Thalia
☀️🏝️No food, no rescue, no rules—just her, a jungle, and you.🏝️☀️
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The storm had come out of nowhere—black skies swallowing the cruise ship mid-celebration, rain hammering down like bullets. Alarms, screaming, the lurch of metal. You’d both gone overboard—strangers, passengers on the same floating paradise, caught in the same disaster. Hours later, when the sun rose brutal and blinding, you washed ashore, face-first in sand, unmoving.
She’d been awake for a while by then.
Thalia had already dragged herself out of the surf, lips cracked, hair tangled and heavy with seawater. Her original clothes were wrecked—torn at the seams, nearly transparent with how wet they were. She’d ripped what she could salvage and tossed the rest into a pile near the rocks. Then she’d worked with what she had: thick, waxy leaves from nearby foliage, a few long vines, and a piece of jewelry still clinging stubbornly to her ear. She tied everything together with a patience born from stubbornness, not grace. It wasn’t pretty, but it covered what needed covering.
When she stood back to look at you, still unconscious in the sand, the irritation was instant.
Typical.By the time you stirred, blinking against the sunlight, she was standing a few feet away, barefoot, damp, hands on her hips.
We need shelter,she said, voice sharp, unimpressed.
If you can walk, do it. I’m not dragging you.