow tidal pool nestled between rocks on the far side of the beach.
Inside it, tiny fish, some shellfish clinging to the sides. I carved out a small trap from palm bark and set it with patience. It wasn’t perfect, but by noon, we had something wriggling. That night, we cooked fish over the fire. Tasted like salt and smoke, but it felt like victory.
Caroline even laughed when I dropped half mine into the sand and cursed under my breath. “You were so proud of that one,” she teased. “I fought for that fish,” I said with mock seriousness. “That fish and I had a bond.” She chuckled again, a low, warm sound. I think it surprised her more than it did me. Later that evening, we sat by the fire with full stomachs for the first time in days.
The sky was clear, stars as sharp as pin pricks, the breeze gentle for once. “I don’t miss it,” she said. “What?” “My apartment, my office, the constant buzzing of my phone. I thought I would, but I don’t.” I nodded. “Weird, right? The stillness grows on you.” She looked at me.
her expression softer now, like she wasn’t just seeing me, she was really seeing me. I think I forgot how to slow down, she said. Until now. We didn’t say much after that, but something was building between us. Not sudden, not dramatic, just steady, like fire catching damp wood and slowly beginning to burn. The next morning, things changed. She winced when she stepped out of the shelter.
I saw it in her face before she could hide it. Ankles worse. No. She lied clearly in pain. I knelt beside her and peeled back the bandage. Her skin was red, angry, inflamed, and warm to the touch. It’s infected. She didn’t argue. She just looked away, her jaw clenched.
I boiled water, cleaned the wound as gently as I could, ground up some leaves we’d seen in a survival manual stored in the plane’s wreckage. It wasn’t medicine, not really, but it was something. That night, she had a fever. She barely touched the fish I brought. Her skin was flushed, her breathing shallow.
I stayed up feeding her water in small sips, wiping sweat from her forehead with my shirt. At one point, she mumbled something. Not words, just sounds. Half asleep, half delirious. I didn’t leave her side. Caroline, I whispered. Stay with me. Okay. You’ve carried people your whole life. Let me carry you now. Her hand found mine in the dark.
Weak, but there the fever broke just before dawn. Her breathing steadied. I almost cried from relief, but kept it together. In the light of day, she looked better. Exhausted, pale, but alert. “You stayed up all night,” she said. “I wasn’t going to leave you.” She looked at me for a long time.
And this time there was no wall, no mask, just her vulnerable, honest, and quietly grateful. “I used to think strength meant doing everything alone,” she said. “That needing someone made you weak, and now, now I know that’s just fear dressed up as confidence.” We sat in the silence that followed, her hand still in mine. In that moment, she wasn’t my boss. She wasn’t Caroline Mason CEO.
She was just a woman, a strong, complicated, beautiful woman. And she was letting herself be seen. By the seventh day, I’d stopped marking time with my phone and started measuring it in firewood runs, coconut rations, and the way the light shifted across the sand in the afternoon. Caroline was walking better. She still limped, but the fever had passed and her ankle wrapped neatly each morning had started to regain some of its strength.
We were surviving, and more than that, we were living. In the late morning, I climbed back to the ridge I’d found on my second day here, the one that overlooked the jungle canopy and gave me a narrow view of the horizon. This time, I wasn’t just exploring. I had a goal. It took hours, but I pried loose one of the larger aluminum panels from the tail section of the wreckage.
With some effort and a lot of cursing, I dragged it up the hill, angling it just so, placing it where sunlight could hit its surface. I etched a giant SOS beside it using stones and charred wood from our old fire pit. I sat back, hands on my knees, breathing hard. When I returned to camp, Caroline was waiting with a look that mixed concern and mild annoyance.
“Gone half the day,” she said. “I was starting to think you’d run off to the other side of the island with a volleyball named Wilson. I was building us a billboard,” I said. “Aluminum panel, SOS on the ridge. We’ll see if it works.” She blinked clearly, surprised. “That’s actually smart. Don’t sound too shocked,” I said, grinning.
I did go to college, she gave a half smile. I forget sometimes. You’re not just the kid who fetched my coffee. I’m not a kid, I said without thinking. She looked at me. Really? Looked. No, she said. You’re not. The sun dipped lower, gold light stretching across the sand.
We cooked another fish, this time with crushed herbs I’d found growing along the jungle edge. She called it the island version of five-star dining. We laughed more than usual that night about ridiculous office memories, weird co-workers, even the awkwardness of our first meeting. After dinner, we sat by the fire.
I could feel something building, not just tension, something deeper, something that had been quietly growing in the spaces between crisis and silence, between tending wounds and sharing fears. I dread going back, she said suddenly. I turned to her to New York. To my life, she clarified to the version of me that everyone expects. Ice Queen Zio untouchable. You don’t have to be her, I said. She looked at me.
And what would I be instead? I didn’t have a perfect answer, just the truth. Someone who lets herself feel, who doesn’t have to be perfect all the time. someone who knows she’s allowed to want more. She went quiet. The fire crackled between us. I haven’t felt this real in years, she admitted. Not since before the company. Before everything got so loud and scripted. I felt it too, I said.
Out here with you, she leaned in slightly. But what happens when we go back? When we’re not two castaways sleeping under palm leaves? When I’m your boss again and you’re Don’t, I said softly. Don’t reduce us to titles. Not here. Not now, she hesitated, her fingers twisting in her lap. People won’t understand. They’ll say I.
I don’t care what they say. Her eyes searched mine, something flickering behind them. Doubt, fear, want. I reached across the space between us and brushed her hand with mine. Caroline, I said, “This thing between us, it didn’t come out of nowhere. We didn’t plan it, but it’s real.” She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned forward, her voice low.
I’ve been trying not to feel this, trying to stay rational. But every night, I lie awake beside you and wonder what it would be like if none of this had to end. My chest tightened. Then, don’t let it. We sat there close. The air charged, but still. Then without a word, she leaned in and I met her halfway. Our lips touched gently.
No rush, no fireworks, just warmth, intention, a soft, steady current pulling us together. When we parted, she didn’t speak. She just rested her forehead against mine. And for the first time since the crash, neither of us felt lost. The next morning started the same as the others. Sun creeping over the horizon, birds calling from the trees, the smell of salt in the air, but everything felt different. Caroline and I moved around the camp quietly, naturally.
No tension, no confusion. There was no need to talk about the kiss. It hung in the air between us, not unresolved, not uncertain, but accepted. We were no longer pretending to be just survivors. We were something more. Around midm morning, I went up to the ridge to check the panel like I had every day since I set it up. But this time, I saw something. A glint in the sky.
Small at first, a faint speck. Then growing, turning, catching the sunlight. I stood up and waved my arms. The speck grew into the unmistakable shape of a plane. A rescue plane. Caroline, I shouted, already running. We used one of the emergency flares we’d recovered from the wreckage, setting it off in the clearing near the beach.
Bright orange smoke rose into the air. Within an hour, a helicopter arrived, shouting, radios, faces of people in uniforms rushing toward us. It didn’t feel real. The moment we stepped aboard, lifted from the sand and into the clouds, the island became something else, a memory, a chapter. In San Juan, we were taken to a private facility. Press avoided us for a little while, but not for long.
By the time we landed in New York, the rumors had started. Co rescued with young assistant. Survivors of crash share. Unbreakable bond. Romance or professionalism blurred in survival ordeal. We tried to brush it off, keep our heads down. But in the city, stories move fast. Everyone had something to say. Caroline became cold again, but this time it wasn’t natural.
It was a defense. At the first company event after our return, she barely looked at me. People whispered. HR hovered. Her eyes slid past me like I was invisible. I got the message. A week later, I submitted my resignation. No dramatic scene, no confrontation, just a quiet envelope and a final nod.
I packed up my apartment, planned to move back to Colorado. I told myself it was better this way, cleaner, simpler. The island was its own world. This one had rules, expectations, headlines. But that lie didn’t hold up for long.
On my last night in the city, I sat on the edge of my bed, suitcase packed, when I heard a knock at the door. I opened it and there she was, Caroline. No makeup, hair tied back, just her. I didn’t know who else to be, she said. Back there, I was myself. And then we got home and I panicked. I went back to the version of me people expect. I stepped aside. She walked in slowly, her eyes on the floor.
I let them decide what I should feel, what we should be, she continued. But I’m tired of that. I’m tired of pretending. I didn’t interrupt. I let her speak. She turned to face me, voice steady. I love you, Ethan. I don’t care if it’s complicated or if people talk. I don’t care if I’m older or if it makes headlines.
I care about what we found, what we survived, what we built out there. She stepped closer. And I want to keep building it with you. I didn’t say anything. I just pulled her into my arms. No plane, no jungle, no wreckage, just us survivors. Not just of a crash, but of everything we were before we met each other. We kissed again in the middle of my half-packed apartment.
And this time there was no fear, no questions, just the beginning of something
