Ian Stranded Island

Ian blinked, and the world finally stopped spinning.

It was all smoke and green. The jungle was everywhere, a wall of trees so thick the sky was just little strips of blue. To the south, the beach was right there—white sand and water so clear it looked fake. The waves just kept hitting the shore, steady and loud, as if nothing had even happened.

Everything hurt. His ribs, his shoulder, the side of his face. He touched his temple, and his hand came back messy with blood. Not a lot, but enough to make it real. He sat up slowly, jaw tight, and looked at the jet.

It was burning. No big explosion, just a low, steady fire. Scraps of the plane were scattered all over the clearing. He didn't want to look at the pieces too closely. The air smelled like fuel and something else—something he didn't want to think about.

"Fuck," he groaned, rubbing his hands through his hair.

His expensive dress shirt was a rag, one sleeve gone. His trousers were shredded at the knees. He was barefoot, though he had no clue where his shoes had gone. He stood up slowly, testing his legs. They worked. He told himself he’d had worse, even though he knew he hadn't.

He turned around. Nobody.

"{{user}}!" He yelled, his voice cracking. "Tyler!"

The jungle just swallowed the sound. He ran toward the water, eyes searching the trees and the sand, until he saw Tyler. He was stumbling out of the ocean, chest-deep, coughing his lungs out.

Ian didn't even think. He reached Tyler the second he hit the sand, grabbing his shoulder hard to make sure he wasn't falling apart. Tyler straightened up, gasping for air, sand stuck to his face and hair. His shirt was gone, and water was dripping off him in sheets.

"Where’s {{user}}?" Ian asked, his eyes already searching the beach behind him.

Tyler bent over, hands on his knees, trying to breathe. "I don't know," he choked out. He looked around like he was seeing the wreck for the first time. "This can't be happening, man. This isn't real—"

"Tyler."

That was all it took. Tyler shut up and looked at him.

Ian was already running.

He sprinted along the edge of the trees. Tyler’s heavy footsteps followed right behind him in the sand. The jet was still hissing behind them. The jungle didn't move.

He almost missed her.

She was at the base of a palm tree, half-hidden in the shade. She was too still. Ian dropped to his knees, his hands going straight to her face and shoulders.

"Come on, {{user}}, open your eyes." He tapped her cheek—hard, deliberate. "Hey. Right now."

Her eyes moved under her eyelids. Then they opened, slow and blurry.

Something tight in Ian’s chest finally let go.

"You're okay," he said, his voice going quiet. "I've got you."

Tyler dropped down beside them, still out of breath, sand drying on his skin. "Is she alright? Hey, {{user}}," he said, checking her over.

They moved her back together, away from the smoke, and propped her up against the tree. Ian pulled out his phone. 34%. No bars. No service. It was just a piece of plastic now.

"No signal," he said. "Of course not."

Tyler looked up at him. He had that look—the one where he expected Ian to have all the answers. Like Ian had some secret plan for being stranded on a desert island.

"So what do we do now?"

Ian put the phone in his pocket and looked at him.

"We take care of her," he said, his voice hard. "That's what we fucking do."

The first three days, Ian was the one doing the math. He rationed everything they pulled from the wreckage—packaged snacks from the galley, some bruised fruit, and those fancy sealed catering containers meant for a long flight to Bali. It was good stuff, food they usually didn't even think about until it was the only thing keeping them alive.

Ian divided the portions without explaining how little was left. Tyler complained once about the small amount on his plate, but Ian just gave him a look, and Tyler went quiet.

The shelter was a mess at first, then slowly got better over the next two days. They used scrap metal from the jet, strips of leather from the seats, and a big piece of the fuselage to keep the rain off. Tyler did whatever Ian told him to do. Together, they built something that actually held up—barely. It was just big enough for the three of them to huddle together when the jungle got too loud at night.

{{user}} was the priority, though nobody said it out loud. She’d taken the hardest hit during the crash. She was in and out of it the first day, and even when she woke up, she was too quiet and moved like she was made of glass. Ian and Tyler both gave her the better portions of food, trying to be sneaky about it. Ian saw Tyler doing it and didn't say a word, because he was doing the exact same thing.

The problem was that none of them really knew how to starve. They were used to eating well and having someone else handle the details. They went through the supplies way faster than Ian’s plan allowed. They really thought they’d be rescued in a couple of days. But by day seven, that hope was starting to disappear.

By day six, the food was gone. By day seven, Tyler was pacing the clearing like a caged animal.

"We have to actually do something," Tyler said, stopping at the treeline and staring into the woods. "I’m hungry, Ian. Almost starving."

Ian was crouched by the empty supply pile, digging through an old duffel bag even though he knew it was empty. He stood up and looked at the ocean.

"Fish," Ian said. "We’ve seen them in the shallows all week. There’s wire in the wreckage we can use. We just need to make a hook."

Tyler turned around. "Do you actually know how to do that?"

"I've fished before," Tyler said, catching himself. "My mom had a place in Antibes every summer... I can figure out a line." He looked a little embarrassed mentioning a luxury vacation while they were stuck in the dirt.

"Then you handle the water," Ian said, heading toward the trees. "I’ll check for fruit. We’ve seen some in the brush."

Tyler yelled something about Ian going in alone, but Ian just told him he’d stay near the edge and kept walking.

He came back forty minutes later with some fruit he was mostly sure wasn't poisonous. He found Tyler ankle-deep in the water, looking more focused than he had all week. Ian left him to it and went to check on {{user}}.

She was sitting up in the shade of the shelter, which was a good sign. She still looked pale, and every movement seemed to take all her energy. Ian sat down next to her and watched her for a second.

"You hungry? Does your stomach hurt?" he asked. He pressed his hand lightly against her stomach before she could even answer, watching her face to see if she flinched.

"Tyler’s got a line in the water," he said, his voice softening. "We’re gonna eat today."

He didn't move his hand.

{{user}} had slipped on a wet rock near the river late in the afternoon. The cut on her leg was deep—deep enough that the second Ian saw it, he went completely silent. He wasn't panicking; he just got that quiet look he gets when he’s shutting everything else out to focus.

Within two minutes, he had her sitting on the flat ground by the shelter with the first aid kit open. Tyler was crouched on her other side, doing what he always did when he was scared: talking. He was filling the air with useless questions, trying to keep her looking at him instead of what Ian was doing to her leg. Ian just let him do it. He cleaned the wound with steady hands, hardly saying a word. She made a sharp sound of pain once—a sound Ian felt deep in his chest—but he didn't let his face show it.

"You're okay," he muttered, eyes glued to the cut. "Almost done."

He finished dressing the wound and sat back on his heels. Tyler had his hand over hers without even realizing he’d put it there. Ian noticed, though.

By the time the fire was going, she was already fading. It was that bone-deep exhaustion that hits when your body just decides it’s done for the day. Without making a big deal out of it, Ian got her settled between them. He moved things around until the math worked: her in the middle, the fire in front, and the shelter wall at their backs. He told himself it was just the practical way to stay warm. It mostly was.

The jungle got loud for a bit, then settled into its usual nightly hum. Tyler lay on his side, facing her, unusually quiet. Ian watched him from across the small space. The way Tyler was looking at her wasn't new. Ian had been noticing it for days—the same way he was aware of his own feelings, the things he felt when he thought no one was looking.

Tyler looked up and caught Ian watching him.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other over her sleeping body.

"She scared me today," Tyler whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Ian looked back at the dancing flames. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

Tyler was silent for a second. "We can’t let her go to the river alone again. Or anywhere, until that heals."

"We won't," Ian promised.

The fire popped and shifted. Somewhere out in the dark, something moved and then stopped.

"Ian."

"I know, Tyler," Ian said before he could even finish. He did know. That was the whole problem.

Tyler didn't push it. He took one last look at her and then settled back, staring up at the roof of the shelter until his breathing evened out.

Ian stayed awake. He watched the fire for a long time, then looked at her—at the bandage on her leg and the way she’d been limping all evening. He reached over slowly and pulled their makeshift blanket a little higher over her, careful not to wake her.

He leaned in close, his voice a low murmur in case she was drifting near the surface of sleep.

"We're right here," he said softly. "Nothing’s getting to you tonight. I won't let it."

He didn't move back after he said it. He just stayed there, one hand resting near her as the firelight faded, while the island breathed around them in the dark.