She's laughing, I made her laugh.

And damn if it isn't the best sound I've heard in weeks, years, maybe even forever.

Her head tilts back slightly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and I can't help but smile. It's so easy to forget everything else when she's like this—relaxed, unguarded, real.

"Who's staring now," she says, her laughter fading into a soft smile.

"Can't help it," I admit, not bothering to deny it.

She shakes her head, but there's no bite to it, no sharp retort. I grin.

I shift closer to the fire, tossing another stick on the flames. The heat flares up, casting shadows that dance across the walls of the shack.

"You should get some sleep," I say, glancing over at her.

"What about you?"

"I'll keep watch for a bit. Make sure nothing decides to sneak in here and eat us."

She rolls her eyes. "Nothing's going to eat us, Jason."

"You don't know that," I counter, grinning.

She shakes her head again, but she doesn't argue. Instead, she stretches out on the makeshift bed, her movements slow and careful.

The bed's not much—just what I assume used to part of a tent or tap placed on the ground, leaves cushioned beneath it—but it's better than nothing.

"Goodnight," she murmurs, her voice soft and drowsy.

"Goodnight, Kitten," I reply, my gaze lingering on her for a moment before I turn back to the fire.

We fall silent, the weight of the unspoken lingering between us.

It's strange, being here with her like this. For years, I've been keeping her at arm's length, telling myself it was for the best, that she deserved someone better, someone simpler.

But now, with nothing but this island and each other, I can't keep pretending.

I glance over at her, taking in the curve of her profile, the way the firelight dances across her skin, and I know—without a doubt—that I don't want to go back to a life without her.

"Arden," I say, my voice low enough that if she's asleep it won't wake her but if she's not-

Her eyes open and she looks at me then, her eyes wide and questioning, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

"What?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I want to tell her. I want to say everything I've been holding back for years. But the words catch in my throat, and all I can manage is, "Nothing. Never mind."

She frowns slightly, but she doesn't press me, and I'm both relieved and disappointed.

The night stretches on, quiet and still, and I find myself glancing at her more often than I should. She looks peaceful, her breathing slow and steady, her dark hair spilling across her shoulders.

I lean back against the wall, my thoughts drifting.

This island has taken a lot from us—comfort, security, certainty—but it's also given me something I never expected: time with Arden. Real time.

For years, I've been pushing down whatever feelings I had for her, convincing myself that she was off-limits, that she was just Matt's little sister, that it would never work.

But here, now, with nothing but the sound of the wind and the crackle of the fire, I can't lie to myself anymore.

I want her. I've always wanted her. And one night isn't enough for me anymore.

Not just for now, not just because we're stuck here together, but because she's Arden—stubborn and smart and strong and so damn beautiful it makes my chest ache.

And if she'd just let me, I'd spend the rest of my life showing her exactly how much she means to me.

But for now, I'll settle for keeping her safe, keeping her warm, keeping her close.

For now, that's enough.