Summer's POV
A year passed quietly.
No new islands, no interviews, no headlines —
just the gentle pulse of ordinary days that felt like belonging.
Summer woke early, sunlight slanting across the curtains.
Ethan was still asleep beside her, one arm thrown lazily over the pillow, hair messy as always.
She smiled, stretching, careful not to wake him.
In the kitchen, she poured coffee, the smell filling the small space.
Their home was simple: wooden floors, faded postcards, plants that sometimes thrived, sometimes didn't.
But to her, it was perfect — a place that didn't need an audience.
She opened her laptop, checked a few messages from students and fans.
One caught her attention:
> "Your film changed how I look at my mornings. I don't scroll right away now. I just breathe."
She read it twice, then set her cup down.
A quiet warmth spread through her — not pride, but peace.
Because maybe that was their purpose all along:
not to entertain the world, but to make it breathe slower.
---
Ethan's POV
He woke to the smell of coffee and the faint clatter of her typing.
Every morning sounded like that — familiar, safe, alive.
He padded into the kitchen, kissed her shoulder, and mumbled, "Morning, muse."
She chuckled. "Morning, editor."
He poured his coffee and leaned on the counter, watching her work.
Her hair fell loose, light catching on the curve of her jaw.
She looked at ease — not the woman who once fought cameras and chaos,
but the one who had learned to let life happen without rushing it.
He smiled. "You writing again?"
She nodded. "Just notes. Maybe something small."
He raised an eyebrow. "Another documentary?"
She shrugged. "Maybe. But this time, no film crew. Just us."
He grinned. "Our most personal project yet."
"Exactly," she said. "No deadlines, no scripts — just the ordinary."
He took a sip of his coffee. "You realize we've turned peace into a brand?"
She laughed. "Then it's a brand I don't mind keeping."
---
Summer's POV
They spent the afternoon walking through the weekend market.
Vendors shouted greetings, the smell of bread and citrus filling the air.
A little girl recognized them from The Ordinary Season and asked shyly,
"Are you the people who make quiet shows?"
Summer crouched down, smiling. "We are."
The girl grinned. "My mom says your show makes her heart rest."
Summer's chest tightened, in the best way. "That's the nicest review I've ever heard."
When they left, Ethan whispered, "Kids are better critics than journalists."
She laughed. "And much braver."
---
Ethan's POV
In the evening, they visited the beach — not the island,
but a stretch of coastline near the city that somehow carried the same salt and wind.
They sat barefoot in the sand, letting the waves crawl close but not reach.
The horizon burned gold, fading to silver-blue.
Ethan picked up a small shell and handed it to her.
"Should we add this to the collection?"
She turned it over in her hand, smiling. "You know what's funny?"
"What?"
"We used to think collecting shells was pointless."
"And now?"
"Now I think it's a form of prayer."
He nodded. "A quiet one."
They didn't talk for a while. The waves spoke enough.
---
Summer's POV
The sun dipped low, shadows stretching long across the sand.
Summer leaned back on her elbows, watching the last light flicker.
"Do you ever think about the island?" she asked softly.
Ethan smiled. "Every time I stop rushing."
"Same," she said. "It's strange — we spent so much time trying to get off that island,
and now I think it's where we finally learned how to stay."
He reached for her hand. "Maybe that's what love does. It teaches you to stay."
She squeezed his fingers. "Even when you could leave."
He nodded. "Especially then."
---
Ethan's POV
When night fell, they walked back toward the car,
sand clinging to their feet, air cool and kind.
The stars were faint but visible — the same constellations they'd once looked up at from a faraway shore.
It struck him how little and how much had changed.
He looked at her — truly looked —
and felt the same quiet awe he'd felt years ago when she first smiled under the island's firelight.
He thought, We survived everything that tried to make us louder.
And they did.
---
Summer's POV
Before getting in the car, she turned to face the sea one last time.
She whispered, "Thank you."
Ethan smiled. "Still talking to the ocean?"
She nodded. "Always."
He stepped beside her, their shoulders touching.
"Then say one more thing for me."
"What's that?"
He smiled softly. "Tell it we're home."
She looked at him, then at the horizon,
and whispered, "We are."
Author's Note — After the Wild
When I first started writing Stranded with My Ex: Love in the Wild,
I thought it would be a story about survival — two people trapped by nature and circumstance.
But somewhere along the way, it became something softer, deeper, and far more personal.
It became a story about stillness.
About how love isn't just the fire that begins things, but the quiet warmth that remains afterward.
About how peace can be just as brave as chaos.
Summer and Ethan began as strangers in a storm,
but they ended as two people learning how to live slowly,
to listen, to forgive, and to stay — not because they had to, but because they chose to.
To everyone who followed their journey:
thank you for reading, feeling, and breathing with them.
If this story has made you pause — even once — to notice the small, beautiful details in your own life,
then it's done what it was meant to do.
Here's to love that doesn't fade when the noise stops.
Here's to wild hearts who find peace.
And here's to you —
for staying till the end. 🌿💛
— The Author