They sit side-by-side in front of the merrily sparking fire.
His arm is not tucked loosely around her shoulders. Their hands don't brush lightly between them, and her thigh does not ever so casually rest against his. They're not sitting so close that their bodies might as well be fused together, and her head does not lean into the crook of his shoulder. They don't gaze for eternity into one another's eyes.
They're sitting a good six inches apart, staring out at the ocean. But it's dark, and there's nothing there to stare at, so they listen for the steady, relentless slap of water on sand and they strain their eyes for a glimpse of white foam on the crest of a wave.
They don't make light, chatty small-talk, and it's not because they can't, it's because there's no point in it. There's no reason to do what strangers do in the real world because this isn't the real world, no matter how much everyone wants to pretend it is. She doesn't tell him all about what she did today, because he already knows. He doesn't try to get her to talk about what happened before the crash, because he's learned it's an uphill struggle, and right now they're both too tired to deal with anything that's less than essential to their current situation. Yet the lack of dialogue is not a romantic "you say it best when you say nothing at all" type of thing, either.
It's just calm, and serene, and it gives both a new definition of comfortable silence. He wonders what she's thinking, but he sets the thought aside. She's probably thinking a lot of the same things as him, about the island and their fellow castaways and the rescue boats that aren't coming, and maybe she too has thought how bizarre it is that they've only known each other for three days and they've already become a pair in the minds of everyone else. Attached at the hip; they have become "Jack and Kate." A duo. A team.
They aren't partaking in sparkling conversation, or laughing at each other's stupid jokes, or sharing insights about life. They don't pretend to be looking into one another's souls, because they don't need the meaningless clichés, just firelight and a little companionship.
He finally tells her he's going to bed, and it comes out soft, a whisper, but he doesn't know why. Half of the group is still awake and there's no one sleeping near them. She nods, and he leans in and gently kisses her cheek, because sometimes clichés aren't all that bad.
They're just waiting now, waiting for something to happen, and breathing doesn't count.