17. Charlotte Gallagher #3
This man—who built our entire survival around routine and responsibility, who carries everything heavier than he ever admits out loud—is kneeling in the sand with his ear pressed against me, listening for something he can’t possibly hear yet.
“Hello in there,” he says. “I’m your dad.”
Something tightens painfully in my chest, halfway between a laugh and tears.
He lifts his head again and looks at me. “That felt ridiculous.”
“It wasn’t. It was perfect.”
He studies my face for another second, and I watch the shift happen in him. I recognize it immediately. The exact moment something uncertain becomes something he’s decided to handle. His mind locking onto the next steps. The practical reality of it.
But this feels different from the other times I’ve seen it.
Softer somehow.
There’s tenderness inside it now alongside the determination. Something new layered into the instinct to protect.
“You’re done with heavy work.”
Not a suggestion.
“Dane—”
“Water. Firewood. Fishing. Food prep.” He starts listing things automatically like he’s reorganizing our entire life. “I’ll do it.”
“Those are my chores.”
“I know.” No hesitation. “Your job now is growing the baby.”
After a second, his eyes drift back to my stomach again, attention settling there like his entire sense of priority has already rearranged itself around this one new fact.
“I mean it, Charlotte. No more heavy lifting.”
There’s absolutely no room to argue in his tone.
Usually, I would. I’d point out that I’ve survived this island alongside him for years. That being pregnant doesn’t suddenly make me fragile or helpless. That sometimes his need to protect turns into control before he even realizes it’s happening.
I know exactly what I’d normally say.
But this time, I don’t say any of it.
Because I want this.
“All right.”
Something shifts briefly across his face—surprise maybe, or the quick recalibration of someone already braced for an argument that never comes.
I think he realizes almost immediately that I’m not agreeing just to keep the peace. I’m choosing not to fight him on this.
I’m still bleeding. Not constantly. Not heavily. But enough that I notice it. Enough that it’s impossible not to think about.
And I don’t know what it means. But I know my own body. And I know when something feels off.
I don’t say any of that to him.
His hand settles against my stomach.
“How do you feel?”
I think briefly about telling him the truth—that my body feels heavy and unfamiliar. That the ache low in my abdomen hasn’t disappeared just because we finally know what is causing it. That underneath the relief is a fear so sharp it scrapes against me every time I let myself think too far ahead.
“Tired. Overwhelmed.”
That part’s true at least.
He studies me for a second, reading whatever I allow him to see. I let him have the relief. The shock. The disbelief I’m still trying to catch up to myself.
The rest stays hidden.
After a moment, he nods once.
“You rest. I’ll clean up.”
We’ve always had a system. Out here, routines matter because survival depends on them. Cleanup is usually my responsibility—washing things down, clearing scraps, and making sure nothing gets left behind that could attract animals or cause problems later.
Normally I’d argue. This time, I don’t.
I stay where I am with one hand resting lightly over the curve of my stomach. I breathe slowly through everything tangled underneath this moment—the ache low in my abdomen, the faint movement I can still barely believe is real, the fear sitting quietly beneath all of it.
We are three now.
One of us is very small and completely dependent on the other two getting this right.
I intend to get it right.
Dane comes back a few minutes later with water, already moving differently somehow. Like every part of him has already aligned itself around this one new fact.
He crouches beside me first to hand me the water, then settles into the sand nearby, attention fixed on my face.
“Are you in any pain?”
He’s already trying to assess things I haven’t said out loud yet.
“Some, but it’s probably normal.”
It isn’t.
He studies me for a second, deciding whether to push further. He doesn’t. Not yet. Instead, he nods once.
“Tell me if it changes.”
“I will.”
He reaches over and brushes a piece of hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His hand lingers briefly against my jaw afterward.
When I look at him, I see it again—that change in him.
The man who knelt in the sand and spoke to his child for the first time.
I love him for the pearls. For the marks carved into the tree. For bringing me water without being asked. I love him for the way he absorbs responsibility.
And I love him for not pressing me when he knows something’s wrong.
He’s already protecting someone he can’t see yet. Already planning around a life that exists only inside me for now.
I watch him settle beside me again, his attention drifting back toward my stomach. When his hand rests there, I place mine over it.
Beneath both our palms, something small moves.
I don’t say anything about what still scares me.
Not yet.