17. Charlotte Gallagher #2
He helps me down carefully, one hand steady at my arm, already beside me by the time I lie back against the sand.
I stare up at the sky, trying to steady my breathing, but I can feel it again beneath my hand. Beneath everything I thought I understood about what was happening inside me.
The thing I’ve been calling a mass is visible now—a slight curve low in my abdomen. I’ve spent weeks hiding it, adjusting how I move, how I stand, trying to keep Dane from realizing how quickly this was getting worse.
Now he sees it.
“Charlotte.”
Everything he doesn’t say is inside my name.
“Wait,” I tell him quickly.
He stills immediately, one hand hovering close to me without touching.
I keep my palm pressed low against my stomach and focus entirely on the feeling inside me, shutting everything else out.
I breathe slowly. Wait.
Then it happens again, clearer this time.
Not pressure. Not pain.
Movement.
A small flutter beneath my hand that feels unmistakably alive.
“Watch,” I whisper.
Dane’s eyes lock onto my stomach.
We stay completely still together, both waiting—then there it is again. Small. Subtle. But impossible to mistake once you feel it.
Not me.
Not something wrong.
Dane makes a sound under his breath I’ve never heard from him before. Something between disbelief and awe and fear all tangled together.
I keep staring up at the sky because looking anywhere else feels impossible right now.
The realization doesn’t arrive as a thought first. It moves through me physically, rearranging everything all at once. The growth. The pressure. The nausea. The exhaustion.
Every piece falls into place so suddenly it almost leaves me breathless.
This isn’t something killing me.
It’s something becoming.
“It’s not cancer,” I say softly.
Finally, I turn my head toward him. I don’t even know how to describe what’s on his face.
“It’s a baby.”
The tears start before I fully understand why. Not sharp or panicked. Just immediate, like my body reacts before my mind can catch up.
And what follows comes from somewhere deeper than I expected. Bigger than simple relief.
Because I thought I was dying. I’ve been saying goodbye to my life without admitting that’s what I was doing.
The realization sits underneath everything as the tears come harder now, impossible to contain. I don’t even try.
Dane pulls me upright from the sand and into him, and I go immediately. His arms lock around me tightly enough that I can feel the desperation in it.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
One hand presses into my hair while he holds me against his chest. His breathing is uneven now—subtle, controlled, but wrong enough that I know he’s fighting to keep himself together too.
I cry until it finally empties itself out of me, leaving behind something quieter.
“A baby.” Just two words, but his voice sounds different when he says them.
“Apparently so,” I manage.
He leans back enough to look at me fully. His eyes are bright now, not quite tears but close enough that it catches somewhere deep in my chest. He studies my face like he’s still trying to convince himself this is actually happening.
“You thought you were dying.”
“I did.”
Something shifts across his face then—too much emotion at once for any one expression to fully hold. Relief. Fear. Love. Grief for what he thought was happening to me.
Then he presses his forehead against mine, and I feel something in him finally break loose.
“Dane,” I whisper.
“Give me a minute, Char.”
So I do.
The relief doesn’t stay simple for long.
It’s real. Massive enough that I can already feel it changing something inside me permanently. But it exists beside everything else that’s true too.
I’m pregnant.
On an island with no medical care.
I’ve been bleeding. Cramping. Carrying heavy things. Climbing. Working. Moving through every day exactly the way I always have because I had no idea there was any reason not to.
I don’t know how far along I am. I don’t know if the baby’s healthy. I don’t know if I am.
There’s no doctor to ask. No scan. No reassurance waiting for us anywhere.
And that’s terrifying.
But it’s still better than cancer.
This is survivable.
That’s the truth of it. Better by such a wide margin that it almost makes the comparison meaningless. But still not simple.
We sit with both realities at once—the relief and the fear—neither one strong enough to erase the other.
“When will it come?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes lower to my stomach again. The curve is visible now, impossible to miss once you know what you’re looking at.
“The movement,” he says after a second. “That usually starts when? Four months? Five?”
“I’m not sure.” I rest my hand lightly against the curve. “But if we can both feel it, it probably has to be at least that.”
He nods slowly, like he’s filing the information away somewhere precise. I can practically see it happening in real time—the timeline shifting in his head, the last few months rearranging themselves into something that finally makes sense.
“We avoided it for a long time,” he says.
“I thought something was wrong with me. That I couldn’t get pregnant.”
“I told you nothing was wrong with you.”
There’s no satisfaction in it. No edge. Just the same calm certainty he’s had from the beginning.
He goes quiet for a second after that, then moves suddenly—dropping down into the sand beside me, one knee and then the other. His hand settles against my stomach carefully, protective already, like some part of him instantly understands how important this is.
He glances up at me once, checking my expression.
Then he lowers his head and presses his ear gently against my stomach where his hand had been.
The sight of it hits somewhere deep inside me.