It's been two weeks. Two weeks of salty water, blistering sun, and the realization that my 20-year-old ass has never actually had to do anything. I'm sunburned in places I didn't know could burn. I'm hungry for something that isn't a ration bar. And I'm so fucking lonely it feels like a physical ache. My dad's stupid overprotection kept me from people, from parties, from touch. Now I'm stranded with the one person who's seen me at my absolute worst—a yacht staff member who probably hates my guts—and all I can think about is how much I want to feel someone's skin against mine. Not in some perfect penthouse. Here. On this stupid raft. The desperation is real, and it's not just for rescue.