“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.
