4. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
For a second, everything just… stops. Charlotte isn’t moving.
“Charlotte.”
Nothing.
Her leg is stretched out at an awkward angle, one hand slack against the dirt, her head tipped to the side. Sweat dampens her hair at the temples. Her skin looks off—too pale beneath the heat, like the color’s been pulled somewhere deeper, out of reach.
My pulse spikes. Then I see it.
The swelling starts above her heel, climbing up her ankle, the skin tight and angry around two small punctures.
Sea snake. Venomous.
The realization hits hard and immediate.
“Dammit.”
I drop beside her and press my fingers to her neck.
There. A pulse—too fast and weak, but there.
Her breathing is shallow enough to make something sharp twist in my chest. I force myself to slow down, focus, then glance at the strip of cloth tied above the bite.
She tried.
Of course she did.
I loosen it slightly—just enough to keep the blood moving—then check the wound again. The swelling’s already bad.
Too bad.
How long has she been like this?
“Charlotte.” I tap her cheek. “Open your eyes.”
Nothing at first. Then her lashes flicker. Relief hits harder than I expect.
Her eyes open partway, unfocused. They move over my face without settling, like she can’t quite place what she’s seeing.
“Hey.” My voice comes out rough. “Look at me.”
It takes effort, but her gaze finally finds mine. She just stares.
Her lips part. No sound at first. She swallows, tries again.
“I…” The word barely forms. “I tried…”
I lean closer, one hand braced beside her shoulder. “Don’t talk.”
But she pushes through it anyway, the words breaking apart as they come.
“I tried… to stay…” Her eyes drift shut, then open again with effort. “Out of your way.”
Everything in me goes still.
The jungle, the heat, the noise in my head—gone.
I tried to stay out of your way.
That’s what she thought.
Not anger. Not defiance. She left because she thought I wanted her gone. Because she thought she was making things worse just by being here.
My stomach drops, and I hear my words to her again.
Then go. I don’t care.
I told her to leave. And she did.
“Charlotte…” My voice catches. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes are already slipping shut again.
“No.” I slide an arm behind her shoulders and pull her up before she can slump sideways into the dirt. She’s too hot. Too limp. “No—stay with me.”
Her head falls against my chest. For a second, she doesn’t react at all. Then panic hits hard enough to make my hands unsteady.
“Charlotte.” I tighten my hold on her. “Look at me.”
She makes a faint sound, somewhere between a breath and a protest.
“That’s it.” I barely recognize my own voice. “Stay with me.”
She shifts weakly against me, heat pouring off her through the thin fabric of her shirt. My gaze drops to her leg—the swelling climbing higher—and something inside me starts to fracture.
I should have come sooner. I should have gone after her the second she left. Instead, I stood there and let her walk away because I was too stubborn to move.
Now she’s barely conscious in my arms, and every second I hesitated feels like it’s lodged in my chest.
Her lips brush my shirt as she tries to speak. I almost miss it.
“Sorry.”
Something in me snaps.
“Don’t.” It comes out sharper than I mean. I force my voice down. “Don’t do that.”
Her brow tightens, like she doesn’t understand.
“You don’t apologize for this.” My hand slides to the back of her neck, holding her steady when her head starts to slip. “Do you hear me?”
No response. Maybe she can’t. But I keep going anyway, the words dragging out of me before I can stop them.
“Why would you think I wanted this?”
Her breathing stutters, shallow and uneven.
I press my forehead briefly to her hair, closing my eyes for a second.
Because I made her think it.
Because I let her believe it.
My chest tightens.
“Stay with me,” I say, quieter now. “Charlotte, stay awake.”
Her fingers curl weakly against my side, then fall still.
And suddenly, there’s no room left for denial. This isn’t guilt. Not habit. Not obligation.
I can’t lose her.
The thought hits hard enough to strip everything else away—the anger, the distance, all of it.
I can’t lose her.
“Charlotte…” My voice breaks, and I don’t care. “I can’t do this without you. I love you.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
They hang there, raw and final.
Her eyes flutter once, but if she hears me, there’s no sign.
I pull her closer, holding her like I can keep her here by force.
“You don’t get to do this,” I say against her hair, panic rising sharper now. “You don’t get to leave me.”
Her breathing turns shallow again.
Too shallow.
Cold fear settles in.
I tighten my grip and look down at her face, like I can pull her back just by refusing to let go.
“Charlotte.” My voice isn’t steady anymore. “Stay with me.”
Nothing.
And for the first time since Ryan died, I understand what real fear feels like.
The first thing I notice is her hand. It twitches. Just a slight curl of her fingers against the mat—but after days of stillness, it’s enough to make me freeze.
For a second, I think I imagined it.
I’ve been sitting here too long, watching her chest rise and fall, listening to every uneven breath like it might stop at any moment. Sleep comes in short bursts, never deep enough to last before something drags me back up.
So when her hand shifts again, I lean forward, my focus snapping to her face.
“Charlotte?”
No answer.
Her leg is stretched out in front of her, wrapped in the bandage I changed this morning. The swelling has gone down some, the angry red fading into darker bruising along her ankle and calf. I’ve kept the wound clean, rinsing it again and again until the heat finally eased.
The fever broke yesterday, but she didn’t wake up.
Her fingers move again.
Then her lashes flutter.
My chest tightens so sharply I forget to breathe.
I lean closer, brushing damp hair back from her forehead before pressing two fingers lightly to her neck.
There.
A pulse.
Still weak—but steady.
Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, like she’s surfacing from somewhere deep. They drift across the shelter roof, the woven palm leaves overhead, then toward the light spilling in through the trees.
It takes a moment before they land on me.
She blinks.
Confusion settles across her face as she studies me, like she’s trying to figure out where she is—or maybe who I am.
I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping the edge of the mat until my knuckles start to ache.
“Hey.” My voice comes out rough.
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
“Dane?”
Hearing my name from her pulls at something I’ve been trying not to feel. Relief follows before I can stop it.
“Yeah.” I lean in a little closer. “It’s me.”
Her eyes drift around the shelter again, slower now. She takes in the bandage on her leg, the cloth under her head, the supplies stacked nearby.
Then she looks back at me.
“What… happened?”
Her voice is thin, dry. I reach for the water beside her and slide an arm behind her shoulders before she can try to sit up.
“Easy.” I lift her just enough. “Don’t move too fast.”
She takes a small sip, then another, swallowing carefully before easing back down.
For a moment, she just lies there, breathing. Then her eyes find mine again. Something uncertain flickers in them.
“I thought I died.”
I drag a hand over the back of my neck, letting out a slow breath.
“Yeah,” I say. “There were a few times I thought you did too.”
Her brow tightens.
“Your pulse got so weak I could barely find it.” My voice stays low, steady, even though the memory still twists something cold in my chest. “You stopped responding for a while.”
Charlotte watches me, taking it in.
“Did we say anything?”
The words hit before I can stop them.
I tried to stay out of your way.
But it’s mine that stick.
I can’t do this without you. I love you.
I keep it off my face.
“You were out of it most of the time,” I say.
She studies me for another second, then seems to accept it. Some of the tension leaves her shoulders as she settles back against the mat.
The silence that follows isn’t the same as before.
Not tight. Not strained.
Just… quiet.
I shift a little closer, resting my forearms on my knees.
“You scared me,” I say after a moment.
She looks over, surprised, and then guilt flickers across her face.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” I shake my head. “Don’t do that. No apology.”
She goes quiet again. I take a breath.
“Come back with me.”
Charlotte blinks. “What?”
“Come home.” I nod toward the trees. “When you’re strong enough to walk.”
She studies me, like she’s waiting for more.
“Things are going to be different.”
Her brow furrows. “Different how?”
I glance away, dragging a hand across my face before answering.
“No more fighting. No more blaming you for things that weren’t your fault.”
The words feel unfamiliar, but they come easier than I expect.
“And I’m not treating you like you’re the problem anymore.”
Something in my chest loosens as soon as I say it.
“You almost died, Charlotte.” I meet her eyes again. “That changes things.”
She holds my gaze for a long moment.
Then she nods.
“Okay.”
For the first time in years, there’s nothing strained between us.