10. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
Something has shifted with Charlotte.
At first it was subtle—the kind of change you almost miss, like the tide inching its way in. Then one day you look up and realize everything’s sitting in a different place than it was before.
She disappears for long stretches now. Not far—never far enough that I think she’s hurt or lost somewhere in the jungle—but long enough that I’ll glance up from whatever I’m doing and notice she’s been gone a while.
When she comes back, she always has a book.
Most days she settles in the shade outside the shelter, legs stretched out in the sand, hair falling forward as she reads. She turns the pages slowly, like she doesn’t want to miss a thing.
The chores are starting to pile up.
I don’t say anything. I just pick up the extra work—gathering fruit, checking traps, hauling water from the stream. It’s all routine by now, muscle memory more than effort.
And if reading makes her happy, I’m not going to take that away from her. There aren’t many things left on this island that bring joy.
She went back to the yacht yesterday. When she returned, there was another book tucked under her arm. I caught a glimpse of the cover before she flipped it over—two people standing very close, the kind of story you can probably predict from the image.
Romance.
I try not to think about that.
Instead, I focus on the driftwood in my hands, splitting it beside the fire pit. I keep an eye on her across the clearing. She’s tucked beneath the palms, completely absorbed in that book.
She used to roam the island with me—climbing the ridge, swimming in the lagoon, wandering through the jungle looking for anything that broke up the sameness of the days.
Now she reads for hours at a time. Every so often she bites her lip and turns another page, like something important is about to happen if she just keeps going.
I wipe the back of my wrist across my forehead and look away before she catches me staring.
Whatever she’s finding in those books has her attention in a way nothing else here ever has.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
My thoughts drift back to the yacht more often than they should. Not the boat itself but what happened the day I saw her in that dress.
My brain didn’t register what I was looking at.
Then it did.
This is the Charlotte I’ve spent the last eight years ignoring.
She looked grown.
Of course I already knew she was a woman. We’re both adults now. But knowing it and actually seeing it are two very different things—and that dress made it impossible to ignore.
She looked good. Really good. Even now, thinking about it makes my jaw tighten.
I stood there, like an idiot, my brain completely blank. She said something to me—I couldn’t tell you what. All I could focus on was the way the sunlight caught in her hair, the way the fabric moved when she stepped closer.
That was the moment I knew I needed to get out of there. So I did. I turned around and left before I did something I couldn’t take back.
Night is the only time she isn’t reading. Which means evenings are the only chance I get to have her to myself.
We sit across from each other on the sand, the fire between us throwing slow, flickering light across the clearing. Charlotte is focused on one of the crabs we caught earlier, cracking the shell with a rock while the rest cooks.
The book rests beside her knee, closed for once.
I glance at it, then back at her. “So,” I say, nudging a stick deeper into the fire, “how many of those have you gone through now?”
She looks up. “For someone who doesn’t care, you seem to be keeping track.”
“Hard not to notice.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. A few.”
“Only a few?”
She hesitates, then lifts one shoulder. “Maybe more like five.”
I let out a quiet laugh. “Only five?”
She looks down. “They’re just something different to do.”
“Hey, I’m not judging. If you like ‘em, you like ‘em.”
I nod toward the book next to her. “What is that one about?”
She stills for a second, then focuses her attention on the crab.
“Sorry.”
I frown. “For what?”
“For the books… and not helping as much lately.” She keeps working as she talks, tapping at the shell. “I know I’ve been slacking on the chores.”
“Charlotte, it’s fine.”
“But you’ve been doing most of the work.”
“So?”
She finally looks up at me. “So it’s not fair.”
I shrug, nudging a piece of driftwood deeper into the fire with my foot. “The island’s not going anywhere. The chores will get done.”
“But still—”
“Hey.” I cut her off, softer this time. “If reading makes you happy, then read.”
She studies me for a second, then smiles. “I enjoy it very much.”
Out here, there aren’t many things left that feel new. Most days are just work and routine and trying not to think too hard about everything we lost. If she’s found something that breaks up the monotony, good for her.
“The stories are exciting. I like them.”
I nod toward the book beside her knee. “So tell me about that one.”
She stills. “Umm… it’s about… umm people.”
“People,” I echo.
“Doing things.”
I wait for more information, but I get nothing. “People doing things. Okay.”
“Emotional things.” Then, after a beat, “And… physical things.”
I watch her for a second, but she still doesn’t expand. “Sounds thrilling.”
She glances at me, then away again. “I don’t know how to explain them.”
“Maybe I should read one and see what I’m missing.”
Charlotte nearly drops the crab. “No.”
The answer comes out so fast it almost makes me laugh.
Her eyes widen. “I mean… you wouldn’t like them.”
“Why not?”
“They’re just… not your kind of books.”
“We’ve been stuck on this island for eight years. I’m not sure I even have a kind of book anymore.”
She opens her mouth, clearly searching for a better explanation, then gives up and shakes her head. “They’re more for women. That’s probably the best way to put it.”
I study her for another second, then let it go. “All right. I’ll leave the books to you.”
She exhales like she’s just dodged something. And for some reason, that only makes me more curious about what the hell she’s been reading.
The fire burns down to glowing embers.
“Guess that’s it for today,” she says.
“Yeah. Another day down.”
Nothing about our routine has changed in years.
She settles onto her mat a few seconds before I do. I hear the faint rustle of fabric as she shifts, getting comfortable, and then the shelter goes still.
I close my eyes and immediately see her in that dress. The way the fabric moved. The way the light caught in her hair. The way my brain stopped working the second I saw her.
I drag my hands down my face.
This is impossible. Completely, unbelievably impossible. She’s beside me, only a few feet away, breathing quietly in the dark.
And wanting her makes me, without question, the unluckiest man alive.
After hours of tossing, I drift off. But it’s not real sleep. Out here, your body never fully relaxes.
Usually it’s the island that wakes me—wind shifting, rain starting, waves hitting harder when the tide turns. Tonight, it’s something else.
At first, I think I imagined it. A dream, maybe. Then it happens again.
A soft sound this time—barely there. A quiet, uneven breath that carries through the thin divider between us.
Charlotte.
I push myself up onto one elbow and listen. For a moment there’s nothing but the low hum of insects outside, the steady rhythm of the island at night.
Then—another sound.
Faint. Breathy.
My first thought is that she’s having a nightmare. It wouldn’t be the first time. We’ve both had them over the years—waking up too fast, breathing too hard, caught somewhere we can’t get out of.
“Charlotte.”
No answer.
Another soft sound drifts through.
I swing my legs over the side of the mat and stand, moving around the divider. She’s curled on her side, the blanket twisted around her legs.
“Charlotte,” I say again, kneeling as I reach down to touch her shoulder.
She shifts under my hand.
“Ah, Dane—”
My hand stills.
Her eyes open slowly. She blinks up at me, still not fully there.
“You’re okay. It was just a bad dream.”
She looks at me for a second, blinking. “It wasn’t a bad dream.” Then she sits up. “It was a really good dream.”
“Sorry for waking you then. It sounded like you were having a nightmare.”
What kind of dream would make her say my name the way she did?
Before I can ask, her hand comes up, sliding behind my neck, and she pulls me down.
My hand hits the mat beside her to steady myself, the space between us collapsing in an instant.
And then her mouth is on mine.
I freeze. For a single, fractured second, everything in me stops. My thoughts scatter, nothing lining up, nothing making sense.
And for a brief, dizzy moment, all I can do is feel it—the shock of it, the pull of it, the impossible weight of something I’ve spent so long refusing to even think about.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, and the kiss is nothing like anything I ever let myself imagine. There’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. She kisses me like she’s already decided—like she knows exactly what she wants.
Heat surges through me, sudden and overwhelming, too much to contain.
Something in me gives way. Years of distance, of shutting things down before they could take shape, of refusing to even think about her like this. It all snaps at once.
My chest tightens, my pulse slamming hard enough to make me dizzy. Beneath it, something deeper stirs—hunger, old and buried, starved enough to feel dangerous now that it’s awake.
Then her hand shifts at the back of my neck, her thumb brushing against my skin, and the feeling hits harder.
My cock reacts before I can stop it, before I can even think. Desire drops low and suddenly I’m aware of everything—how close we are, how easily she could feel exactly what she’s doing to me.
How little control I have left.
Want coils tightly. And it’s made worse by the fact that she’s pulling me closer.
I kiss her back. There’s no decision in it. No restraint. My hand slides into her hair, fingers tightening at the nape of her neck as I pull her closer.