Callista spun around fast, her body still too stiff to do anything quickly. Her vision blurred for a second, and she stumbled a little in the sand, her fists half-raised like she had any clue what she was going to do if someone was really standing there.

But sure enough, there he was.

A man stood a few yards away at the edge of the trees—tall, broad-shouldered, maybe in his early forties, give or take. He had the kind of build that said he probably used to work out but had no problem swinging an axe if needed. His dark hair was too neatly tousled for a man who supposedly lived in the wild, and his plain gray T-shirt looked way too clean for this godforsaken place.

His jaw was shadowed with just enough stubble to look intentional, not lazy.

And his eyes—dark, unreadable—locked onto her like he questioned who she was.

He didn’t say a word. Just stood there. Watching her quietly. Which somehow made it worse.

“Hey!” she barked, her voice hoarse and dry. “You lost or just creepy?”

The man blinked, then lifted both hands like he came in peace. “Easy. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she lied, stepping back anyway.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low, calm. “Because your hands are shaking.”

She glanced down and cursed under her breath. Her fingers were trembling like she’d had too much caffeine—or like her body was still trying to decide whether it was in fight or flight mode.

“Who are you?” she asked, more firmly this time. “And where the hell am I?”

He walked forward a few steps, slow and cautious, like she was a wounded animal and he wasn’t sure if she’d bolt or bite.

“Name’s Sam,” he said. “Just Sam.”

That sounded fake. Every nerve in her body lit up at once. Her eyes narrowed instantly. Her brain, still foggy from the wreck and whatever the hell had happened to her, kicked into overdrive.

“Just Sam?” she repeated, her voice flat.

He nodded once, calm as ever.

She crossed her arms—partly to look tougher than she felt, partly to stop herself from grabbing a stick and jabbing him with it. “What are you, a mysterious drifter?”

He smirked. “Something like that.”

Not helping.

“You don’t look like a guy who lives off-grid,” she muttered, eyeing his clean shirt, trimmed hair, and the expensive watch half-hidden under his sleeve. “You look like a guy who’s pretending to be someone else.”

Sam didn’t flinch. “You think I’m dangerous?”

“I think anyone who shows up on a random island after a wreck and gives me one fake-ass name is at least sketchy,” she snapped.

He tilted his head, amused again. “You’ve got trust issues.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” she shot back. “Try waking up half-drowned and abandoned, then come talk to me about trust.”

He chuckled. “Okay. You’ve got a little fire. That’s good.”

“Try me again,” she repeated, folding her arms even though it hurt like hell. “And no weird silent staring. That’s serial killer behavior.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You’re a long way from your usual crowd, aren’t you?”

“You don’t know anything about my usual crowd,” she muttered, eyeing him suspiciously. “Do you live here or are you just... trespassing on other people’s shipwrecks for fun?”

“Neither,” he replied. “I stay on the other side of the island. Off the grid, mostly. Was out fishing when I spotted the debris. Then I saw you.”

“You just saw me and followed me?”

“I saw you pass out. So yeah, I followed you. Thought you were dead until you started cursing at the birds.”

Callista swallowed hard, still not buying it. Every instinct screamed that something about him didn’t sit right. Her legs wobbled again, and her head spun like she was on a moving train she couldn’t jump off.

She hated how unsteady she felt. Hated that her knees wanted to fold under her. Hated that he was watching her like he expected her to collapse any second.

He stepped forward, slowly, and raised a hand toward her—like he meant to catch her if she fell.

She immediately shifted back, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t,” she said, voice low but firm.

His hand stopped mid-air, then dropped to his side without a word.

“Suit yourself,” he said after a beat.

Callista squared her shoulders, trying to pretend she didn’t feel like throwing up or passing out. She wasn’t about to let some stranger—especially one with a fake name and perfect posture—see her break.

“Sit down,” he said gently, nodding toward a flat rock.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re about as fine as that boat you crawled out of.”

She sat, mostly because she was afraid she’d fall on her face if she didn’t.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he added after a beat.

“Good. I didn’t throw it,” she said, picking at the dried blood on her palm.

He gave her a slow, appraising look. “Okay. We’re doing this the hard way. That’s fine.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the ocean lapping in the distance. It should’ve been peaceful. But nothing about this felt peaceful.

She finally asked, “There anyone else on this island?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Anyone looking for me?”

“Not unless you told them where to look.”

Callista frowned. “So you’re telling me I’m stranded.”

He shrugged. “Depends. Are you running from something?”

The question landed too hard. She looked away. “Not running. Just... not going back.”

“That’s a hell of a difference.”

“Not really.”

He didn’t press. Instead, he stood and offered her a hand. “Come on. You can’t stay out here. You’re gonna roast or get eaten alive by bugs.”

She stared at his hand.

“I don’t know you,” she muttered.

“I don’t know you either,” he replied, not taking it back. “But you look like you’ve been through hell, and I’m not gonna stand here watching you bake in the sun like a leftover sandwich.”

A beat passed.

He raised his hands again, backing off a step, though he was still watching her closely.

She hesitated for a second, then reached out and took his hand.

And as he pulled her to her feet, Callista couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just stepped into something dangerous.

His grip was warm and firm. The kind of steadiness that made you want to believe you could lean on it. He easily pulled her to her feet, like he’d done this a hundred times before.

Callista swayed a little but stayed upright. She looked up at him, meaning to say thank you—something—but paused.

Something in his eyes flickered, just for a second. There was something unreadable in his face. Calm. Careful. Almost too careful.

Her heart skipped.

She didn’t know his real name or why he was here.

But standing there on that broken shore, her head was still pounding, her body aching, and her memory scattered like driftwood. Deep down, in that small, stubborn part of her gut that always warned her too late, one thing crept into her mind and refused to leave: this man didn’t feel like a rescue.

He felt like the beginning of something she wasn’t ready for.

And whoever he was, he hadn’t shown up by accident.

Callista had tasted death.

Not in the dramatic, slow-motion, movie-scene kind of way. But the real kind—where your lungs fill with seawater, your body gives out, and you feel the cold wrapping around you like it’s coming to take you home.

She had been right on the edge. Just one more minute under, one more wave on top of her, and she wouldn’t have made it.

So now?

She had nothing left to prove and give. And definitely nothing left to lose.

So when this stranger—this quiet, calm, maybe-kind-of-weird man calling himself “Sam”—offered to take her to his cabin, she nodded. No fight or pride left. Just the need to get off this damn beach before her legs gave out again.

He didn’t say anything dramatic. Just turned and started walking like he knew she’d follow.

And she did.

Callista limped behind him, not bothering to hide the way she dragged one foot or winced every few steps. Her muscles screamed, her ribs throbbed, and her clothes clung to her like they’d fused with her skin. Every part of her felt like it had been bruised, burned, or broken.

“I swear, if this ‘cabin’ is actually a cave with murder tools in it…” she muttered.

Sam glanced over his shoulder, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Not really my style.”

“Right. You strike me more as the polite-psychopath type. The ones with clean sheets and a fully stocked fridge.”

“You’ll be disappointed then. I’m out of beer and the Wi-Fi’s terrible.”

She huffed a laugh. It hurt.

They walked in silence after that, deeper into the trees. The path wasn’t obvious, but Sam moved like he knew it by heart. Callista stumbled more than once—roots, uneven ground, her own exhaustion—but she kept moving.

Eventually, the trees thinned, and she saw it.

A small cabin stood tucked between a wall of rocks and thick jungle brush. Nothing fancy. Wood frame, tin roof, a wraparound porch. A hammock strung up in one corner. Fishing gear hanging neatly by the door. A bucket half-filled with rainwater.

It was… normal. Surprisingly normal.

“You built this?” she asked, staring at it like it might vanish.

Sam nodded. “Little by little. Been here a while.”

He walked up the porch steps, pulled the door open, and held it for her without saying anything.

Callista hesitated.

The old her—the one who always second-guessed, always played it safe, always listened to everyone else—would’ve turned around and slept in the jungle just to avoid owing a stranger anything.

But that girl was gone, swallowed up by the sea.

Determined, she stepped inside.