Chapter Text
The sun sits high and relentless, shimmering off the white stone. The heat softens every outline of the sea, the palms, and even the row of singles standing shoulder to shoulder, slick with sunscreen and nerves.
Some fidget, shifting from foot to foot. Others wear confidence like armor, spines straight, smiles fixed. Behind them, the villas rise on opposite sides of the lagoon, mirror images of temptation, bright and distant.
“Welcome, singles!” The host’s voice cuts through the heat, smooth and certain.
Alex squints his eyes to see better. Mark Walberg stands a few yards away in coral linen, the kind of man who looks like he’s been ironed for television, his hair sculpted, skin like sun-warmed leather, and teeth dazzling. His shirt gapes open at the collar, trying for casual island uncle, but Alex can already tell he’s been practicing this speech for weeks.
“We’re here for the ultimate test,” Mark calls, pacing the length of the dock. “Four couples. Four relationships under fire. And you, our singles, are here to help them discover the truth.”
The group claps, applause rolling unevenly across the dock. Alex spots a crew member off to the side, flashing a laminated sign that literally reads APPLAUSE. He laughs under his breath and claps along anyway, because what else is there to do.
Instructions follow, rattled off like disclaimers: they’ve been split into villas based on sexual identity, and if anyone feels mis-assigned, they’re supposed to flag it with their producer. Later in the season, there’ll be opportunities to switch villas if they want to pursue someone of a different gender.
Alex half listens, while his attention drifts to the people around him. There’s a blur of golden limbs, sun-warmed shoulders, and over-confident smiles catching light. Everyone looks touched by artifice: lashes curled, salt water still drying in their hair, the illusion of effortless beauty baked into every pose.
And then, at the far end of the row, someone who doesn’t fit the frame.
Tall. Blond. The kind of handsome that doesn’t try for attention but draws it anyway. His posture is immaculate, arms held loosely at his sides, expression unreadable. While everyone else gleams with easy heat, he looks composed to the point of stillness, like he’s wandered in from a colder place. There’s a faint crease between his brows, a tension that doesn’t belong here.
For a second, Alex catches his gaze. It’s only a heartbeat, but enough to register something sharp beneath the surface. The blond man looks away first, spine straightening.
Before Alex can think about it further, they’re shepherded across the lawn to the couples, four neat sets of two, dressed like magazine covers, hands laced tight. The women shimmer in jewel tones; the men in linen. The air hums with apprehension.
Mark turns toward them, smile bright as glass. “Couples, meet your singles. Singles, meet the relationships you’re here to challenge.” He lets the words hang, the pause deliberate. “And here’s the twist: none of our singles are straight. Every one of them is queer. And each of our couples includes at least one partner who isn’t straight either.”
Silence. The sound of the ocean fills the space where applause should be.
The man in the second pairing stiffens, confusion flickering across his face. “I think you’re confused,” he says slowly. “We’re not—”
His girlfriend tightens her grip on his arm. She leans closer to him, whispering.
He jerks away. “What the hell? Since when are you—”
Her face breaks, the words catching in her throat. She turns toward the producers, eyes wide. “I thought we’d talk in private about this. Please.”
“Tessa.” His voice hardens. “You don’t get to drag me here and spring this on me.” He looks past her, straight into a camera lens. “Are you seriously filming this?”
Then he’s walking off, storming across the lawn and out of frame.
A collective inhale ripples through the singles. Even the crew falters, hands hovering over clipboards and cameras.
“Hold,” a director says softly. “Just… hold.”
Tessa moves to follow Adam, but producers block her gently, guiding her back into place. She looks shaken, as if she didn’t expect this reaction.
Assistants rush in with water bottles and towels. Makeup artists hover like medics, powder brushes trembling in the heat. The singles exchange looks, wide-eyed, caught between empathy and voyeurism.
Tessa stands alone, trembling, her shoulders squared only by effort. A producer leans in to whisper something, and Tessa nods, blinking hard, her expression flickering between understanding and humiliation.
Five minutes later, Adam returns. His jaw is set, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. He plants himself beside her, arms crossed like a barrier, the space between them colder than the breeze off the water.
No one speaks. The silence carries a pulse of static.
Mark waits for a nod from the crew, then pastes his smile back on, perfect and hollow. “Singles,” he booms, clapping once. “Let’s meet the couples.”
The first pair steps forward, beaming beneath the glare.
The woman, Maya, is petite—curly dark hair piled high, freckles scattered across sun-warmed skin. Her energy vibrates through the air; she can’t seem to stop moving, bouncing slightly on her toes like every moment is too exciting to stand still. Her boyfriend, Jordan, towers beside her. He’s tall, well over six feet, with deep brown skin and dimples that appear whenever he even thinks about smiling. Together they look like contrast made beautiful: Maya, a spark; Jordan, the steady flame.
“We’re Maya and Jordan,” she announces brightly, tucking herself against his side. “We’ve been together six years, since college. We’re here to—”
“—have fun,” Jordan finishes for her, grinning wide enough to show both dimples. “But come out stronger.”
They lace their fingers together, easy, unforced. Alex can’t help but believe them.
“Honestly, we just want to meet cool people,” Maya adds, eyes shining. “This whole thing’s an adventure.”
The crowd relaxes instantly with laughter and a few whoops from the singles. Even Alex finds himself smiling. They’re warm, magnetic, the kind of couple you’d want to sit next to at dinner because you know they’d make it fun. He also notes, without shame, that he’s into both of them. It’s a rare kind of chemistry: the kind that makes him wish this were a different kind of show.
The next pair steps forward, and the mood dips.
“I’m Tessa,” says the tall, red-haired woman in a flowing sundress. She’s striking in a curated way, her hair copper under the sunlight, her posture deliberate, her smile trembling only once before she reins it in. “I’m pansexual,” she says softly. “I came here because I wanted to be honest about myself. And we want to pressure-test our relationship before taking the next step.”
Beside her, Adam looks carved from stone, tanned skin, dark hair cropped close, eyes that don’t blink. His arms are folded so tightly across his chest that Alex wonders if he’s cutting off circulation.
“Adam,” he says, voice flat. “I’m straight.”
The silence lands heavy. The temperature seems to rise.
Alex watches the muscle twitch in Adam’s cheek, the way Tessa’s shoulders stay lifted as if she can hold herself upright through sheer force of will. Her smile wobbles again, practiced, polite, meant to hide the humiliation of someone who knew this might happen but hoped it wouldn’t.
The air shifts mercifully as the third couple steps up.
“We’re Chris and Lauren,” the man says, tone easy, hands stuffed in the pockets of a pineapple-print shirt. He’s broad through the shoulders, with pink skin that seems to be burning, dirty-blond hair, and the lazy smile of someone who’s never hurried a day in his life. “We’ve been together five years. I’m bi. Lauren’s straight.”
Lauren gives a practiced smile, the kind of person who color-coordinates her luggage. She’s tall, a few inches above Chris even in sandals, short blonde hair tucked behind one ear. Her white dress moves with the wind, effortless but intentional, bohemian meets boardroom.
She picks up smoothly. “We want the full experience here, so we’ve set rules. Everything but sex is fine. And we can’t go back to the same person twice.”
Chris grins wider. “Keeps it fair. And I hope you all respect those rules and keep us honest.”
There’s laughter from the singles, some genuine, some skeptical. Alex can’t help admiring their composure. They sound like both a couple and a legal team, and he can already tell they’re going to be trouble in a way that looks good on camera.
The fourth couple steps forward next, and the tone lifts again.
The woman, Sofia, is radiant—average height, warm golden skin, dark hair spilling over her shoulders, cheekbones like they could cut light. Her laugh rings across the lawn, bright and sure. “I’m Sofia,” she says, waving as if greeting old friends. “This is Cole. We’ve been together a year and a half. I’m pan, and Cole—”
“—is demi,” he finishes softly. “And interested in all genders.”
Cole is taller than her, solidly built, his presence quiet but unmissable. His skin tone rests somewhere between hers and Jordan’s, ambiguous enough that the camera won’t stop trying to label it. He has the kind of face that seems to smile even when his mouth doesn’t, a gentleness that reads instantly as safety.
Sofia threads her fingers through his, but she doesn’t lean in. Her grip is firm, almost formal, as though she’s reminding herself to make contact. “We’re here to learn more about ourselves,” she says. “To make us a stronger couple. Desearnos suerte”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alex catches a small shift, Jordan’s arm tightening behind Maya as his gaze sweeps across the lawn. It’s hard to tell what he’s looking at. Maybe the singles, maybe the other men standing beside their partners. His expression isn’t wary, exactly, but something in it sharpens.
Alex can’t read whether it’s curiosity or calculation, affection or unease. He only knows the easy warmth that filled the air a moment ago has cooled slightly, replaced by something quieter, watchful, like the first flicker of tension that doesn’t yet have a name.
Mark steps forward again, his voice slicing through the stillness. “Now,” he calls, “we’d like to introduce you to your singles.”
The sun burns low over the lagoon, turning the dock into a runway of gold and glare. A hush falls over the couples gathered at the far end—half curious, half terrified, performing composure while the sea hums at their backs.
The first few singles appear in a blur of color and confidence. Someone tosses a flower. Someone blows a kiss. Cameras pan; sunglasses tilt; whispers start. It’s performative, but beneath the showmanship, nerves gleam like sweat.
Then a woman steps into focus, tattoos spilling down both arms, the ink black and gleaming against brown skin. She walks like a metronome, heels heavy on the boards, grin wide and unbothered. “Hi,” she says, voice ringing clear over the water. “I’m Dani. I’m a lesbian, and I always get what I want… eventually.”
A ripple moves through the couples. A few of the straight men glance sideways, awkward and vaguely relieved. One of the coupled women looks like she’s trying not to smile too hard.
The next few faces blur, sunburnt, smiling, trembling with practiced charm, until a tall, sculpted man strides into the light. He’s all carved muscle and gleaming skin, shirt clinging like it was tailored for tension.
“Marcus,” he says, flashing a grin that knows exactly what it’s doing. “Let’s find out how much you men love abs.” He lifts his shirt, drags a finger up his own chest, and the dock loses its composure entirely. Laughter, cheers, a few scandalized gasps. Even Alex can’t help laughing, shaking his head. The man’s confidence is absurd, magnetic, irresistible.
A couple more introductions follow—nervous laughs, lines that sound rehearsed—and then a smaller figure steps forward. Compact, measured, eyes bright with focus.
“Devon,” they say, their tone even and low. “Non-binary and queer. I promise to be the calm before your storm.”
Their calm lands heavier than any flirtation before it, like a balm over the spectacle. One of the women exhales quietly, her shoulders dropping as if someone finally gave her permission to breathe.
Next comes a new kind of presence—solid, self-assured, familiar in the way confidence looks on someone who’s learned to earn it. A broad-shouldered man with a wicked grin and hair the color of sand.
“Name’s Wes,” he says. “I’m gay. They told me to ‘be myself,’ so consider this your warning.”
His smirk borders on dangerous, and it works. Laughter rolls through the dock, half indulgent, half disbelieving. He throws a wink at one of the women, and she hides her laugh behind her hand. Alex doesn’t have to turn to know the men are already rolling their eyes.
And then it’s his turn.
Alex steps forward, shoulders squared, smile just wide enough to pass for ease. The light catches his skin, still warm from the sun.
“Alex,” he says. “I’m newly bi, and the jury’s still out on whether I’m a good idea.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence, then someone in the crowd shouts, “Objection!”
Alex spins without missing a beat. “Overruled!” he calls back, and laughter bursts through the tension. It’s brief, but genuine.
The next figure draws attention in a quieter way. They’re thick-set and androgynous, hair cropped close, dressed in soft neutrals that catch the breeze. They move with precision—steady, unhurried, every step deliberate.
“I’m Casey,” they say, voice smooth but grounded. “They/them. I’m a nurse, and ladies, I know how to take a pulse… or raise one.”
The laughter that follows is warmer this time, appreciative rather than rowdy. One of the women covers her smile, shaking her head.
A tall man steps forward next, his skin bronzed and smooth under the sun. An open jacket hangs loose over his chest, his movements relaxed but intentional.
“Ravi,” he says, voice deep enough to still the air. “I’m pansexual, and I prefer a slow burn to a quick spark.”
It’s understated, almost tender. The words seem to travel farther than the ones before, threading through the space between water and heat.
Then a shorter woman with long, intricate braids appears, each step confident, hips swaying in rhythm. She flicks her braids over her shoulder like punctuation.
“Vanessa,” she says. “Bisexual, and flirtation is my love language.”
Her smile lands like a touch. Half the dock leans forward, the other half leans back.
A few more singles drift by, their names slipping into the background hum—someone says they’re poly, someone else claims to be “emotionally available, unfortunately.” Another trips, and the crowd breaks into laughter again.
And then, the last single.
Tall. Blond. Composed. His shirt is crisp white, collar open just enough to seem human. His posture is impeccable, an old-world kind of grace that doesn’t quite fit against the sun-bleached dock. The light hits him and turns his hair to gold. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t pose. He simply is.
“I’m Henry,” he says, his voice low and measured, each word deliberate. “I’m gay as a maypole. And I’m here in the spirit of Wilde, resisting everything except the invitation.”
For a heartbeat, no one moves. The sound of the sea fills the silence, soft and endless.
Alex feels it, not just the words, but the accent and the restraint behind it all. Something electric hums beneath his ribs before he can stop it.
The music swells, waves glint, cameras reposition. Strangers stand smiling in the sun, pretending this is the beginning of a story they don’t already know the ending to.
Mark Walberg steps forward, grin unwavering, as though none of the tension has touched him. “And there you have it!” he calls out, voice bright. “Twenty Singles. Four couples, four relationships. Singles, it’s your job to challenge them. Couples, it’s your job to resist.”
Crew members start dividing the singles into their villas, calling names one by one. The ten who are open to either gender shift uncertainly, laughter covering nerves.
When Mark calls Alex’s name for the men’s villa, he pumps a fist. It’s exactly what he came for: jumping all in with his bisexuality, no hedging, no apologies. He throws a grin at Marcus as he walks over and is met with a whoop. He claps Devon on the back once he joins the group.
From here, the men’s side looks stacked with sexy men and women, loud, and already sizing each other up. Alex can feel the adrenaline in his chest, the flicker of excitement that borders on chaos. It’s messy. It’s real.
The cameras pan down the row, catching nervous smiles, clenched fingers, eyes that won’t quite meet. Across the lawn, the couples shift, small gestures betraying unease: Maya whispering something that makes Jordan chuckle too quickly; Chris wrapping an arm around Lauren with casual precision.
Mark’s voice rises again, promising growth and challenges, but it all blurs beneath the hum of wind and water. The singles begin to move, herded gently toward their villas.
The sun beats down, bright and unrelenting, and somewhere between the laughter and the shuffle of footsteps, Alex realizes he’s already hooked—on the noise, on the chaos, and the promise of uncertainty.