Summer's POV
The last week of filming sat over the island like a low, bright pressure. Cameras were everywhere, though the crew tried hard to make it look invisible. The producers used words like "finale," "closure," and—her least favorite—"payoff."
"Tonight we have something special," the host announced, eyes glittering beneath the studio glow. "A quiet, private finale segment. We're giving each couple a chance to speak from the heart—no scripts, no prompts. Just you, the mic, and the island."
Summer felt the word finale landing in her chest like a stone. She'd rehearsed what she might say a hundred different ways—clever deflections, a joke to keep it safe, maybe nothing at all. But beneath all the strategies there was a simpler truth she had to face: the cameras had already shown a version of her and Ethan she didn't know how to take back.
She walked the shoreline at dusk, the light folding into gold. Ethan found her there, carrying two coconuts like some low-key god of domesticity.
"You look ridiculous," she said, because saying anything else felt dangerous.
"You look beautiful," he replied, simply.
She blinked. "Smooth. Try not to act like that five minutes before we go on."
"I won't," he said. "Not this time."
He sat down beside her, the coconuts between them. For a long while they didn't talk—only the tide kept the rhythm. Summer thought about all the little things that had stacked into the big thing: the jacket, the confession lines, the almost-kiss. She thought of the internet and the edits and the way their words were translated into headlines.
"I'm scared," she admitted finally.
He turned to look at her, not surprised. "Of being honest?"
"Of being honest, of being wrong, of being used." She swallowed. "Of saying the thing and waking up tomorrow and realizing the show made it mean something else."
He reached for her hand, fingers finding hers with that easy familiarity that had always felt like a secret language. "Then say it to me first, off-camera," he suggested. "If it's real between us, it doesn't matter what the world does."
Summer considered it—this private safety net he offered. Her throat tightened with a mix of fear and relief. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay."
They sat that way until the call came: five minutes to set. The world tilted back toward performance. She smoothed her dress and followed him, palms cold, heart steadying under his grip.
---
Ethan's POV
He'd spent the morning practicing nothing. Not lines, not jokes—just breathing and being ready for whatever truth came up. He had told himself he'd never use the cameras as an excuse again, but he also knew how the world could take a single sentence and turn it into a weather system.
He watched Summer from a few steps behind as she walked to the small set prepared on the beach: a ring of torches, a simple wooden platform, a single mic and one exposed bulb. It looked modest and honest. Still, the lights were lights, and the audience—online and off—was a presence he could feel like a tide.
When they stepped up, the host gave a wordless nod and the red light blinked. No music. No cue cards. Just the ocean and the breath between them.
"You first," he said, because he wanted her to choose. He wanted her to hold the agency of meaning.
She exhaled, shoulders lifting and falling like someone setting down a load. "Ethan," she began, voice small but steady, "I… I don't trust cameras with my heart. But I trust you. I trust what you said—even if everything else wants to be a story." Her fingers squeezed his in the dark, a quiet anchor. "I want to try. After this show. With no edits. Will you stay?"
He felt the world narrow to that single word—stay—written in the sand once, kept safe in her palm. He wanted to answer with some grand speech, but all the grand words felt performative. So he did the thing that had always spoken truer than lines.
He let his hand tighten around hers and said, simply: "I will stay. If you want me to."
A ripple went through the crowd—a soft, surprised inhalation that the cameras picked up and magnified. Comments exploded online in real time, half congratulation, half frantic fandom. But under the noise, under the flood of gifs and edits, the circle of light around them felt like a small, defensible thing.
"Say something," Summer whispered, eyes bright.
He swallowed. "I'm not perfect. I've run. I've been careful. But staying would be the best reckless thing I've done in years." He let the sentence hang, unpolished and honest.
Summer laughed—short, incredulous, then soft. "That's the most Ethan thing you could say," she teased. "Gruff on the outside, hopeless on the inside."
He grinned. "Hopeless for you."
They stood there hand in hand, the cameras rolling, the world watching, and for a moment the performance lines blurred into truth. Producers exchanged giddy looks; fans typed their hearts out. But what mattered was the tiny, human fact that they'd agreed—privately and publicly—to try.
When the host signaled they were done, people clapped politely, then louder, then with cheers. The island hummed with energy. The crew rushed in, asking about angles and reshoots, and for one breathless second they were back in the machine.
As they walked off the platform, Summer leaned her head on his shoulder, and Ethan kept his hand around hers. The future was not decided; the cameras would still chop and choose. But they had said the word, and the word would not be taken back.
He murmured into her hair, quiet so only she could hear, "Stay with me, Summer Hayes. Off camera, too."
She lifted her face and kissed him—brief, perfect, and scandalously private in a place where nothing ever was private anymore.
It was small. It was true. And it was theirs.