14. Dane Gallagher #2
She smiles at that and fixes me a portion, handing it over. “Eat, husband.”
Husband. The word settles low in my chest. Like something’s finally clicked into place.
I take the plate from her, holding her gaze. “Thank you, wife.”
We eat as the sun dips lower. We talk, but mostly we watch the light shifting over the water. Orange bleeding into pink, then deepening into something warmer before the colors slowly begin to fade.
Charlotte sits beside me with her knees drawn in, her ring catching the last of the light whenever she moves her hand.
By the time we head inside, the shelter is dim, the last of the evening fading into that deep blue that disappears quickly once the dark fully takes over.
There’s no guide for this part. No tradition to follow. It’s just the two of us, and the quiet understanding that something has changed. This isn’t the same as before, even if it seems similar on the surface.
I take my time. That’s the one thing I’m sure of. Whatever urgency was there before has eased into something more deliberate. I don’t want to rush any of it.
I draw her closer, lifting my hands to her face and kissing her in the dim light. Slower this time. Softer. My thumbs move along her jaw as she leans into me without hesitation. She exhales against my mouth, her hands settling against my chest.
My hand drifts up, brushing near her hair, catching on one of the flowers woven through it.
She starts to lift a hand, like she’s going to pull them free, but I catch her wrist gently before she can.
“Leave them,” I say against her mouth. “I like them.”
A small smile brushes across her lips before I kiss her again, slower this time, letting the quiet settle around us. Then my hands find the ties of her dress.
I take my time with it—more careful than I am with most things—easing it loose until the fabric slips away. She stands there in the dim light now, the last of the day going, her eyes locking with mine.
I draw her in, cupping her face and tilting it up before I kiss her. Slow at first. My thumbs move along her jaw, her cheekbones, the soft skin beneath her ear as she exhales against my mouth, long and steady.
She tips her head back, and I follow instinctively, my mouth brushing her throat, then lower to her collarbone and shoulder. A soft sound slips out of her, completely unguarded, and her hands settle against my shoulders.
I pull back just enough to look at her.
She’s watching me the way she always does—still, focused, like she’s trying to memorize this moment piece by piece. Her hair has started coming loose around the flowers threaded through it, and the dress hangs open where my hands loosened it.
Then the fabric slips.
Slowly, softly, the dress slides down her body until it pools around her bare feet in the sand. She steps out of it without taking her eyes off me.
I just stand there looking at her in the dim shelter.
Then she steps into me.
Her fingers find the front of my jacket, pushing it slowly from my shoulders. The fabric drops onto the sand near our feet. Her hands move to my shirt next, working the buttons open one by one with surprising patience while her eyes stay fixed on what she’s doing.
“You look overdressed.”
A quiet laugh leaves me. “That so?”
“Definitely.”
She pushes the shirt open and slides her palms over my chest, slower now, like she’s taking her time with me the same way I took mine with her.
Between us, the last of our clothes disappear piece by piece. Fabric gathers carelessly on the mat and sand around us until there’s nothing left except skin and warmth and the quiet sound of each other breathing.
I lower her to the mat and follow, settling over her, not pressing my weight. Her arms come around me, her face tilting up. I kiss her again, deeper this time, and she exhales against my mouth, her body lifting into mine.
My mouth moves along her jaw, her throat, the space beneath her ear, feeling the quick beat of her pulse under my lips.
I take my time, slower than before. More deliberate. My hands and mouth follow the line of her, not rushed.
When I lift my head, she pulls me closer again, and I feel the warmth of her everywhere—her legs tangled with mine, her heartbeat fluttering beneath my hand, the way she fits against me like she was always meant to be here.
Her fingers slide into my hair before settling at the back of my neck. For a second, she just looks at me, her expression softer than I’m used to seeing from her.
“I’ve thought about this all day,” she whispers. “About tonight. About us.”
My thumb brushes along her waist. “Yeah?”
Her expression changes again, turning quieter. More serious.
“This makes it real, Dane.” Her fingers trace lightly along my jaw. “Not just the wedding. This. It makes me yours in every way.”
Something tightens hard in my chest at the way she says it.
“It does. Completely.”
I kiss her slow at first, then deeper when she melts against me.
Then my hand slides slowly between us, guiding my cock into her. Her breath catches, and her fingers tighten against my back.
“Ah.”
I stop, giving her a second. Giving myself one.
Then I move again, deeper this time, slow and controlled, letting her have time to adjust to every inch of me.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, her breathing turning uneven as her chest rises and falls in small, shaky waves. A soft sound slips from her throat when I settle deeper against her, her fingers tightening against my shoulders.
“Dane—”
I kiss her forehead, then the corner of her mouth. “You okay?”
She nods quickly, breath catching. “Yeah. Don’t stop.”
Charlotte meets me, her body finding the rhythm, adjusting in small, natural ways. She responds, opening to me, and I keep the pace steady even when everything in me wants to lose it.
Tonight isn’t about that.
I rest my forehead against hers. Her breath comes in soft, uneven pieces. Her hands move over my back, my shoulders, the back of my neck.
When I kiss her again, it’s deeper—but I don’t rush. I keep that same steady rhythm.
Her hand finds mine in the dark—the one wearing the ring—and she threads her fingers through mine, holding tight. I hold on too, and we move together like that.
Neither of us looks away. Not when her breathing starts to break, each inhale catching, each exhale slipping out of rhythm. Not when her head tips back, the sounds she makes softer now, unguarded. Not when she arches into me completely, giving everything without holding anything back.
I keep my eyes on her through all of it.
The way it moves across her face. The way each moment builds into the next. The way she comes back to me every time I say her name.
There’s a moment, right at the edge of it—something in her expression that settles deep in my chest. And I know I won’t forget it.
“Dane—”
My name breaks in her voice.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
It comes out low, steady, even with everything in me pulling the other way.
She comes apart beneath me, her body tightening, pulling me deeper, holding me there. Her grip on my hand tightens, unyielding, and I feel the press of the ring against my skin.
The control I’ve held onto all night finally gives, and I let it, pressing into her, burying my face against her neck as it hits—deep, overwhelming, more than just physical.
It lingers.
When it settles, I stay still for a moment, my breathing uneven, something in my chest not quite steady yet. My hand is still laced with hers, my weight braced above her, and I don’t move.
I don’t want to break the connection too soon.
When I finally lift my head, I can feel the faint tremor still running through me. I draw her in close. She comes easily, settling against my chest, her breathing uneven at first, then slowly evening out. My hand moves over her—through her hair, down her back—slow, absent strokes.
The shelter is quiet. Outside, the ocean keeps moving, the same steady rhythm it always has. It should feel distant by now.
It doesn’t.
After a while, her breathing softens. I feel the moment she drifts off, the way her body relaxes into me, unguarded in a way she never is when she’s awake.
I stay still and let her.
My hand rests at her back, holding her there, and my attention drifts.
Not far.
Just enough.
To her hand.
The ring catches faintly in the low light, pale against her skin. I watch it longer than I should, tracing every detail in my head—the curve, the slight unevenness I had to correct, the way I reinforced it to make sure it would hold.
I made it from something the ocean gave us. Took it apart. Shaped it. Started over when it didn’t come out right. Used a length of twine to measure her finger, checking it against that again and again until it fit.
It won’t last forever. Nothing out here does. The salt will wear it down. Time will take its toll.
When it does, I’ll make her another.
Charlotte shifts in her sleep, pressing closer without waking, like her body knows where it belongs. My arm tightens around her automatically, keeping her there, and she settles again.
My wife.
The words feel different in the quiet. There’s nothing here to prove it. No witnesses. No rules. No record of it anywhere.
Just this.
The shelter. The ocean. The woman asleep against me, a ring on her hand I made because I needed something real—something that proved it.
Out here, that’s enough.
We decide what things mean. We always have.
And I decide that Charlotte is mine.