He looks like he’s cooking something, smoke curling around his large frame as he hovers by the fire. He turns to look at me as I approach him and he lights up.
‘Cleo, good morning,’ he says. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Ehh,’ I reply, smiling back.
‘I can help you get more comfortable tonight,’ he suggests – he sounds more caring than flirtatious. I suppose survival stuff is his thing though.
‘That would be great, thank you,’ I reply. ‘What are you making?’
‘Breakfast,’ he replies as I step closer to look. ‘Grilled pineapple. Fancy some?’
‘I’d love some,’ I reply.
They leave us some fruit to get us started but otherwise food has to be found, caught or won – and even then, it’s not like a Maccies or made by a Michelin-starred chef, it’s islandy-type food.
The smell hits me and my stomach growls before I can stop it.
‘Best fuel there is,’ he says as he flips a piece with flair. ‘Best fuel we’ve got right now, at least. It would be better with some fish, for protein.’
I pull a face.
‘I’m not sure about fish for breakfast,’ I reply.
‘You will be, in a few days, when your body is demanding to be fed,’ he informs me with a knowing grin.
I won’t be because I won’t be here.
I sit cross-legged beside him, the sand already hot beneath my thighs. I thank him as he hands me my breakfast on a thick, chunky leaf. It’s sticky and sweet and burns my tongue, it’s so good. I hadn’t realised how starving I was.
I chew it slowly, savouring the way it tastes, feeling so lucky that it isn’t a chunk of fish.
Ozzy takes a seat next to me and devours his food like a wild animal.
‘Steady on,’ I joke. ‘I’m not going to take it from you.’
‘You say that, but I once had to wrestle a goat to get my dinner back,’ he replies with a laugh.
‘You did not wrestle a goat,’ I reply, amused.
‘You’re right, it wrestled me,’ he jokes. ‘Maybe. It depends who you ask. I do have a scar on my leg to show for it.’
‘I’m not sure if that’s badass or not,’ I reply.
‘One of my scars has to be cool,’ he insists jokily. ‘There was the time I slept in a hammock during a thunderstorm. It caught the wind like a sail – if I hadn’t landed face down on the floor, it probably would have taken me out to sea.’
‘You’re way into survival stuff, right?’ I check – although I know. ‘Pretty sure I’ve seen a TikTok of you eating bugs.’
‘Ahh, they weren’t that bad,’ he replies. ‘Crunchy. Sort of like crisps if you don’t think too hard about it when you eat them.’
I would think so hard about it – probably for the rest of my life.
‘And my scars, I don’t know, I sort of like them,’ he continues. ‘They tell a story – show my resilience. Like, I got this scar here from a machete accident.’
The line stretches diagonally across his torso, pale against his tanned skin. It’s clearly not recent, and his abs are puffed up just fine beneath them, but it looks like it was a bad one.
I wince just looking at him.
‘Go on, feel it,’ he says. ‘You can still feel the ridge.’
