#thejungle

Aitch squints at him. “You’ve said that like it’s meant to be exciting.”

“It is,” Dec adds cheerfully. The outfits arrive like a threat.

Capes. Tight shorts. Colours so bold they feel personal. Aitch emerges first and Ally actually has to grab Morgan’s arm to stay upright. Red cape. Red shorts. Painted on. No mercy.

“I am no longer Aitch,” he declares. “For the cyclone, I am the Red Hot Chilli Stepper.”

Tom wheezes. “You cannot name yourself that.”

“I just did.”

Tom’s next. Blue cape snapping dramatically, blue shorts sitting dangerously low. He strikes a surfer pose without irony.

“The Sapphire Surfer,” he says calmly. “I ride the waves of chaos.”

“You slipped over walking out of the bog yesterday,” Ally points out.

“Waves,” Tom replies solemnly.

Then Morgan steps out.

Orange. All orange. Cape flowing. Shorts offensively tight. A man dressed like a high-vis warning sign with confidence issues.

He spreads his arms. “The Pumpkin."

Aitch squints. “You look like a pumpkin that’s found self-belief.” Morgan grins.

Ally comes out last.

Silver cape catching the light. Silver shorts glinting like armour. The jungle seems to pause, even if it’s just in her head.

“The Sapphire Songstress,” she announces, lifting her chin.

Morgan’s grin shifts. Softens. Something quieter underneath it.

“Yeah,” he says, almost to himself. “That fits.” They line up, capes flapping, nerves buzzing.

The cyclone hits like a physical argument. Wind screaming. Water slamming. Foam balls flying with intent. Ally yelps when the first blast takes her sideways, laughter ripping out of her before she can stop it.

“THIS IS AGGRESSIVE.”

Aitch is howling, sliding, shouting his own nickname every time he manages to land.

“RED HOT CHILLI STEPPER DOES NOT FALL.”

Morgan plants himself instinctively between Ally and the worst of the blast, arm braced like he can square up to weather.

“You good?” he shouts.

She nods, soaked, hair plastered to her face, eyes bright. “Don’t you dare let go.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

Tom wipes out spectacularly, skidding across the floor on his stomach.

“I’M SURFING,” he yells anyway. They fight. They slip. They laugh until their ribs hurt.

When the horn finally sounds and the cyclone dies, they’re wrecked. Drenched. Shaking with adrenaline.

Ant grins. “Congratulations, campmates. You’ve won yourselves a feast.”

Aitch drops to his knees. “I would like to thank my red shorts and my delusion.”

That night feels unreal. Food keeps coming. Real food. Plates piled high. Silence broken only by satisfied noises and the occasional stunned laugh. Ally eats until she has to physically stop herself.

“I’m… full,” she says, incredulous.

Morgan leans closer. “Say that again, slower.”

She nudges him with her knee. “Don’t ruin this for me.” They sit shoulder to shoulder, capes long forgotten, warmth replacing the ache that’s lived in her chest all week.

Aitch raises his mug. “To the final four,” he says. “Mental.” They clink cups. Laugh too loudly. Talk over each other. Stay up longer than they should.

For a few hours, the jungle gives instead of takes. Night settles kind. Ally falls asleep fuller than she’s been in days. Food in her stomach. Morgan’s presence steady beside her. The fire behaving, just this once.

Morning comes far too quickly after such a nice night. Ant and Dec step into camp while the air is still cool and everyone’s movements are slow.

“Campmates,” Ant says gently. “The public have been voting.” Ally’s stomach drops like it remembers before she does. Aitch goes very still.

“The campmate leaving today is… Aitch.”

For a moment, no one reacts.

Then Aitch lets out a breathy laugh. “Fair enough.”

Hugs happen fast but they’re heavier now, full of last things.

Aitch pulls Ally into a fierce squeeze. “You don’t shrink now,” he murmurs. “Promise me.” She nods against his shoulder, throat tight.

He grabs Morgan next, knocking their foreheads together. “Final three,” he says. “Go on then, Pumpkin.”

Morgan’s smile wobbles. “Go be loud somewhere else.” When Aitch walks away, the space he leaves feels immediate.

Final three.

Ally sits hard on her log, staring at the ground.

Tom exhales slowly. “This is mad.” Morgan reaches for Ally’s hand without thinking, fingers threading through hers like they’ve done it a thousand times already. She squeezes back.

“We’re still here,” he says quietly.

She nods. “We are.”