Summer's POV
The cameras were back before dawn, polite and persistent as ever. Production moved like a small army—props, crew, and a weird assortment of "romantic" props that smelled faintly of glue and bad ideas.
"Today's special," the host announced with the kind of grin that always meant trouble, "is the Challenge of Hearts. Each team will be sent on a staged 'date'—but with survival elements. You'll be judged on teamwork, creativity, and—of course—chemistry." He winked directly at them, as if that had been his plan all along.
Summer forced a smile. "Chemistry," she repeated. The word landed heavy. It had started as a hashtag and now it felt like a job description.
Ethan stood beside her, expression neutral, but his hand tapped a rhythm against his thigh that gave his nerves away. He wasn't the most demonstrative person, but when he was tense, his fingers betrayed him.
"Think of it as theatre with coconuts," she whispered.
He looked at her. "Think of it as two actors who actually know how to build a campfire together."
She snorted. "Which is… marginally comforting."
The producers handed them a little envelope. Summer tore it open. Inside: Create a three-course island 'date' using only what you can find and one prop from the box. Score will be out of ten.
She glanced at the prop: a ridiculous-looking silver tin marked Romance Kit. Inside were two paper napkins, a single scented candle, and a polaroid camera. For reasons unknown, the candle still smelled faintly of lavender.
"Of course," Ethan murmured. "Lavender."
They were given two hours and a camera crew that liked to get very close to faces.
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Ethan's POV
The assignment was absurd—but everything about this show leaned that way. The key, as ever, was making it look effortless.
Summer marched ahead with purpose, energy that always surprised him. She scanned the shoreline with a predator's focus and began selecting. "We'll do a starter of fruit, main of grilled fish, and dessert of—" she held up the camera—"a captured memory. Cute, right?"
He glanced at the pack of supplies scattered on the sand. "That could work. You grill, I fish." His tone was casual, but inside a small part of him was pleased. Fishing was something he could do without thinking; it let him be useful in a way that words rarely did.
They split tasks with an efficiency that surprised even themselves. Summer fashioned skewers from thin branches while Ethan rigged a simple fish trap near a shallow inlet. Cameras hovered, capturing the rhythm of their teamwork—the easy, unforced motions that weren't quite acting anymore.
Halfway through, a gust of wind threatened to blow out their candle before it had a chance to be lit. Summer swatted at it, irritated. Ethan stepped in and shielded the tiny flame with his hands, the motion instinctive and private.
"Thanks," she said, and for a second the world narrowed to that small lantern glow and the olive smell of smoke.
"No problem." He didn't elaborate. He didn't have to. The camera caught it anyway, and the producers loved the little tableau.
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Summer's POV
They plated the meal on a flat piece of driftwood. The "starter" was mangos and slices of something sweet and unidentifiable, the main was two modest grilled fish, and for dessert, Summer printed a candid polaroid they'd taken earlier and clipped it to a leaf with a piece of vine.
The host wandered over with a mock-serious face. "Describe your date," he said.
Summer felt the urge to make a joke. Instead she found something honest. "It's simple. Two people making the best of what's here. No scripts, no filters. Just… company."
Ethan watched her, his jaw soft. "And a little lavender," he added with a crooked smile.
The judges—three producers with clipboards and far too much caffeine—tasted, sniffed, and nodded. "Authentic," one said. "Charismatic," another declared. The host beamed at them as if the audience were already in tears.
When the score was announced, they'd done well. Good enough to secure a small reward: a hot meal tomorrow and an extra blanket. Practical luxuries, not romantic gestures. Summer felt oddly pleased.
Later, off camera, they sat on a driftwood bench and ate slowly, sharing the silence like an unspoken conversation.
"You weren't pretending, were you?" she asked after a while, when the last of the grilled fish had been eaten.
His fingers toyed with the polaroid on his knee. "Sometimes it's hard to tell which parts we perform. But when I shielded that candle… it didn't feel like acting."
She smiled, small and private. "Me neither."
They sat like that for a long moment, neither pushing further nor retreating, both conscious of the fragile space between them—public enough to be interesting and private enough to be dangerous.
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Ethan's POV
As twilight softened the beach, Summer leaned her head back and exhaled. "We did a decent job today," she said.
"We did," he agreed. He felt the truth of it in his chest—a steady, warmsome certitude that didn't need hashtags.
The camera drones hummed in the distance, but for once they felt like background noise. He reached into his pocket and drew out the small coral heart she'd tucked away weeks earlier and placed it beside the polaroid on the driftwood.
She noticed it and gave him a look that was half-accusation, half-amusement. "You keep leaving me things."
"You keep keeping them." He met her eyes. "Summer—" he started, then stopped. The word love felt huge and reckless and a bridge he wasn't sure was ready to cross in front of the whole island.
"So?" she prompted, mild and steady.
He let out a breath. "So let's see where this goes. No scripts. No edits. Just… try to be honest with each other—on camera or off." His voice was simple, earnest.
She studied him, searching for performative cues and finding none. Then she smiled, genuine and bright. "Deal. But you owe me a dessert that isn't a polaroid."
"Deal," he said.
They laughed softly, the sound blending with the tide. Behind them, the beach lights blinked on—unaware, for the moment, of the small truce two stubborn people had made.