“I’m here. What do you need?”
She swallows hard and shifts slightly. “I need you to take my shorts off. It feels like—” Her breath catches sharply. “Like something’s coming out.”
“Okay.”
I help her carefully, forcing my hands to stay steady even while the floor moves beneath us.
The second the fabric’s out of the way, I see it.
Blood. Fluid. Too much of both.
The panic hits instantly, hard enough to make my pulse spike, but I force it down before it reaches my face.
“There’s fluid… and blood.”
Her eyes close briefly. Not shocked. Not even confused. Like some part of her already knew before I said it out loud.
“I need you to talk to me,” she whispers. “Just… keep talking.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“It doesn’t matter. Your voice helps. Just don’t stop.”
So I do.
I tell her about the pearls. Where I found them. The northern reef at low tide. The deeper water past the shelf when the surface was calm enough to see straight to the bottom.
I tell her about the necklace I’ve been planning for her. The clasp. The way the pearls will be set once we get back to Australia and find someone who knows how to make it properly.
I tell her about the tree too. The marks carved into the bark. The count I’ve kept all these years. How many days we’ve survived here.
She listens with her eyes closed, breathing carefully between waves of pain, and every time another one hits she grips my hand hard enough to hurt.
I keep talking through all of it, voice steady and continuous because it helps her focus—and because it’s the only thing I know how to do for her right now.
Time starts slipping strangely after a while.
The darkness outside starts to lift, pale morning light finding its way through the gaps in the storm clouds. The yacht still moves beneath us, but gentler now. Less violent.
The storm may be passing outside, but inside this room, it isn’t.
“It’s getting worse,” she says, her voice thinner than before.
“I’m so sorry, love.”
“Dane.” She turns her head slightly toward me, and there’s no control left in her voice now. No effort to soften any of it. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” I tighten my grip on her hand. “So am I.”
Her eyes open and lock onto mine. “Tell me we’re going to get through this.”
“We’re going to get through this, Charlotte.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“Wearegoing to get through this.” Firmer this time. Certain in a way I force myself to become as I say it.
Because there is no version of this where we don’t.
