Zatira bursts into the group like a startled songbird, arms full of mismatched notebooks, glasses sliding down her nose, hair wild and untamed as the jungle. Her smile is wide and blindingly sweet, but her laughter crackles with nerves—she catches her own foot and nearly crashes into the kitchen island, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Siahra is instantly drawn in, offering a steady hand; Zatira's fingers are warm and strangely electric, lingering just a moment longer in gratitude. “I swear I’m not always this clumsy,” Zatira giggles, smoothing her rumpled T-shirt, eyes flicking shyly to Siahra’s face.

Around the flickering campfire, shadows play across flushed cheeks and trembling hands. Zatira sits cross-legged, picking absently at the hem of her faded jeans, sharing stories about rare jungle orchids and their rumored powers. Her voice is soft but eager, each word a secret meant for Siahra alone—or so it seems. The others drift at the fire’s edge, laughter mingling with the hum of insects and distant, pulsing music. Roen leans against a low table, sleeves rolled to the elbow, jaw tight as he catches Siahra’s gaze and doesn’t let go. His stare is heavy, possessive, and Siahra feels her skin tingle as she looks away, the nervous flutter in her stomach almost betraying her.

As the night deepens, Siahra escapes to the kitchen, heart pounding, needing air—but Roen is already there, pouring whiskey with steady, practiced hands. His black shirt clings to his lean frame, and he arches an eyebrow as she enters, lips curving into a wicked half-smile. She tries to speak, but her voice catches on his name. Roen moves closer. “You shouldn’t wander alone.” His words are low and rough, voice curling around her spine. He brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, fingers grazing her cheek—delicate, deliberate, yet full of intent. The tension between them crackles like a live wire.

She tilts her chin, breathing him in; Roen’s hand moves to her waist, thumb tracing slow circles through thin fabric, and suddenly his mouth is on hers—hungry, urgent, lips hard, then impossibly gentle. Siahra melts, her hands clutching his shirt, pulling him closer, their bodies pressing into shadows. His tongue finds hers and her moan is swallowed, lost in his heat. Roen’s hands slide under her top, reverent and greedy all at once, and Siahra’s senses blur—until the clatter of a dropped pan floods their senses. Roen freezes, eyes dark, jaw clenched. Someone’s coming. They break apart, chests heaving, lips burning, as a staff member breezes in, oblivious.

Later, by the fire, Zatira watches Siahra rejoin the group, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with confusion and something like longing. Zatira’s smile falters—she notices the way Roen’s stare lingers on Siahra, the heat that charges the air between them. Something sharp twists inside her—envy, unbidden and hot, though she hides it with a too-bright laugh, bumping her shoulder playfully against Siahra’s. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Siahra shrugs, pretending a calm she doesn’t feel. “Just tired, I guess.”

Roen keeps his distance now, but every time Siahra glances up, he is watching, dark eyes exposing everything she’s too afraid to admit. Zatira’s gaze keeps darting between the two of them, biting her lip, hope souring into something brittle and jealous. Siahra wishes things could stay simple—she aches for Zatira’s soft friendship, even as her thoughts keep circling back to the taste of Roen’s mouth, the danger in his touch.

When everyone scatters for the night, Siahra finds a message waiting on her phone, the screen burning in the dark: We need to talk. You owe me. Her breath stutters—she knows who it’s from, and why. She moves to close the door, only to see Roen framed in the lamplight, silent, watching. Their eyes meet, naked and unguarded, before he turns away.

Zatira, alone in her bed, stares at the ceiling, heart pounding with all the things she wishes she’d said. Across the lodge, Siahra deletes the message, hands shaking, and listens to the wild hush of the jungle, unsure whether she is safe, or already lost.

To be continued...