Summer's POV
The next morning, something miraculous happened.
No call time.
No camera drones buzzing like mosquitoes.
No producers shouting through walkie-talkies.
Just silence.
"Rest day," the assistant had said, grinning like Santa. "No filming, no interviews, just stay alive and look pretty."
For the first time since the show began, Summer didn't have to perform.
She wandered toward the northern beach with a towel slung over her shoulder. The sand was cool under her feet, the sky a lazy watercolor of blue and gold.
When she reached the end of the cove, she stopped. Ethan was there, sitting on a rock with his shoes off, toes in the surf, head tilted back against the sun.
He turned at the sound of her footsteps, surprised but smiling. "Didn't expect company."
"Didn't expect peace and quiet," she said.
"Well," he said, scooting over, "you can borrow some of mine."
---
They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the waves. The absence of cameras felt heavier than their presence—every glance, every shift of the wind felt suddenly more real.
"You ever think about what you'll do when this is over?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Maybe a long shower. Maybe ten."
She laughed. "No, I mean after that. When we're back in the real world."
He looked at her, eyes thoughtful. "I don't think the real world will feel the same anymore."
The words lingered, soft as the tide.
---
Ethan's POV
He hadn't planned to talk about feelings—not today. He wanted to let the quiet do the work. But being near her without the pressure of microphones felt dangerous in a different way.
She reached down and skimmed her fingers through the water, droplets catching the sunlight. "You know," she said, "I used to think people exaggerated when they said cameras changed them."
"They don't change you," he said. "They just freeze the parts you're not ready to admit."
She looked up. "So what's your frozen part?"
He thought about lying—about saying something easy like my smile. But instead he said, "You."
She blinked. "That's… dramatic."
"True," he said simply.
Summer's throat tightened. "You really need to stop saying things like that without warning."
He smiled. "Sorry. I forgot we're off script."
"That's the scary part," she said quietly. "No script means we might say what we actually mean."
"Then let's risk it," he murmured.
Their eyes met, and suddenly it was too quiet again—the kind of quiet where hearts start speaking louder than words.
---
Summer's POV
They spent the rest of the morning walking along the waterline, talking about anything but the show—music, favorite meals, places they missed. It was easy. Too easy.
At one point, he found a small piece of coral shaped like a heart and handed it to her.
"Souvenir," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet you're keeping it."
She slipped it into her pocket, pretending not to smile. "Shut up."
They reached the edge of the forest trail before the heat drove them back to the shade. She sat beneath a palm tree, fanning herself with a leaf. "So this is what normal feels like."
He lay down beside her, arms behind his head. "Define normal."
"No cameras. No audience. Just… breathing."
He turned his head toward her. "Then yeah. This is normal."
She smiled softly. "I'd forgotten how nice it is."
He didn't reply, but the look in his eyes said he hadn't.
---
Ethan's POV
When the sun dipped lower, he walked her back toward camp.
Halfway there, she stumbled on a rock and instinctively grabbed his arm. His hand closed over hers automatically, warm and solid. For a second, neither moved.
"Careful," he said.
"I'm fine."
He didn't let go.
She looked up at him, eyes full of things unsaid. "Ethan…"
He gave a small, crooked smile. "Yeah?"
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"When the cameras come back tomorrow—don't go back to pretending."
He nodded slowly. "I won't if you won't."
She smiled then, soft and sincere. "Deal."
They stood like that for another heartbeat, two people suspended in a fragile, perfect pause between performance and reality.
When they finally walked back into the noise of camp, something invisible had shifted—the kind of shift you can't see, but everyone else will feel later.