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 akind of bookanymore.”
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.
