I didn't sleep.
After the kiss… after Milo's mouth bruised mine like he'd been starving for years… after the dizzy way we stumbled back to the cottage, silent but too close
I just lay there, eyes wide, the island whispering outside my window.
The fire had faded.
But not in me.
Morning on the island didn't come gently.
It came golden and sharp, as if the sun had claws and didn't care who it scorched.
Lena was already outside when I stepped onto the porch. She sat on the stone ledge, barefoot, braiding her long dark hair. Her expression was unreadable. Too calm. Too quiet.
"Morning," I said, trying to sound normal.
She didn't answer right away. Just stared out at the ocean.
Then finally, without looking at me:
"You disappeared last night."
My stomach flipped. "I needed air."
Her braid tightened.
"So did Milo?"
Silence.
She stood, letting her braid fall over one shoulder. Her eyes met mine. Deep, green, ancient. She smiled but it didn't reach her soul.
"The island makes people… strange," she said. "Be careful who you burn with, Celine. Fire has favorites. But it always leaves someone ash."
And just like that, she walked away.
Inside, the notebook was on my bed.
I hadn't touched it since yesterday. I swear I hadn't. But now there was a new line scrawled across the top page, in handwriting that wasn't mine:
"One heart wants.
One heart bleeds.
The island always knows."
The ink shimmered faintly, like heat on stone.
I snapped it shut.
That afternoon, I tried to write. Really write. The whole reason I was here.
All the other writers were scattered in the shaded grove near the temple. Laptops, paper, ink-stained fingers. Some laughing. Some whispering. A few watching me too closely.
Lucien passed me with a nod. "Didn't think you were the type to steal another woman's fire."
My mouth dried.
"What?"
He just smirked and kept walking.
They knew.
Or they sensed it.
The island fed secrets to the soil.
I spotted Milo at the far end of the clearing, talking to Lena. Her hand was on his chest.
He didn't pull away.
I turned and walked fast. Anywhere else.
That night, I wrote a single line in the notebook—just one.
"I wish none of this had happened. I wish I could take it back."
The words melted into the page.
Nothing changed.
The island had heard. But it wasn't forgiving.