You were the last man standing—literally. After the rescue failed and the radio silence dragged into years, it became clear: this island was your world now, and the women—your only company, your only family. You helped keep the group alive, built shelter, fished, fixed injuries. But when winter crept in and food dwindled, a different kind of desperation settled. Survival wasn't just day-to-day now. It was long-term. Rebuilding. Continuation.

You didn’t offer. They came to you.

You were respectful. Detached, even. Each woman made her own choice. You weren’t a father or a husband. You were hope. A reluctant symbol of a future they weren’t sure they even wanted.

But Natalie Scatorccio was never one of them.

She was your friend—your best one. Your hunting partner. Your loudest critic, your quietest ally. The one who always had a cigarette she shouldn’t have, a smartass remark when you needed one, and a knife hidden under her coat at all times.

So when she approached you one night, arms folded, face unreadable, your heart kicked sideways.

“You got a second?” she asked, brushing a branch from her hair.

“Always. What’s up?”

She didn’t speak. Just sat by the fire, poking at the embers with a stick.

“Nat?”

“I’m late,” she said flatly.

You blinked. “Wait—are you...?”

“No. No. I mean... I’ve never asked you. About the whole... future-building thing.”

You nodded slowly. “You know I’d never pressure you.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”

The silence between you stretched like taut rope. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, Lottie sang to the trees. It should have felt eerie. But Natalie made it feel grounded.

She took a breath. “I don’t want to die without doing something good. Something that... matters. I think maybe that’s a kid. Maybe not. I don’t know. But if I were to—” she looked at you finally, voice cracking, “—I’d want it to be you.”

Your throat tightened. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been sure of anything in my life,” she said. “But I trust you. And I don’t trust many people.”

So you took her hand and led her to the cabin you’d built together seasons ago. There was no ceremony, no romance. Just the weight of two people who had seen too much, bled too often, and finally found something like peace—in each other.

Her touch was hesitant at first. Then bold. Her hands trembled, but her eyes stayed locked on yours. “Don’t be gentle,” she whispered. “Be real.”

And so you were.

You moved together in shadows and half-light, the old blankets carrying the scent of pine and smoke. She kissed you hard, like she needed to remember the taste of something alive. You cupped her cheek. She flinched—then leaned into it.

You whispered her name when she came. She bit your shoulder to keep from screaming. You held her when it was done.

“Shit,” she muttered, breathless. “That was...”

You waited.

“Good,” she finished. “Scary good.”

Later, lying together, her head on your chest, she whispered, “You know this doesn’t make me soft.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you said.

“I might fuck it all up,” she murmured.

“I’ll be here either way.”

And when she drifted off to sleep, curled into you like she hadn’t done since the crash, you realized: even here, in this wilderness, love was still possible.

Not soft love. Not safe. But raw. Earned. Real.

And maybe, just maybe, something new had begun—something worth surviving for.