"Emmy! Hurry up, we're gonna be late!" Amina yelled from downstairs.
We live together and work for the same production company. We're researchers for a nature and culture-based TV show, which is honestly my dream—I get to travel, meet amazing people, and experience things most people only see in documentaries. And secretly… I keep hoping one of these adventures will lead me to him. My prince charming. Somewhere out there.
Today, we're heading to Congo to start a new project on wildlife—specifically, Virunga National Park, Africa's oldest national park. It's home to endangered mountain gorillas, lions, elephants… and probably zero potential boyfriends. Does gorilla counts?
"I'm coming!" I shouted back, tying my hair into a ponytail as I run down the stairs.
"Come on, we're going to be late!" Amina said, grabbing her backpack. "Maggy texted—she's already at the airport with the rest of the crew."
"Okay, okay, I'm ready!"
"You got everything?"
"Yep. Let's keep moving my dear friend." I shouted excitedly
As we get in into the cab, Amina immediately take out her phone to report to her boyfriend, while I just stared out the window, thinking about the excitement that's coming ahead. New place. New faces. New stories. Maybe even a little magic.
Out of nowhere, she groaned. "Ugh. I hate him."
I turned to look at her, raising an eyebrow. "What now?"
"He doesn't want me to go." Her tone was tight. "Same crap, different day. Accusing me of not caring about him, of running off to cheat. Like seriously? With who? I'm gonna be surrounded by gorillas!"
I laughed. "Hey, you never know… maybe one of them is tall, dark, and emotionally available."
She laughed too. "Honestly? If one of them' more supportive than he is, I'll take my chances!"
I grinned. "What did he say this time?"
Amina let out a breath, frustrated. "He said if I go… we're done."
I paused, studying her expression. "And what did you say?"
"I told him… then so be it."
My brows lifted. "You serious?"
She nodded, firm now. "I have to be. I can't keep choosing him over me."
I reached for her hand, gave it a squeeze. "Then good. Fight for yourself. You deserve better."
"This dream is mine," she said softly, but with fire behind her eyes. "And I won't let him take it from me."
Because love—real love—shouldn't come with chains. It should lift you, not drag you down.
Just then, my phone buzzed loud against the silence. Of course. Ellen.
I tapped answer and put her on speaker. "It's Ellen," I said, already bracing.
Her voice crackled through. "Ladies! Off to play in the jungle? Try not to get arrested, yeah?"
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I deadpanned.
Amina rolled her eyes. "Please behave while we're gone. No fire, no chaos."
"Oh, please," Ellen scoffed. "If I don't behave, men cry. I'm doing the world a favor."
I laughed. "Be a good girl, El."
"I am a good girl," she purred. Then added with a smirk in her voice, "Depends on the context."
"No boys," I warned, narrowing my eyes even though she couldn't see me.
She cackled. "That's cute. But I already forgot that rule."
She hung up. Silence followed—but the kind that lingers with unspoken thoughts.
Amina looked over. "She's definitely going to start something."
I smiled. "No doubt. And we're gonna miss all the drama."
"
"We know, we know," I laughed, holding up my hands. "You don't have to rub it in."
"I'm guessing you and Ronnie went at it again?" Amina raised an eyebrow.
"Worse—we broke up," I said, tossing my hand in the air like I was throwing on an invisible scarf. Very soap opera.
"Seriously?" Her eyes widened. "Then drinks are definitely on me tonight. First round, no debate."
"You deserve way better anyway," she added, giving me a side glance full of truth and sass.
"You're not wrong. Ronnie was basically a walking red flag wearing too much body spray."
Amina chuckled and wrapped an arm around me. "We've got your back, drama queen."
We strutted into the airport like we were walking into a scene from some chaotic but loveable sitcom—duffel bags slung over shoulders, sunglasses hiding tired eyes, and very questionable sleep schedules.
Maggy and the rest of the crew were already waiting near the gate.
"Are we late?" I asked, still slightly winded from jogging for literally no reason.
"Nope. Mr. Sympson's still operating on Mars time," Maggy said, glancing at her watch like it personally offended her.
"Told you," I said smugly, nudging Amina. "We could've stopped for coffee."
"Better early than sprinting through security like last time," she muttered, eyeing me.
We stood around. Waited. Checked our phones. Waited more.
"Okay, is this project still happening or did we sign up to star in a commercial for airport chairs?" Arvin muttered, bouncing his knee.
"He said he's on the way," Sam replied, gripping his clipboard like it was a flotation device in a sea of delays.
I leaned in. "Another hour and I start invoicing him for emotional damage."
"Patience, everyone. Deep breaths," Maggy said, sounding like she'd just stepped out of a yoga retreat.
Someone half-jokingly suggested we play Uno using our passports as cards.
And right then—finally—he arrived.
Mr. Sympson strolled in like he was making a red carpet entrance… and of course, he wasn't alone.
"Guys, I'm so sorry," Mr. Sympson said, breathing like he'd just sprinted from the parking lot. "Had a bit of a situation."
"Lost a shoe? Got kidnapped by your cat? Do tell," I mumbled under my breath.
Patric, always the bright-sider, clapped his hands. "Well, now that everyone's finally here, let's get this show on the road."
"Oh, right—before we head out," Mr. Sympson added, like it just occurred to him, "meet my nephew and his friends. They'll be tagging along for this one."
A weird hush fell over the group.
"Plot twist," Amina whispered beside me.
"Sam, Mike, Tony, Marvin… and Erick," Mr. Sympson said, gesturing like he was about to announce the next boy band. "Guys, meet the crew."
We exchanged handshakes, polite smiles, and that classic quiet moment of are-we-gonna-get-along-or-nah eye contact. You know, the usual when new people show up last-minute.
"No special treatment," Mr. Sympson said firmly. "Everyone pulls their own weight. No superheroes. No divas."
I raised an eyebrow. "Even if I already packed my cape?"
He didn't even blink. Classic.
We boarded the company's private plane like a bunch of rockstars—minus the paparazzi, plus way too many travel pillows. Everyone tried to play it cool, but you could tell we were all thinking the same thing: This is way fancier than economy.
Then the PA crackled to life with a voice that sounded very over it.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome onboard Flight 5B8, traveling from Hong Kong to Congo. We are currently third in line for takeoff and expect to be in the air in approximately seven minutes. Please fasten your seatbelts, stow all carry-ons, and return your seats and tray tables to their upright positions. And yes, we still have to say this—no smoking, no TikToks during takeoff, and please pretend to listen to the safety demonstration."
Amina leaned over. "She sounds so done."
I smirked. "Honestly? Mood."
I slid on my headphones, leaned back in the seat, and let the noise fade into my playlist. Music on. World off
After what felt like three days, five time zones, and a portal to another dimension, we finally landed in Congo. The Virunga Hotel came into view like some kind of holy mirage—or maybe I was just too tired to trust my eyes anymore.
The moment we walked into the lobby, my legs gave up on life.
"That flight was so long, I think I aged ten years," I groaned, dragging my feet across the marble floor.
Maggy collapsed dramatically onto the nearest couch. "My spine's permanently molded to that plane seat. I may never stand up straight again."
Amina squinted at me. "We're sharing a room, right?"
"Yup. Just a heads-up—if I start snoring, just roll me over like a burrito. I won't even wake up."
We finally stumbled into the room, dropped our bags wherever they landed, and face-planted onto the beds like our lives depended on it.
"Nap before dinner?" someone mumbled into a pillow.
No one replied.
Sleep hit us like a freight train in slow motion. No dreams. Just pure, glorious unconsciousness.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
"You boys better behave," Uncle said, his tone somewhere between a warning and a sermon. "This isn't a vacation. No fancy nonsense. If you're here to escape your lives, then do the job. Earn the escape."
"Yes, sir," they chorused like schoolboys caught mid-prank.
He narrowed his eyes one last time for effect, then added, "Rest up. Dinner's at seven. Sharp. Not 'ish.'"And just like that, he was gone—off.
A heavy silence hung in the air.
Sam glanced around the room like he couldn't decide if it felt more like a cage or a kingdom."Well… this is it. No turning back now."
Tony let out a long stretch, arms over his head like he'd just shaken off years of weight."We're free, baby. Free from responsibility, heartbreak, rent… and that one ex who still owes me two hundred bucks."
Erick, though—he was weirdly quiet. Hands shoved in his pockets. Eyes flicking between the floor and the door like his brain hadn't decided whether to bolt or breathe.
I stepped up beside him."Hey. You okay? You sure you're ready for this?"
He met my eyes, steady and serious."I have to be. There's no going back now. Not after everything."
For a second, nobody said anything. The weight of it—all of it—just lingered in the room.
Then Tony, of course, broke the silence."Dude… are you running from the cops or an ex?"
Erick blinked once."Yes."
We all just stared for a second. No one knew what to say.
"Fair enough," I shrugged. "Let's just survive this trip first. You can unpack your emotional baggage after we've had actual food and sleep."
"Alright, man," I muttered, checking the time. 7:10 p.m. Great—fashionably late and fully exhausted.
We made our way downstairs to the hotel restaurant, looking slightly rumpled and totally underdressed. The rest of the crew was already gathered around this long, formal-looking table that felt more like a family intervention than a dinner.
"Sorry we're late," I said, putting just the right amount of breathless guilt in my voice.
Mr. Simpson looked up from his water like some wise old Jedi who's seen too much. Calm, cool, and terrifying.
"I hope this doesn't become a pattern," he said smoothly, like he was handing us a silk glove that secretly had bricks in it.
I sat down, offered a sheepish smile, and thought—welp, that's one strike.
"Won't happen again," I said, doing my best impression of someone deeply sorry—and totally not lying.
Mr. Simpson gave me a look, then shifted gears like a director calling "Action."
"Alright, let's get started. We're heading into the wild for ten days. That means tents, bugs, probably some rain, definitely no room service, and absolutely no Wi-Fi. Embrace the chaos."
A dramatic gasp from down the table. "This is so exciting!" Yep. That had Maggy written all over it.
"I seriously can't wait," Amina chimed in, nearly vibrating with energy. Meanwhile, I was silently panicking and wondering if my phone could survive ten days on airplane mode.
"Tomorrow, we roll out at 6 a.m. sharp," Mr. Simpson continued, like he didn't just ruin everyone's sleep schedule.
He started pointing out assignments like a coach before a big game.
"Sam, you're on camera. Zack's your guide—good luck keeping up."
"Mike, you're on audio. Maggy's your lead. Just smile and do what she says."
"Marvin, lighting. Amina's your boss now. Don't mess it up."
He looked at Erick and Tony. "You two—research team. Emmy's in charge of your brains and your conscience."
I shot them a sweet smile. "Try not to give me a headache."
Erick raised a brow. "No promises."
"Now, before we dive into anything else…" Mr. Simpson paused with a slight smile, "dinner."
Right on cue, waiters appeared like a well-rehearsed magic trick—gliding in with silver trays, crisp uniforms, and expressions that made you feel like royalty... or at least VIPs in a reality show version of Survivor: But Make It Bougie.
The head waiter stepped forward, all charm."Tonight, we have Moambe Chicken—one of our national specialties. There's also Cossa Cossa, Madesu, and a touch of Piri Piri. Bon appétit."
The aroma hit first—rich, spiced, and borderline unfair. Plates were set down like they belonged in a museum, not on our table.
"Is this food or an art exhibit?" Tony muttered under his breath.
I smirked. "Guess we're about to destroy a masterpiece."
Everyone dug in. And then… it happened.
Mike, clearly inspired by a cooking show—or maybe just showing off—grabbed what I think was cassava, dipped it into one of the sauces like he knew exactly what he was doing, and took a big, proud bite.
The room paused. His eyes widened.
"How is it?" someone asked.
He blinked. "Delicious. Spicy. But like… spiritual spicy. I think I just saw God."
We burst out laughing.
"Careful," Maggy teased. "That sauce might awaken past lives."
"Worth it," Mike said, already going for round two.
Seconds later, Mike started choking.
Not like a polite cough-and-sip kind of thing—no, this was full-on gasping, face-turning-red, arms flailing, water reaching—misses—reaches again kind of choking.
Maggy shot up with her napkin like she was about to deliver a baby."Somebody pat his back!" she yelled.
Tony, always ready for action, didn't just pat—he slammed.
BAM.Mike's whole body jolted like a cartoon character. He lurched forward, face landing inches from the Moambe Chicken.
And then… the grand finale.
A thunderous burp, echoing off the walls like a drumroll from the underworld.
Silence.
Every fork froze mid-air. Mr. Simpson lifted one eyebrow with slow, practiced precision, looking like he was questioning every decision that led him here.
Mike looked up, red-faced, eyes watering, breath raspy."…It's got a kick," he whispered.
We lost it.
Laughter erupted around the table. Even Mr. Simpson chuckled, then straightened his face like it never happened."Glad you survived your first bite," he said, dryly.
"Welcome to Congo," I smirked.
After that, we all chewed a little slower, laughed a little louder, and the rest of the meal went down without any near-death theatrics—well, mostly.
•°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°•
I stood in front of Erick and Tony, clutching The List—a.k.a. the holy scroll of responsibilities. It was long, chaotic, and probably cursed.
"Alright, gentlemen," I said with a theatrical pause. "Welcome to the research team. Otherwise known as the brains behind the operation—the unsung heroes. The ones who keep everything from falling apart, even though we never get the cool slow-motion scenes in the documentary."
They just blinked at me.
I sighed, reset, and started pacing like I was about to lead them into battle.
"Your duties include—but are absolutely not limited to—the following:One. Planning and conducting experiments. No, not the mad scientist kind. Think more... clipboards, trial runs, and getting judged by everyone who thinks they know better."
Tony raised a hand. "Do we get lab coats?"
"Only if you survive the week."
"Sweet."
I kept going.
"Recording and analyzing data. That means numbers. That means charts. That means no, you cannot 'eyeball it' and hope for the best."
Erick swallowed hard.
"Next—fieldwork. Translation? Hiking, sweating, probably getting bitten by something, and collecting samples without getting your sandwich crumbs in them."
Tony gave a serious nod. "No eating near science. Got it."
"Presenting results to senior staff. PowerPoints, speeches, possibly a laser pointer if you're lucky. Think CSI: Jungle Edition—but with less action and more nerves."
"Writing papers, reports, summaries, reviews—you're basically a part-time writer now. Just with more footnotes and less kissing."
Erick muttered, "Yikes."
"Demonstrating procedures. Like a magician—but instead of applause, you get five follow-up questions and a broken microscope."
Tony leaned in. "So... awkward science TED Talk?"
"Exactly." I pointed at him like he just passed his first quiz.
"And yes, paperwork," I added. "Funding proposals. Because if we want to keep the lights on, we have to learn the ancient art of grant begging."
"Ah. The hustle," Tony whispered.
"And lastly," I finished, holding the list like it weighed fifty pounds, "supervising junior staff. Which means answering the same question seventeen times without losing your mind or your soul."
They were both quiet for a beat.
"And," I added, grinning, "if something explodes, it's probably our fault."
Tony raised his fist like a warrior. "For science."
Erick looked at me, half amused, half panicked. "So... when do we start?"
I smirked. "We already did."
"
"Where's Tony?" I asked, squinting toward the jungle like I had X-ray vision.
Erick blinked. "He said he was going to collect samples near the stream."
I froze. "What samples?"
He paused. "...Leafy ones?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Okay. That's not reassuring. Did he take the sample kit?"
Erick glanced down at his hands—holding the kit.
I turned on my heel. "Great. So he's out there with nothing but good intentions and a Tupperware container."
We started marching toward the stream, fast. Branches slapped our arms. Mosquitoes cheered. My boots sunk into the muddy path like the jungle was trying to claim me.
"I swear, if he's befriending a snake again—"
"We don't know it was a snake," Erick mumbled.
"It hissed at me, Erick!"
Then we saw him.
Tony stood at the edge of the stream, proudly holding up what looked like a moldy coconut and a handful of wet moss.
"Guys!" he shouted, beaming. "I think I found a rare fungus—or it might be an old sandwich."
I walked up to him, hands on hips, breathing like a dragon. "Tony. Why are you holding questionable jungle mush with your bare hands?"
"I'm connecting with nature," he said earnestly.
"You're connecting with bacteria," I snapped, pulling out the sanitizer like a wild west gunslinger.
He winced. "You're mad."
"No, I'm horrified. There's a difference."
Erick leaned in, whispering, "On the bright side, at least it's not a leopard."
Tony grinned. "Yet."
"He said… water ones?"
"From which stream?!"
Cut to us running through the underbrush like panicked contestants on Survivor. Branches whipped at our legs, something buzzed too close to my ear, and I was already composing Tony's obituary in my head.
And then—there he was.
Standing in the stream, soaked to the knees, proudly holding up an empty bottle in one hand and a mosquito net full of frogs in the other.
"I caught biodiversity!" he beamed.
"TONY," I snapped, hands on my hips, "that's not how we collect data! That's how you get sued by the ecosystem!"
"But they jumped into the net! I thought they volunteered!"
"They're frogs, not interns!"
To top it off, he had somehow lost his phone in the mud… and his pants had a tear so large it could be used to forecast wind direction.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "First rule of research: no frog kidnapping and wear pants that aren't held together by hope."
Tony blinked. "But… I labeled the bottle?"
Erick leaned over, whispering, "Should we pretend he's not with us?"
"I'm heavily considering it."
By the time we stumbled back to camp, Tony smelled like swamp regret and questionable decisions. The frogs were safely released. The bottle was very much empty. And somewhere in the world, a motion-activated trail cam now had footage of our descent into scientific chaos.
But hey—teamwork, right?
Later That Night – Jungle Camp, Day One
We returned to base camp like soggy, mildly traumatized adventurers. Tony was still dripping, Erick was flinching at every rustle, and I was one weird incident away from firing off a flare and calling it a day.
Our tents were pitched in a small clearing. The jungle buzzed around us with the energy of a thousand tiny creatures plotting our downfall.
"I can't believe I lost my phone," Tony muttered, still mourning.
"I can't believe you tried to name one of the frogs Gregory," I muttered back.
"Gregory looked like a leader," he insisted.
From across the fire, Maggy called out, "You guys good over there?"
"Define good," I replied.
She smirked. "You smell like you wrestled a lake and lost."
"I did lose," Tony called back. "But I lost with honor."
That night, we gathered around the fire for the daily debrief. Mr. Simpson stood like a war general about to address his weary troops.
"Tomorrow—no surprises," he said. "Stick to the schedule. No freelancing. No wildlife abductions." His eyes flicked to Tony with a look that said I'm too tired for this.
"Understood, sir," Tony said, throwing up a salute, completely unaware of how much restraint it took for me not to throw a boot at him.
Just when we started to settle in for what we thought might be a calm night…
Chaos decided to knock.
The Animal Encounter
It started with a rustle.Soft.Then louder.Then something massive and furry darted out of the trees and straight into Tony's tent like it had just found its favorite Airbnb.
"WHAT. WAS. THAT?!" Maggy shrieked, leaping back like she'd just seen a ghost on rollerblades.
"Is it a monkey? A wildcat?? A jungle demon??" Amina whisper-screamed, clutching her blanket like it could save her.
Tony's tent bounced like a haunted bounce house.
"I think it's a… lemur?" I guessed, though I absolutely had no idea and was just hoping it wasn't something with claws.
Then—ZIPPP!Tony burst out of his tent like he'd been launched by a slingshot.
"THERE'S A BEAST IN MY BED!" he wailed, scrambling across the dirt on all fours like a toddler who just found out Santa wasn't real.
And then…
A small, extremely fluffy civet cat strolled out of Tony's tent like it paid rent. It paused, gave us a look that said "You people are loud," then casually plopped down next to the fire like it was ready to roast marshmallows.
"Oh my god," Erick laughed. "It just wanted to hang out."
"It used my sleeping bag as a hammock," Tony whispered, traumatized.
Mr. Simpson, bless him, just sipped his tea like nothing had happened."Welcome to fieldwork."
"Does this happen every trip?" Tony asked, eyes still wide.
"No," I said with a grin. "Sometimes it's snakes."
Tony slept in my tent that night, wrapped in three layers of mosquito netting and clutching a flashlight like it was a holy relic.
As I finally lay down, brain fried and body aching, one lonely thought echoed through my head:
Day One. Only nine more to go. And I already need therapy.
DAY TWO – 4:45 a.m. – Jungle Camp
It was still dark.The kind of dark that felt like it was holding its breath.The kind of dark that makes you wonder if the jungle is watching you blink.
I was woken by the sound of aggressive snoring beside me. Tony—burritoed in my spare blanket—was drooling on his sleeve like he'd battled a dragon in his dreams and lost.
I groaned and crawled out of the tent, grabbing my notebook and a flashlight that was technically alive, but mostly just flickered like it had stage fright.
The morning was calm.Too calm.
By 6 a.m., the crew was up. Boots on. Cameras ready. Collective energy somewhere between "motivated" and "please airlift me directly into a hot shower."
Mr. Simpson clapped his hands."Today, we go deeper. This is where the real work begins."
Foreshadowing, much?
I huddled with Erick and Tony to review our mission: vegetation patterns, soil samples, and wildlife tracking.
"You guys got the data sheets?" I asked.
Tony patted his vest confidently.
Erick checked his bag.Then blinked at me.
"Uh… which data sheets?"
My soul exited my body and hovered above us, watching the disaster unfold.
"The ones I gave you. Last night. Clearly labeled 'DO NOT FORGET THESE OR I WILL CRY.'"
"Ohhh," he said, face going pale. "I thought that was just you being dramatic."
"I am always dramatic—but that doesn't mean I'm wrong."
Tony winced."…We might have… used them to start the fire."
Silence.Like, birdsong stopped silence.
I inhaled. Slowly. Through the nose."Okay," I said, voice wobbling with internal collapse, "we improvise. And when we get back, you're rewriting all eight pages from memory. With diagrams."
Erick nodded solemnly.Tony looked like he was calculating how much regret fits in a backpack.
And then we started Day Two.The jungle didn't care that we were unprepared.
But it did look hungry.
LATER – MIDDAY – THE STORM
The skies turned gray way too fast.Like someone had hit the drama button.
One minute we were calmly jotting notes on a herd of antelopes. The next? Screaming over the wind like we were in The Weather Channel: Jungle Panic Edition.
Thunder cracked.Rain came down like the sky was personally offended by our presence.
Everyone scattered for cover.
I ended up with Emmy—quiet, competent, borderline unbothered Emmy—from the research team, crouched under a tarp that was technically shelter, but mostly just optimism tied between two trees.
She wasn't saying much. She never really did.So, naturally, I tried to fill the silence.
"Soooo… fun first date, huh?"
She glanced at me, unimpressed."Do all your dates involve leeches?"
"Only the good ones."
She actually chuckled. Just barely. But I'll take the win.
Then her face shifted—serious, thoughtful. Like a gear clicked into place.
"I know why Mr. Simpson brought his nephew and his friends."
That got my attention. Fast.
"You mean the mystery crew? I figured they lost a bet or owed someone money."
She shook her head."It's more than that. One of them—Sam, I think—he's here to report back. Not just on the science. On us. For the investors."
I blinked."…Wait. Spy-level stuff?"
She nodded, eyes scanning the trees like one of them might be listening.
"That's not shady at all," I muttered.
And then she looked at me—really looked. That quiet kind of intensity that makes you feel like you've just been handed a riddle and a warning at the same time.
"Be careful what you say around him," she said."They're watching us more than the wildlife."
I had a million follow-up questions……but then lightning cracked so close I could feel it in my teeth, and we both dove under the tarp like it was made of Kevlar instead of clearance-bin plastic.
By the time the storm passed, we were soaked, shivering, and about 30% more suspicious of our own teammates.
NIGHT TWO – BACK AT CAMP
The fire crackled. Smoke curled upward like it was trying to escape the day.
Everyone looked wrecked.Like the jungle had personally chewed us up, spit us out, and then asked for dessert.
Tony was wrapped in two tarps like a burrito of regret, quietly muttering about curses and "ancient water spirits."
Erick was drawing frogs in the dirt and naming them after '90s boy band members.I'm pretty sure one was called Froggie McFrogface.
I caught Emmy glancing at Sam.
Sam—who was laughing a little too hard at something Mr. Simpson said.Who always just happened to be nearby when people were talking.Who somehow never got dirty, even after the storm.
And I realized… Emmy was right. Something was off.
But also…
Was it just me, or did Emmy look weirdly good in jungle gear?The boots. The ponytail. The "I-might-be-a-spy" calm.
Crap.
Why does this always happen in the middle of a potential conspiracy?
I was catching feelings.In the middle of a conspiracy.And I still had frog drawings to supervise.
I sighed. Zero chance of meeting my prince at this rate.Hope? Gone. Left back at base camp with my patience.
LOBBY – EARLY MORNING DEPARTURE
We met in the hotel lobby.No one was late. Not a single person. Which felt suspicious all on its own.
Mr. Simpson clapped his hands together."Alright, gather your teams and load up. I'll be riding with the research crew."
Bags were hoisted, teams shuffled around.We headed toward our truck—me dragging a little behind, still half-asleep and fully caffeine-deprived.
I climbed up last. Struggled a little. My bag was heavy, the truck was tall, and the step was doing nothing to help my dignity.
There he was.That guy. Watching me. Arms crossed. Didn't move. Didn't offer a hand. Just… stared.
Cool. Gentleman of the year.
Thankfully, Jerry looked over, reached out, and pulled me up like a decent human.
"Thank you," I said.
He just nodded.
Of course.
The only open seat? Right in front of him.Perfect. This ride was going to be long. I sat down, trying to ignore the universe mocking me.
Everyone else was chatting—light, easy banter. I figured I'd give it a shot.
"I'm Emmy," I said, turning slightly, offering a hand. "Nice to meet you."
"I know," he said flatly.
I froze. Pulled my hand back.Okay. That was… humiliating.
"…And you are—?" I prompted, eyebrows raised.
No response.Didn't even look at me.
Can he talk? I whispered to myself.
Trying one more time, I asked, "Is this your first time on an adventure like this?"
Silence. Again.Not even a grunt.
I gave up. Sat back. Folded my arms.
"Arrogant," I muttered under my breath.
And of course, that's when he finally looked at me.One slow glance. No expression.
I looked away fast.Why was I flustered?
No. Nope. Not doing this. Not falling for the jungle's emotionally unavailable poster child.
Probably.