It’s here.
Within the hour, it turns into something else entirely. The wind doesn’t come in bursts—it holds, constant and heavy, pressing into the hull like it’s trying to tear it apart. The boat answers with a long groan that runs end to end.
The motion is wrong. Not a clean roll—jerking, uneven, lifting just enough to throw balance before slamming back down at an angle I can’t predict.
I get to Charlotte fast and pull her against me with one arm, holding her tight against my chest while I brace the other against the mattress beside her, absorbing the force of the yacht’s movement before it can throw her sideways.
“You don’t have to—” she starts.
“I do.”
“You’ll wear yourself out.”
“I’m fine.”
She gives me a look—recognizing her own words coming back at her, not impressed.
I don’t move.
“Dane.” Her voice shifts. “If this goes on for hours, you can’t?—”
The hull lifts and drops wrong.
Not a roll. Not anything I can anticipate. The whole structure jolts sideways, hard enough to take my balance with it. My footing goes. I catch the frame—barely—but not in time.
Charlotte slips out from where I had her braced and slams into the bulkhead.
The sound she makes cuts through everything.
I’m moving before I think. Across the space, down in front of her, hands on her, checking. “Where,” I say. “Tell me where.”
“I’m—” She stops, both hands going to her abdomen. “I’m all right.”
“You’re not all right.” I watch her face, not her words. “Where does it hurt?”
“It’s probably nothing,” she says, breathing through it. “I’m okay, Dane.”
“Look at me.”
She’s too pale. Not from the storm. Not from the impact. Something else. And whatever she sees in my face makes her stop trying to hold it together.
For a second, we just look at each other.
“We’ll be all right,” I say.
I do my best to make it sound like the truth, and she nods once.
I reposition around her, tighter this time, adjusting for the way the yacht is moving—uneven, unpredictable, never settling into anything I can work with. I brace again and hold.
The pain starts about an hour later.
I see it before she says anything—the shift in her breathing, the way her jaw tightens and releases. It doesn’t match the storm anymore. There’s a rhythm to it.
I start counting.
“Charlotte.” I wait until she looks at me. “How long has this been happening?”
She rides one out before answering. “A little while.”
