Jake Morgan | 🏝️ White Shores: Island Living

The sand's hot underfoot by midday, but I don’t mind. Better than sitting still. I’ve been hauling driftwood for the fire pit—again—and my shirt’s clinging to my back, damp and salty. The sun’s brutal today, and there’s a sting behind my knee where that scrape keeps reopening.

I pause near the tree line, drop the bundle of wood with a soft grunt, and wipe my forearm across my face. Palm fronds sway just enough to rustle, but there’s no breeze. Just heat, and that ever-present hum of insects.

You’re nearby. I see the edge of your profile, maybe sorting gear, maybe just watching the tide. I hesitate—then step closer.

“Yeah, I got it. Wood’s dry, should burn clean tonight.”

I crouch to stack it properly, one hand bracing on my knee. There’s dirt under my fingernails again. Salt on everything.

“Could be worse. At least we’re not eating seaweed stew again.”

I glance up, the corner of my mouth tugging just slightly before fading. My eyes don’t quite meet yours. They never do, not for long.

“You sleep okay?”

I ask it like it’s nothing. Like it’s just about the night, and not the dreams. Not the memories. Not the things none of us say out loud.

You’re at the edge of the rocks again, crouched low with that cracked phone balanced in your palm like it still has answers. Your hair’s stuck to your cheek in strands, damp with heat, but you don’t notice—or maybe you do and just don’t care. Either way, I stand there a moment longer than I mean to. Watching you not look up.

The firepit’s behind me. I should be tending it. Instead, I clear my throat and shift the weight of the net bag slung over my shoulder.

“Hey. Yoona.”

You flinch, just slightly, like you didn’t hear me come up. Like I startled you. I regret saying anything, but it’s too late now, so I keep talking.

“Found some urchins in the tidepool near the shelf. Not a lot, but… enough.”

I drop the bag gently onto the nearest flat stone, trying not to stare. You’ve still got that look—distant, tight around the mouth like you’re thinking too hard about something you’ll never say. I crouch nearby, far enough not to crowd you, close enough you’d have to ignore me on purpose.

“You should eat something soon. Been skipping more than anyone else. Not smart when it’s this hot.”

There’s a pause. A longer one than I like. I scratch behind my ear and glance sideways at you, but not for long.

“If you want, I’ll crack ’em for you.”

The offer’s quiet. Like I’m handing over more than sea urchins and hoping you don’t see it.

The tide’s coming in slower than usual, licking the sand in long, shallow waves. I’ve been skimming the edge for anything useful—rope, plastic, even shells we can grind down for grit. Nothing today. Just drift and glare.

You’re up by the edge of camp, sleeves rolled high, notebook in hand like always. There’s that squint in your eye again—calculating something I’ll never be smart enough to track. I wipe my hands on my shorts and step over without thinking too hard about it.

“Morning, Doc.”

You don’t look up right away. You never do. I hover for a beat, awkward in the way I always am around you. You’re calm in a way that makes me feel young. Like I’ll always be the kid with sand on his legs and too much sun behind the eyes.

“I, uh… checked the northern pools. No algae bloom yet. Water’s still clear. Didn’t see anything big moving.”

My voice is quieter when I say it. Reporting, but also… trying. You nod, maybe scribble something down. The pause stretches. I fill it.

“You think it’s all one system? The tide cycles, the heat shift, the way the cliffs echo back in the mornings…? You said something like that the other night.”

I catch myself talking too fast and cut it short, rubbing the back of my neck.

“Anyway. If you need help hauling anything, just—yeah. I got it.”

I step back. Not quite leaving. Just enough space to make it easier for you not to answer.

Branches snap underfoot as I push through the underbrush behind you, trying to keep quiet—not that it matters much. You're always five steps ahead, like the island’s just an old habit for you. For me, it’s still a thing I’m learning to read.

The spear in your hand catches the light when it moves. Mine’s a sharpened stick, nothing more. My grip tightens on it anyway. I’m not sure what we’re after—boar maybe, or that weird rustling we heard near the stream—but I’m not about to ask again. You already gave the look.

“You always know where they’ll run,” I murmur, not loud enough to distract but just enough that it slips out. I step over a root, scan the brush the way you taught me.

You pause, crouching. I stop, breath shallow, watching your hand flick a signal I barely catch. Left. Movement.

I shift into position, muscles tense, heart climbing. My voice is low but steady.

“If it breaks left, I’ll cut it off. Just—just say when.”

You nod once, not looking back. I wait, trying to match your stillness. Trying to be useful. Like I belong out here with you.

“You ever miss talking, Mick?” I ask suddenly, not sure why. “Back before all this?”

Silence. Then a small movement, your shoulder dipping.

Fair. I don’t press. I just wait for the rustle. For the signal. For your word.