5. Charlotte Gallagher
Charlotte Gallagher
The sun is already climbing by the time we leave.
The walk back is slow. Dane keeps pace with me, matching his stride to mine. He carries my bag of supplies, leaving me with only a plastic water bottle—and even that feels heavier than it should.
My leg still aches when I put my full weight on it. Not the sharp, burning pain from the bite. It’s more like a deep soreness that runs from my ankle into my calf.
Dane glances at me every few minutes. It’s subtle and easy to miss. But I don’t.
He notices when I favor one side, when my breathing shifts, or when I slow down.
“Are you all right?” It’s about the tenth time he’s asked.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t push. Just nods and keeps walking beside me. That, more than anything, feels strange.
The old Dane would’ve mouthed off with impatience in that clipped tone he used when he was annoyed. This version of him just remains patient.
And the silence between us isn’t the same anymore.
It used to feel dangerous, like something inside it might cut if you got too close. Now it’s different—cautious, almost hesitant, like we’re both circling something we don’t know how to navigate.
I still don’t fully remember the worst of the fever. Just fragments.
Heat. Darkness. The feeling of being held.
A voice that sounded like Dane’s, saying things he would never actually say.
Don’t leave me.
I can’t do this without you.
I love you.
Every time it comes back to me, it feels less like a memory and more like something I imagined. Because Dane doesn’t plead.
And he definitely doesn’t say he loves me.
I study him as we walk, trying to piece together what happened when he found me.
Something about him has shifted. He seems softer around the edges. Less guarded.
Maybe nearly dying changed something in both of us.
My foot catches on a root hidden beneath the sand. I stumble, probably more from fatigue than anything else. Dane is beside me in an instant, his hand closing around my elbow.
“Easy.”
Not long ago, he would’ve let me fall just to prove a point—and laughed while I picked myself back up.
“I’m fine.” But the strain in my voice tells a different story.
His gaze flicks over my face, then drops to my leg. “You’re limping more.”
“I can still walk.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last ten minutes.”
I pull out of his grip, trying to prove I can keep going on my own. My leg throbs in protest, and my breath catches before I can disguise it. “See? I’m fine.”
Dane’s expression shifts, but not into his usual irritation or frustration. It looks more like concern.
“Liar.”
Before I can say anything else, he shifts what he’s carrying into one hand and bends down.
“What are you doing?”
He gives me a look that says isn’t that obvious.
And it is.
“You’re not walking the rest of the way.”
“Dane—”
“Charlotte.”
My name comes out firm enough that it should stop whatever argument I was about to make. It doesn’t. “You can’t carry me.”
“Try and stop me.”
He slides one arm behind my back, the other beneath my knees, and lifts me like it’s nothing. A startled breath slips out as I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding on. His grip is solid, effortless—like carrying me doesn’t cost him anything at all.
“Trying to do this on your own is admirable, but it’s clear you’re struggling. It’s only been a few days since you were bitten by one of the most dangerous things on this island. You’re bloody lucky you made it through that. You’ve got every right to still be weak. There’s no shame in it.”
“I wanted to prove I could take care of myself, and all I did was prove I couldn’t.”
“That’s not true. Not even a little. You’re the strongest person I know.”
“I’m the only person you currently know.”
He huffs out a quiet breath. “Well… I can’t argue with that.”
Beneath the embarrassment—beneath the weakness I hate him seeing—something new takes hold inside me.
Ease.
For years, being near Dane meant bracing myself. Watching what I said. Waiting for the next sharp look, the next cold silence, the next reminder that he hated me.
But like this—held against him—something new stirs inside me, and I don’t understand it.
I hate how easy it is to settle here in his arms. And I really hate that some part of me doesn’t want him to let go.
He adjusts his grip when the path narrows, holding me closer against him.
Heat rushes to my face.
It’s just because I’m weak and almost died. Because everything still feels off.
That’s what I tell myself.
“Let me know if your leg starts hurting more. We can stop if we need to.”
“I’m okay.”
We fall quiet again, and my thoughts drift back to the dreams.
“Did I say anything?”
Dane keeps his eyes ahead. “When?”
“When I was in and out of it.”
His jaw tightens. “You had a high fever. You weren’t making much sense.”
I wait, hoping he’ll say more, but he doesn’t.
There was more. I know there was. But my only memories are fragments, blurred at the edges, like something half-lost.
Charlotte… I’m so sorry.
You don’t get to leave me out here.
Stay with me.
I look away from him, focusing on the trees instead, unsettled by the way my pulse has started to pick up—for reasons that have nothing to do with fever now.
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe, for one delirious moment, I wanted to believe that losing me would matter to him.
The thought is embarrassing.
By the time the familiar stretch of shoreline comes into view, I’m more tired than I want to admit.
Seeing the camp again should feel simple. Instead, it feels like I left this place as one person and came back as someone else.
Dane sets me down. His hand lingers at my elbow a second longer than necessary, making sure I’m steady before he lets go.
He’s different now—attentive and careful. Like I matter in a way I didn’t before. And for the first time since I left, I let myself consider that maybe coming back won’t be as bad as I thought.
“Do you want to wash up? It might help you feel better.”
I glance down. My clothes are stiff with sweat and dirt, and the sour trace of fever still clings to my skin.
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
The thought of sinking into cool water is suddenly all I want.
The path curves toward the lagoon, the trees thinning as the sound of water grows louder. The freshwater pool we use for bathing is fed by a narrow stream spilling down from the rocks above, hidden in the jungle and separate from the ocean.
Dane slows at the edge of the clearing. “Will you be okay if I leave you here?”
I look toward the water, sunlight catching across the surface. “I think so.”
He studies me for a moment. “You’re sure?”
I grin a little at his concern. “I’m sure.”
He hesitates, like he’s still weighing whether it’s safe for me, then nods. “I’ll be at camp if you need anything.”
He turns to go, but pauses before disappearing into the trees. “Wait a minute.”
A moment later, he’s back—just long enough to set something on the flat rock near the water.
A towel.
He doesn’t mention it. Just leaves it there and walks away.
I watch him disappear through the palms. What’s gotten into him?
For years, Dane barely spoke to me unless he had to. Now he’s carrying me around and leaving towels.
I shake my head and turn toward the water, not sure what to make of this version of him. Whatever’s going on, I can’t pretend I don’t like it.
The water is cooler than I expect when I step into the pool, and it sends a quiet shiver up my spine as I wade deeper. The heat of the day—and whatever’s left of the fever—fades the farther I go.
When the water reaches my waist, I sink down until it laps at my shoulders.
For a moment, I stand there. The ache in my leg eases, the tightness loosening little by little.
I duck under, letting the water wash over my head. When I come back up, damp strands of hair cling to my face and neck. I push them back and lean into the water, letting it take some of my weight while the dirt and sweat of the last few days rinse away.
By the time I step out, my body feels lighter than it has since the bite.
Almost like myself again.
I dry off, wrapping the towel around my shoulders as the last of the water drips from my arms. When I reach for my clothes, I stop. They’re filthy, stiff from sweat, and reek of it.
I stare at them for a moment, then it hits me—my clean clothes are still back at camp.
A quiet breath slips out as I shake my head. In my rush to wash off, it never even crossed my mind.
The thought of pulling them back on makes my stomach turn.
No. Not after finally feeling clean again.
I tighten the towel around myself, tucking it securely under my arms, then start back toward the shelter.
I smell it before I see him—coconut and crushed flowers.
Dane is crouched beside the fire pit, a pot set near the flames.
“What’s that?”
He glances at it. “It’s a pot of that infused water you like. I was just warming it up. Thought you might want to rinse your hair with it.”
I lean closer, breathing it in. It’s definitely coconut and the small pink flowers that grow along the ridge behind the lagoon.
My favorite.
I glance at him. “Did I smell that bad?”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “You weren’t your freshest. But I also thought this might help you feel better.”
I study him for a second, still a little thrown by his effort.
“I made it the way you do.”
“I see that.” A small laugh slips out. “I didn’t think you ever noticed.”
He looks up then. “I noticed.”
Those two words matter more than they should. And suddenly, I don’t know what to say.
“I made it after you left, thinking it could be a peace offering for when you came back. But you didn’t return.”
A peace offering. From him. The idea catches me off guard more than anything else he’s said. Dane doesn’t do things like that—doesn’t soften, doesn’t reach first. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what it means.
“It’s been sitting for a few days,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Stronger than usual. I think you’ll like it.”
His eyes flick to mine for a second before he clears his throat and looks back down at the pot.
“Did bathing help you feel better?”
“Much. Thank you.”
Then I notice a stack of my clothes, clean and neatly folded, waiting for me. I stare at them for a moment before it sinks in—Dane washed them while I was gone.
That he’d do something like that for me—after I left—only adds to my confusion.
He dips his finger into the water in the pot. “Perfect temperature.”
“I’m going to smell so good after this,” I say, reaching for the pot.
“You’re still recovering. I think it’ll be easier if I help you.”
I hesitate for a second, then nod. “Okay. Thank you.”
I move to the flat rock and sit with my back to him as he steps in behind me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then he picks up one of the empty coconut shells and dips it into the pot.
“Lean back a little.”
I do. “Like this?”
“Yeah, that’s perfect.”
The first pour is slow and careful. Warm water runs over my head, through my hair, carrying the scent with it.
It feels really good. Soothing.
The warmth spreads down my neck and across my shoulders as his fingers move through my hair, separating the strands. It drips down my back, soaking into the towel, but I don’t care.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet splash of water and the low crackle of the fire. My eyes drift closed without thinking, drawn into the quiet comfort of it.
He pours another shellful, working through my blond curls again with the same careful focus.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m more than okay.”
More water spills over me, the scent lingering, and his fingers move through my hair and over my scalp.
It’s such a small thing—rinsing my hair. But he’s never touched me like this. In fact, I’d have to think hard to remember him ever touching me at all before a few days ago.
“You came for me. What were you going to say… before you found me like that?”
A pause.
“Pretty much what I said after. I was going to ask you to come home.”
Home. That does something to me.
“Thank you for coming.”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Yeah.” I huff a soft laugh. “Me too.”
A few drops slide down my face, and he brushes them away with his thumb. The touch is brief, barely there, but something in my chest pulls tight.
I glance up at him. His hand stills in my hair as our eyes meet. For a second, neither of us moves. Something shifts in his expression—something I can’t quite place. Then he clears his throat and reaches for the pot again, like the moment didn’t happen at all.
When I shift, my leg protests, and my balance tips just enough in the wrong direction. Before I can catch myself, his arm wraps around me. My back presses against his chest as he steadies me.
It only lasts a second—maybe two—but I’m suddenly aware of how close he is, how easily he caught me, the solid warmth of him, the way his body fits against mine.
My heartbeat kicks.
“You’re still a little unsteady.”
He lets go as soon as I’m upright again. I pull away a little too fast, tucking damp hair behind my ear.
“I’m fine.”
He pours another shellful of water over my hair, his fingers moving through it again with the same quiet care. And somehow that makes it worse because now I can’t stop noticing everything.
Heat creeps up my neck. Because this is ridiculous.
He’s been decent to me for a few days, and suddenly my brain decides to spin it into something else. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
I stare at the sky, trying to ignore the way my pulse won’t settle.
It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse.
What the hell is wrong with me?