“I agree with the point you were making. We’ll need to be careful.”
“Yeah, we will.” I glance at the book beside her mat. “Your books—did any of them cover that part?”
She tucks her chin against my chest, thinking. “One of them did. There’s only a small window each month where a woman can get pregnant. Around ovulation—give or take a few days before and after. But it’s not exact unless you really know your cycle. I’d need to read the book again to be sure.”
Thank God for Tara’s romance book addiction.
“So we keep track of your periods?”
“According to the book. And the only way to avoid it completely is to stop doing it.”
I stare at her. And she stares right back.
“That’s unlikely.” Because I’m already thinking about the next time.
“I can’t go back to the way we were living. Not after what we just shared.”
“So we’ll track your menstrual cycle. We’ll be careful and pay attention. And we’ll figure the rest out as we go.”
She laces her fingers through mine where my hand rests against her waist. “We’ve been figuring things out for years, Dane. We’re pretty good at it.”
“Yeah, I guess we are.”
I think about everything we’ve managed to build here from nothing.
Eight years ago, four of us became stranded on this island with nothing except fear and grief. Now it’s just the two of us.
Somehow, we still built a life here.
And holding her against me now, I realize she’s all I need.
Chapter 13
Charlotte Gallagher
The fire has burneddown to embers by the time we finish eating, casting just enough light to see by. The ocean fills the quiet the way it always does. I barely notice it anymore. It’s as constant as breathing.
So is this. I’m curled into Dane’s side, his arm resting around my shoulders, my legs stretched toward the fading heat.
It snuck up on me—the ease of being with him.
A few months ago, I would’ve been hyperaware of everything between us. Every place his body touched mine. Every shift, every breath. Back then, everything felt charged.
Now I lean into him without thinking, and he adjusts automatically, pulling me closer without even looking.
It’s routine now.
And somehow that unsettles me more than the strain between us ever did. Tension can be named, pushed back, controlled. This is quieter. It’s woven itself so completely into my days that I can’t tell where he ends and the rest of my life begins.
“You’re staring at me.”
He smiles. “I am.”
“Why?”
His gaze doesn’t move. “Because you’re beautiful, and I enjoy looking at you.”
I tilt my head back and look at him. “You’re not so bad looking yourself.”
