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The thought of Micah makes my stomach twist. But the grief I’m feeling must be a thousand times worse for him. How could he ever look at me the same?

What if everything between us is broken? What if I don’t love him anymore?

My love for Maison is strong, real, and it will never go away. I close my eyes, rocking my body back and forth. Jade was right; everything is always better when Micah is around.

So where is he, then?

A couple of days go by, and Micah doesn’t come to see me, but I know he’s around. He comes at night and drops off dead animals. He must know I’m awake. I get he’s not ready to face anyone, but I wish he would at least check on me. Talk to me. A big part of me needs to grieve with him, and all he ever seems to do is hide from me.

My strength gradually returns over the two days since I woke up. Due to exhaustion, I spend most of the day in bed, reading and avoiding everyone else. I think I’ve read The Great Gatsby six times since I’ve been on this island. I then go to bed, only to stay up all night crying, and the vicious cycle starts over again.

Grief is overpowering, and even food doesn’t bring joy. I barely eat, and what I do eat I usually end up throwing back up, anyway. I finally mustered up enough courage to visit the shallow grave they buried Maison in. He’s downstream, away from camp. Sometimes I talk to him as if he’s right beside me. It’s my favorite place—it’s our place, and I’m glad he’s close.

I let out an icy breath and stoke the fire before bed. The nights are freezing now, sub-temperatures right through the night. I’ve completely lost track of what day it is, but I would guess we are now in mid-November.

And still, Micah has not come to see me, as if he’s living elsewhere.

I wrap myself up in a blanket and curl up. Nightmares will haunt my broken sleep as they have every night since Maison died.

I’m not sure how long I’m out, but a twig cracks and it jolts me awake. It’s dark—middle of the night, dark, but the moon casts a glow through the roof of the shelter. Micah’s hunched down just outside, staring at me through what’s left of the embers glowing in the fire. I bite my lip as my heart races.

He looks wild. His eyes glazed over, his hair long and dishevelled. He looks sexy—as sexy as I’ve ever seen him—and I know in this instant that my feelings for him are unchanged. I search for every emotion swelling through me over the last couple of days.

Anger for pushing us to have that confrontation to begin with, intense sadness for him, and heartbreak. Love… bone-crushing love.

And a need for the primitive destruction for those who have wronged me.

It would be easier to hate him, to block him out, but I can’t. My heart is so desperate for him. I want him now more than ever. I blink at him as he takes in the sight of me. He stokes the fire, then turns back to me.

“Hi,” I say through the crackling flames and flickering firelight.

He narrows his eyes and crawls over to me, his hands immediately tracing down to my wound. He shifts his body, so his head is near my waist. I part my legs to give him better access.

He pulls at the drawstring of my pants and slips my sweats down. His fingers are careful—soft, like he’s touching glass. After unwrapping the injury, he applies lotion and bandages it back up.

“It’s healing. I’m feeling better,” I tell him.

His eyes flick up to mine, but he keeps his lips pressed together. I reach down and move the hair out of his eyes as he just stares at me, his eyes blazing.

A moment passes, then another.

“I hate them, Micah,” I finally say. “I want them to die. I should have let you kill Ezra.” Saying the words out loud feels right; it’s my truth in this moment.

The emotion is all-consuming.

“Say something, Micah.” My voice is pleading.

He closes his eyes and lays his forehead on my bandage. He parts his lips and presses a kiss on my belly, making my entire body shiver. I crave more of it, more of his touch. I missed it.

“I know, London…” His voice is deep and soft. “I hate them, too.”

He moves his lips down to my pubic bone, then places gentle kisses between each of my thighs, causing my body to tremble beneath him. His kisses are soft, softer than what I’m used to with him. After each one, I feel myself become more alive, like his lips alone can reinvigorate my dead soul.

I let out a heavy breath and arch my back, enjoying every moment, hoping he doesn’t stop. Wetness pools between my thighs as I reach down and tug on his hair, pulling my fingers through it.

“Micah, you can’t leave me again,” I whisper.

He looks at me beneath his dark lashes, then moves his body up so it’s flush with mine. His lips find mine and I’m desperate for his mouth, so I lean in and deepen the kiss.