14. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
Morning comes the way it always does.
I wake before she does. That hasn’t changed. My body still pulls itself awake before the light is fully up, some habit that never learned how to switch off.
I lie there for a second, running through the usual check. Wind. Temperature. The quiet tally of what it takes to stay alive out here.
Then Charlotte shifts against me, and my daily routine slips.
She makes a soft sound—half sigh, half complaint—and turns into me without waking. Her hair falls across my shoulder. Her hand rests loose against my ribs.
I look down at her in the gray light and think about the fact that by tonight, she’ll be my wife. Maybe it’s a title no one else will ever recognize, but out here, we’re the only people it has to matter to.
Carefully, I ease out from under her and start on the day’s chores.
Charlotte joins me not long after, her hair still messy from sleep as she kneels beside the fire pit to get it going again. We fall into our usual rhythm. I climb up to reinforce part of the roof while she crouches near the fire, cutting fruit and prepping fish for later.
I’ve built a lot on this island—shelters, traps, tools. Things meant to keep us alive.
Today, I’m making something else. And somehow, it matters even more.
Charlotte disappears into the trees to gather flowers, and I pull out the shell I found this morning before she woke. It’s pinkish-white with a soft pearled sheen along the inside that catches the light every time I turn it in my hand.
I already know what I want it to look like.
I start carving, working slowly, so the shell doesn’t crack beneath the knife.
I shape the top into a flower like the ones she always tucks into her hair near the waterfall.
The detail work is tedious, but my hands are steadier than people would probably expect.
I’ve spent years making things out here.
If I’m being honest, I’m good with my hands.
The shaping takes time—grinding the shell, checking the curve against my finger, smoothing rough edges, starting over whenever something feels off.
My hands were built for survival work. Carrying weight. Climbing cliffs. Pulling nets from the ocean.
This is different. It takes patience instead of force. So I take my time. And little by little, the ring starts becoming something real.
Eventually the shape comes together, the flower carved cleanly into the top, the pale sheen catching softly along the edges.
Then I turn it in my hand.
It isn’t perfect, but it’s from the heart—my heart. Made from something the island gave us and shaped by my hands for her. Somehow that matters more than anything I could’ve bought.
I wrap it and set it aside before heading toward the trees to find the wood I’ll need.
The wedding arch comes together quickly. It’s really just pieces of driftwood, the two uprights driven deep into the sand with a third stretched across the top. The wood is pale and worn smooth from years in the ocean, twisted slightly in places from salt and weather.
I test it—push, pull, lean my weight into it—until I’m sure it won’t give. Only then do I step back and admire it.
Charlotte comes through the trees with her arms full of flowers and stops when she sees it.
She just stands there for a second.
Her eyes flick to mine. “Perfect. Like everything else you build.”
“Not much to it. Just some driftwood I found on the beach.”
“I love it. Thank you.”
My gaze drops to the flowers in her arms. “It’ll look even better once you’re done with it.”
Charlotte moves with easy focus, weaving flowers and greenery through the frame like she already knows exactly where everything belongs. Adjusting one piece here, shifting another there.
She’s always been good at things like this—making rough things prettier.
When she finishes, she steps back to study it for a second, makes one last adjustment, then brushes her hands together.
“Everything’s ready. We can get dressed now.” She waves a hand toward the shelter. “That means scoot. You can’t see the bride before the wedding.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her all day, but I don’t argue.
I head back toward the shelter and change into the suit I found on the yacht. It was sealed up and untouched, the navy still dark in a way most things out here don’t survive.
It fits well enough through the shoulders, but not through the waist. The jacket pulls where it shouldn’t.
It wasn’t made for me. Dad was shorter. Leaner than I am.
When I return to the beach, Charlotte’s voice carries from just inside the trees. “Go stand by the water, and don’t turn around.”
“Charlotte—”
“Don’t, Dane. I mean it. I need a few more minutes.”
Obeying my soon-to-be wife feels like the smart thing to do. I stop at the edge of the water with my back to the trees, staring out at the horizon.
“No peeking.”
“I’m not peeking.”
Time stretches.
Then—
“You can turn around.”
I do.
Charlotte is walking toward the arch. The dress she’s wearing is white, but it’s not the one I found her trying on before. This one falls long and soft around her body, the fabric loose and flowing in the ocean breeze.
Like me, she’s wearing clothes that belonged to someone else. But it fits her perfectly in all the ways that matter.
Her hair is loosely pinned up, threaded with small white flowers. She carries a bundle of greenery and blooms in her hands.
She’s a beautiful bride.
My bride.
I step forward to meet her beneath the arch, and somewhere in the space between us, I forget how to breathe.
I’ve looked at Charlotte Gallagher more times than I can count. Watched her grow up out here. Watched her laugh and cry and survive. None of it prepared me for this.
I stop beneath the arch as she reaches me, closing the last of the distance between us.
“Hi,” she says softly.
“Hi.”
She smiles, and something in my chest loosens.
“Do you want me to go first?”
Charlotte nods once, her flowers clutched loosely in front of her.
I take a breath, trying to remember how weddings are supposed to sound. We only have pieces of it, fragments from ceremonies we sat through when we were kids. Half-remembered words from another life.
“I, uh…” A nervous laugh slips out of me. “I take you, Charlotte, to be my wife.”
Her mouth curves upward at that.
I keep my eyes on hers.
“To love you. Take care of you. Stay with you.” I shake my head a little. “I don’t remember how the rest goes, so I’m just going to say my own.”
A soft laugh escapes her.
“I choose you. Not because there’s no one else. Because there isn’t anyone else I want.”
The wind shifts around us, lifting the loose blond strands around her face and brushing them across her cheeks.
“I’ll always protect you. I’ll stand between you and anything that tries to hurt you.”
My throat tightens, and I pause, making sure I say the next part exactly the way it feels inside.
“And I will never leave your side, no matter where we are. Here on this island or back in the real world. It doesn’t matter. I’ll always stay with you.”
She goes still. “That was beautiful.”
She draws in a steady breath, her flowers trembling slightly in her hands. Her eyes stay locked on mine.
“I take you, Dane, to be my husband. For better or worse.” A small smile touches her mouth. “I think we already got the worse part.”
I nod, a quiet laugh leaving me at the same time.
“To love you. Stay with you. Take care of you.”
Her breath catches slightly before she continues.
“I choose you. Not because you’re my only choice. Because you’re the one I want. Even when I tried not to, I still kept choosing you.”
The wind lifts the flowing skirts of her dress around her legs.
“And I will never leave your side, no matter where we are. Here on this island or back in the real world. It doesn’t matter. I’ll always stay with you.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the ring, its pale iridescence catching the fading light as I lift it between us.
Charlotte’s breath catches. “Oh, Dane. It’s beautiful.”
“I don’t really remember how this part goes.”
“It’s okay. I don’t remember either.”
“Charlotte, do you take me as your husband?”
A small, amused smile pulls at her mouth. “I do.”
I slide the ring onto her finger, and some of the tension in my chest eases when it fits.
Charlotte reaches into the pocket of her dress and pulls out what she made.
It’s a ring woven from braided cord, the pattern intricate and every knot precise. She’s always had a talent for things like this—braiding, weaving, tying knots that somehow never come loose.
She takes my hand and wraps it around my finger, tying it into place. When she finishes, she studies it for a second before lifting her eyes back to mine.
“Dane, do you take me as your wife?”
“I do.”
Her ring. My ring. Both made from what this island gave us, meaning exactly what we decide they mean.
“Now do I get to kiss my bride?”
A smile breaks across her face. “Yes, you may kiss your bride.”
And I do. No urgency, no restraint snapping. This is slower.
Her hand comes up to my jaw, and I feel the ring pressing lightly against my skin as I kiss her. When we finally pull apart, she’s smiling.
“We should probably go eat our wedding feast before it burns.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Our wedding feast?”
“Well, technically it’s just fish and fruit.”
“Very fancy fish and fruit.”
That makes her laugh too, and I swear I’d spend the rest of my life chasing that sound if I had to.
The fish has been prepared differently—wrapped and cooked more slowly, with the meat softer and richer than usual. She’s cooked some of the eggs we’ve been saving, and poured the coconut water into glasses.
Everything’s arranged with intention instead of necessity. Not survival food tonight. Something closer to a real meal.
It’s thoughtful.
She watches me take it all in.
I don’t try to say anything clever. There aren’t words that would match this.
I sit down beside her, looking over what she’s made—the effort, the care, the quiet decision to make tonight different.
“You’ve been busy.”
“A little.”
“More than a little.”