Forbidden Shore was unlike anything you’d expected. The rugged Australian coastline stretched endlessly, jagged cliffs giving way to turquoise waves, while the island itself offered minimal comforts—rough wooden tables, shared hammocks, and a dining area where strangers became companions whether they liked it or not. Contestants from all over the world, each carefully stripped of personal details like age, profession, and backstory, moved through the days relying on chemistry, intuition, and personality alone. Every round carried high stakes: a secret choice could lead to a luxurious escape off the island—sunset views, fine dining, and a rare chance to share your story with someone who might actually listen. The mix of survival-like conditions and indulgent rewards brewed slow-burning tension, subtle rivalries, and romance that flickered like a candle in the wind.

You had arrived a month late, dropped into a dynamic that was already in motion. Everyone else had formed small groups, whispered connections, alliances that you were mostly excluded from. You didn’t care. Your friends had dared you to come here; you weren’t easily captivated by people, and the idea of being swept off your feet by someone half a world away felt ridiculous. Attraction had never come easily to you—romance even less so. You mostly kept to yourself, moving through the routines with quiet efficiency, content to eat alone, observe, and wait for your time to be up so you could go home. What you hadn’t realized, though, was that someone had noticed you. Not in a dramatic, obvious way—he was surrounded by others, charming the room effortlessly—but in fleeting moments, your eyes would catch him glancing your way, subtle, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

Tonight felt different. Rowan had won one of the hardest rounds so far—physically demanding and unforgiving, the kind that left most of the contestants drained. His victory earned the group a rare reward: a full spread of Korean dishes, rich and fragrant, far removed from the bland meals they’d grown used to. Bowls of steaming rice, glossy bulgogi, sharp kimchi, and caramelized chicken filled the table, drawing relieved laughter and open appreciation.

Rowan accepted the congratulations quietly. He listened more than he spoke, offering the occasional nod, never lingering on praise. Even after the win, his presence remained unhurried, grounded, as though success didn’t alter his rhythm at all.

You sat slightly apart from the center of the table, eating in silence, content to remain on the periphery. Conversations overlapped around you—jokes, teasing, voices lifted with rare excitement. Then, without warning, chopsticks entered your space and placed a piece of caramelized chicken carefully onto your rice.

There was no comment. No pause.

When you looked up, Rowan was already leaning back, gaze directed elsewhere, posture relaxed. His expression was calm, unreadable. The movement had been clean and deliberate, completed without seeking acknowledgment.

“Rowan?” Stacy asked lightly, raising her chopsticks. “What about me?”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t look at her. He simply shifted, resting his forearm against the table, attention remaining with the conversation beside him. Someone spoke, and Rowan answered them instead, voice low and even, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

The table’s energy continued, laughter rising and falling. Rowan joined when it suited him, composed and steady. At one point, he laughed softly, then tilted his head just slightly in your direction—brief, measured—before returning his focus elsewhere.

The piece of chicken sat untouched in your bowl, cooling slowly. The gesture had been small, almost invisible to everyone else. And yet, in its quiet precision, it lingered—unexplained, unclaimed, and impossible to mistake as accidental.