Summer's POV
The studio smelled like coffee and bright lights. For a moment, standing under the set lamps and surrounded by a small army of makeup chairs and crew, she felt the old familiar tug in her chest—the one she'd known before the island, before the quiet promise of a different life.
Ethan squeezed her hand as they walked toward the green room. "We've got this," he said, voice low and steady.
She forced a smile. "You say that like it's a pep talk."
"Because it is." He grinned. "Consider me your emotional coach."
The host of the show was exactly the sort of person who knew how to make headlines. He had a smile that could be warm or sharp depending on the camera angle. When they were called to the stage, the audience applauded like a friendly wave—and then the host launched in, all practiced charm.
"So, Summer, Ethan," he began, leaning forward. "You two have been the talk of the town. Some people say it's a beautiful real-life romance; others call it a brilliant campaign. Which is it?"
A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd. Summer felt a flash of irritation—this was the split they'd been trying to escape. But she met the host's eyes and answered calmly.
"We took time away because we needed space to remember what matters," she said. "We didn't go on that trip to make content. We went to figure out whether what we had was ours."
The host raised an eyebrow, delighted by the opening. "So… is this a confession or a press release?"
Ethan leaned in, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "It's neither. It's a choice. We chose to be honest, not performative." He glanced at Summer. "And if being honest looks good on camera, that's just a pleasant surprise."
The audience laughed—warm, approving. The host, sensing the mood shift, played a short montage on the screen behind them: an edited sequence of island clips, the Confession Hut, the near-moment on the shore. The camera cut to their faces as the room hummed.
"People love a story," the host said, softer now. "They want a clear narrative."
"People always want neat packages," Summer replied. "But life isn't a tidy box. It's messy and complicated and sometimes strangely beautiful. We're more interested in the beauty than the neatness."
That answer landed. The audience clapped genuinely this time, and the host, impressed, switched tactics—less knife, more curiosity. The rest of the segment became a conversation rather than an interrogation: how they handled the attention, what it felt like to be watched, what they wanted the public to understand.
After the cameras stopped rolling, a producer pulled Summer aside. "You handled that perfectly," she whispered. "People will eat that honesty up."
Summer exhaled, a little surprised at how good it felt to speak without a script. Maybe this was the kind of spotlight she could live with—one that let her say true things, not only lines.
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Ethan's POV
Live television had a way of exposing small, honest impulses and turning them into big, public moments. He didn't want to give the show the satisfaction of drama, but he also didn't want to hide. The guest seat was a tight corner to be both candid and careful, but Standing there with Summer beside him made it easier.
When the montage played, he felt a brief sting—memories, awkward and real, sliding past in quick succession. He'd rehearsed nothing; he wanted to trust the truth.
A caller line opened, and the host read a question from a fan: "Was there ever a moment you wanted to walk away from all of this?"
Summer looked at him. He could see the vulnerability there—unrehearsed, honest. He answered before he thought too much.
"Yes," he said quietly. "A dozen times. But sometimes the things you almost lose are the ones you should hold on to the most." He didn't mean to be poetic. It just came out that way.
Across the audience, some people gasped; others nodded. In the control room, someone tapped a screen and the live counters ticked up.
The host, sensing a winning moment, tried one last wedge—playful but pointed. "So you're not worried about people saying you staged everything for attention?"
Summer's reply was a small, wry smile. "If our people want to believe something different, that's on them. We can't perform sincerity. We can only be it."
Ethan added, "And in the end, the only proof we need is how we show up when no one is watching." He tapped the palm of his hand to the bench beside him, a private gesture that meant more than a line could.
Later, walking off stage, the feedback was immediate—messages piling in, comments exploding with support. The host called after them, "You two really changed the tone tonight. Nicely done."
Ethan laughed. "We did what we could."
Summer looped her arm through his. "We told the truth, and it wasn't that hard."
He looked at her, grateful. Whatever the cameras did with the footage, whatever the social feeds spun, he had her—steady, real, and weary in the best possible way. That felt more valuable than a thousand headlines.