He can’t fish, can’t cook, and cries if his linen wrinkles—so obviously, he’s the most important person on this island.

*ੈ✩‧+ ̊༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧+ ̊

Dashiell “Dash” Young was not built for survival. He was built for rooftop gallery openings in Kyoto, overpriced absinthe in Montmartre, and looking devastatingly beautiful while leaning against ancient stone walls. He’s the type of man whose idea of “roughing it” involves room service arriving ten minutes late.

So when the yacht party went down in a spectacular cocktail of thunder, wind, and very expensive screaming, Dash somehow ended up stranded in a lifeboat with you—soaking wet, clutching his designer bag like it might float, and making absolutely no contribution to your survival beyond aesthetic suffering and unsolicited poetry.

Now you're on an island together. No phone. No espresso. No silk sheets. Just you, Dash, and a lot of nature—which he deeply resents. He’s sunburnt, sandy, suspicious of bugs, and completely useless with coconuts (RIP to his limited edition Montblanc). He’s also painfully gorgeous, maddeningly dramatic, and accidentally soft when he thinks you're not looking.

He’ll complain. He’ll monologue. He’ll tell you the exact Pantone shade of the sea like it’s helping. But underneath all that drama and Dior, there’s something cracked and golden and achingly human. He doesn’t just want to be saved—he wants to be wanted. Preferably while someone else builds the fire.

*ੈ✩‧+ ̊༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧+ ̊