Summer's POV
The night after the Almost Kiss episode aired, the island didn't feel quiet anymore.
It buzzed.
Every phone the crew had was glowing. Notifications, comments, fan edits, theories—thousands of them.
> "They were totally about to kiss!"
"That interruption looked fake—was it staged?"
"Summer pulled away on purpose 😭"
"Ethan looked heartbroken. Protect that man."
Summer scrolled through the chaos until her vision blurred.
It didn't matter how real the moment had been; the world had already decided its meaning.
She found Ethan sitting near the fire pit, his face lit by his own screen. He looked calm—too calm.
"Don't read them," she said softly.
He smiled faintly. "Too late."
"Let me guess—they think we're secretly married now?"
"Worse. They think we're pretending to fall in love for ratings."
She sat beside him, pulling her knees to her chest. "That's not new."
"No," he said, "but it feels different this time. They're not wrong that it's good television. I just wish they knew it's also—"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Summer stared into the fire, watching sparks rise and die. "Real?" she whispered.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Real."
---
Ethan's POV
He hadn't meant to say it out loud. But the truth had been pressing at his ribs since that night.
He'd almost kissed her. He would have, if not for the spotlight and the shouting and the damn camera dolly.
Now the whole world was dissecting a moment he hadn't even gotten to live.
He closed the app, turned to her. "You know, we could make it easier."
She frowned. "How?"
"Give them what they want."
Summer blinked. "You mean—what, fake it? Publicly?"
He shrugged, half-joking. "Play along. Pretend we're together."
She looked at him for a long moment, unreadable. Then she said quietly, "You say that like you haven't already been doing it."
He froze. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" she said, her voice sharper now. "Sometimes I can't tell if what you're saying is for me or for the cameras. You make it sound real, but then you smile like you know people are watching."
He inhaled slowly. "You think I'm acting."
"I think you've done this longer than I have," she said. "You know how to protect yourself. I don't."
That landed harder than she meant it to.
The silence that followed was brittle, full of things both of them wanted to take back.
Finally, she said, softer, "I just don't want to be another storyline."
"You're not," he said firmly. "Not to me."
She looked up, startled by the rawness in his tone.
"You think I'm that good of an actor?" he said. "Because I promise, I'm not. Not when it's you."
---
Summer's POV
The tension between them lingered the rest of the day. Even the crew sensed it—whispers followed them like shadows.
During lunch, a producer cornered her. "The fans are obsessed," he said, beaming. "We're thinking of adding a confession scene. You know, wrap the arc."
Summer blinked. "You mean, script it?"
"Just structure it," he said quickly. "You can improvise! Keep it authentic."
She smiled tightly. "Right. Because nothing says authentic like being told to fall in love on cue."
When he left, she sat on the beach until the sun began to dip.
Every decision felt suddenly too heavy—what to say, what to show, what to feel when everyone was watching.
She didn't realize Ethan had joined her until he spoke. "They want us to fake a confession."
"I know," she said. "I told them no."
He exhaled, relieved. "Good."
Then, quieter: "But if you ever wanted to make one… it wouldn't have to be fake."
She looked at him, startled by the gentleness in his voice.
He didn't move closer. He just let the words hang there between them, steady as the tide.
"I'm not asking for the cameras," he said. "I'm asking because I don't want this to end when the show does."
Her heart thudded. The noise of the ocean blurred. "You're serious."
"I've never been more serious."
She hesitated, staring at the horizon—half terrified, half tempted.
Then she smiled faintly. "I'll think about it."
He grinned. "That's all I ask."
---
Ethan's POV
Later, when the sky was almost black and the last of the crew had drifted off, she came to find him again.
He was sitting by the torches, sketching something in the sand with a stick.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Writing my resignation letter to reality TV."
"Does it include me?"
He looked up. "You're the reason it's so long."
She laughed—quiet, tired, but real. "You still want to leave when this ends?"
"Not if leaving means losing you."
Her breath caught. "You keep saying things like that and expect me to function normally?"
"I'm kind of counting on that," he said.
She smiled, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"And you're still here," he said softly.
She didn't answer—just reached down, wiped away his sand drawing, and replaced it with a single word: Stay.
He looked at it, then at her.
"I will," he said.
And for once, neither of them cared if the cameras were still rolling.