The shack is barely holding together. It creaks and groans with every gust of wind, but somehow, it stands. The wood is brittle and darkened with age, the roof patched with palm leaves and tarp scraps that might have been white once but are now a dull, lifeless grey.

Still, it's shelter. A real roof over our heads, a break from the constant beating sun.

I kneel on the dusty floor, brushing away layers of dirt and leaves. My hand aches but I ignore the dull throb, and the piece of fabric wrapped around it, not letting my mind wander.

Jason left a while ago to collect sticks and dry wood for a fire. I offered to go with him, but he shook his head and told me to stay here, to "make it liveable." I think he just didn't want me to trip over another branch or fall down a hole and injure myself again.

My fingers scrape against something hard buried beneath the dirt. At first, I think it's another rock, but when I pull it out, I realize it's a coin.

It glints faintly in the dim light filtering through the gaps in the walls. I wipe it off with the edge of my shirt, but the engravings are too worn to make out. Whatever country or history it belonged to is long gone, smoothed away by time and touch.

I rub my thumb over its surface, feeling the smoothed over grooves and scratches, and slip it into my pocket.

I keep digging through the mess, finding more small things, trinkets. A button from a shirt. A bottle cap flattened and bent at the edges. Then, buried deeper, I find a photograph.

It's black-and-white, the edges curling and discoloured. Most of the image is lost to water damage and dirt, but I can just make out the faint outline of someone's head, turned slightly away from the camera.

I sit back on my heels, staring at it.

Who were they?

It hits me then, the weight of this place. Someone was here before us, someone who left behind all these tiny pieces of themselves. A coin. A photograph. A life. And yet there's no sign of them now. Did they make it off this island? Or did they...

No. I shake the thought from my mind and slip the photograph into my pocket alongside the coin and continue searching.

I smile lights my face when I find the blade, its small and rusted but sharp enough.

Jason's voice cuts through the quiet. "Arden?"

I look up just as he steps through the opening that serves as the shack's door, his arms full of sticks and dry branches. Sweat glistens on his brow, and his shoulders and his chest, droplets racing down . . . I look back up to his eyes.

"Found enough to last us the night," he says, dropping the wood in a pile near the fire pit.

"Good," I say, brushing my hands against my pants and standing and hold the blade out towards him. "Found this, figure we could make use of it."

He takes the knife, twisting it in his palm. "Could make a spear, for fishing, protection." He looks lost in thought as he thinks of the possibilities.

I look at the pile of sticks he collected. "The fire pit looks safe enough. There's even a hatch in the roof to let the smoke out."

He nods, then looks around the room. "You've been busy."

"I cleaned up as much as I could. Found some... things." I hesitate, unsure if I want to show him the photograph or the coin.

"Things?"

"Yeah, just stuff the person who built this left behind. It's... sad, I guess."

Jason crouches by the fire pit, arranging the wood into a pyramid. "Sad, but useful. Whoever built this, they knew what they were doing. We might actually have a shot at surviving if we keep finding things like this."

I watch him work, his hands deft and confident, and feel a pang of something I can't quite name. Gratitude? Admiration? Maybe both. I would not be surviving without Jason here and that's a hard pill to swallow.

I used to think I was independent but now I'm starting to realise I'm only independent when I have everything I need at my fingertips. But out here, where nothing really matters. I'm lost.

Jasons eyes settle on me, and I see his brows draw in before he stands up, brushing his hands on his thighs and walking towards me slowly.

I back up a step, eyes widening before he stops. We're almost toe to toe and I swallow the ball forming in my throat, feeling my heartbeat in my neck. I can see the sweat on his skin, the steaks of dirt on his collarbones and a scratch on his neck and my brow lowers, hand wanting to lift to check the injury but I stop myself.

I'm just about to open my mouth and ask what he's doing when he glances up. My gaze follows a second later, my heart beating double time.

Get hold of yourself, Arden.

Jason tilts his at the hatch. It's little more than a hole cut into the ceiling, framed by splintered wood and barely held together and that same grey tarp thrown over it to keep the rain out.

"How do we get it open?" He mumbles.

I glance around, hoping for a stick or maybe the person before us even had instructions laying around. I snort.

"Theres a tree outside, practically brushed up against the place. I'll have to climb it."

My head whips to Jason and I follow him out as he walks towards the thick tree, branches splitting out and one thick one hovering over the hut, right above the hole in the roof.

• • •

The fire burns low as the night deepens, painting the walls of the shack in soft orange hues. The wind rattles the patchwork walls, and I wonder how this place hasn't collapsed yet.

Jason sits across from me, leaning back against the wall, his long legs stretched out toward the fire. He's watching me again, his expression unreadable.

"What?" I ask, my voice sharp in the quiet.

He shrugs, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Staring."

Jason doesn't deny it. Instead, he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Can't help it. You're more interesting than this fire."

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks flush. I hope the firelight hides it.

"I'm not interesting," I mutter, fiddling with the coin in my pocket.

"Sure, you are. I mean, look at you." He gestures vaguely in my direction. "You're resourceful, stubborn, bossy—"

"Bossy?" I cut in, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Definitely bossy," he says with a grin. "But in a cute way."

"Cute?"

"Yeah, cute." His tone is teasing, but there's something in his eyes—something warm and genuine—that makes my breath hitch.

I shake my head, trying to shake off the moment. "You're impossible."

"And yet, here we are."

He leans back again, and the silence stretches between us. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's the kind of silence that feels... safe.

My eyes drift around the shack, taking in the makeshift bed, the fire pit, the haphazard roof hatch that creaks with every gust of wind. This place is falling apart, but it's all we have.

"Do you think they were happy here?" I ask suddenly, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

Jason frowns. "Who?"

"Whoever built this." I pull the coin out of my pocket and hold it up, letting the firelight glint off its surface. "Do you think they were happy, or do you think they were just... surviving?"

Jason's gaze softens as he looks at the coin. "I don't know," he says after a moment. "But I think they did what they had to do. Same as us."

I nod, slipping the coin back into my pocket. "I hope they made it out."

"We will," he says firmly, his voice full of conviction. "We'll figure it out."

The way he says it, like it's a promise, makes something in my chest ache.