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 weddingfeast?”
“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.
