EPILOGUE
The Hawaiian evening was a painting in motion — streaks of amber melting into coral and violet, the ocean carrying each color into the horizon. Palm fronds swayed lazily in the breeze, and the scent of salt and frangipani drifted through the open balcony doors.
From where she stood, Rebecca Lang could see the curve of the beach below, soft sand glowing gold beneath the last of the light. The air was warm, touched with humidity, and the rhythmic hush of the waves seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat.
It was the first time in years she’d stood still long enough to notice something as simple as a sunset.
Behind her, the faint clatter of cutlery and the sound of a pop song hummed from the villa’s kitchen. Lillian was humming along — off-key, bright, unapologetic. The sound was domestic and alive, a contrast to the quiet discipline that usually surrounded Rebecca’s life.
Rebecca smiled faintly, the expression almost foreign on her face. She lifted the wineglass in her hand, the cold stem slick against her fingers, and watched a small sailboat tilt acrossthe horizon. For once, there was no pager on her hip, no OR schedule crowding her thoughts. Only the ocean, the sky, and the woman who somehow made all the space between feel easy.
It had been six months since everything in her life had shifted — six months since she’d finally stopped running, turned toward Lillian, and said what needed saying.
I’m sorry.
Two small words that had taken a lifetime of pride to find.
And Lillian — patient, luminous Lillian — had simply taken her hand and said,Okay. Let’s start from there.
Now, they were here.
A week off-call. A week away from the hospital’s endless hum. A week to remember what it felt like to breathe without fluorescent lights or surgical masks between them.
Rebecca turned at the sound of bare feet padding across the tile. Lillian appeared in the doorway, wearing a loose linen shirt that belonged to Rebecca and nothing else visible, her hair still damp from the shower. She carried two glasses of something pink and cold, condensation running down her fingers.
“You look like you’re thinking about work,” Lillian said, setting one glass beside her.
“I was thinking about the clouds.”
“Liar,” Lillian teased, bumping her shoulder. “It’s been two days, Rebecca. No one is dying if you don’t check your email.”
Rebecca arched a brow. “I’m certain someone somewhere is.”
“Not our problem. Not for another five days.” Lillian lifted her glass in mock salute. “To the miracle of annual leave.”
Rebecca touched her glass to Lillian’s. “I still think it’s an overrated concept.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to relax.”
“Incorrect. I’m doing it right now.”
“Standing perfectly straight, analyzing cloud formation, and mentally reorganizing the OR schedule doesn’t count.”
Rebecca’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close enough. “You’re very sure of yourself, Dr. Harrington.”
“Someone has to be.”
Lillian’s grin widened, and Rebecca felt that small, unmistakable tug in her chest — the one she still hadn’t grown used to. It had taken months to accept that she didn’t have to maintain control around this woman. That she couldlet herself be.
They stood in companionable silence, watching the horizon darken. The air grew softer as the sun slid lower, wrapping them in gold.
After a while, Lillian reached out and caught Rebecca’s hand. “Come on. Sit with me before you start trying to schedule the sunset.”
Rebecca let herself be led inside, where candles flickered along the table and the sound of the ocean filled the open room. The villa was simple but beautiful — wide windows, pale wood, linen sheets that smelled faintly of salt.
Lillian guided her to the sofa and nudged her down. “Stay there,” she said, disappearing briefly into the bathroom.
When she returned, she held a small bottle of coconut oil. The smell — warm, rich, undeniably tropical — filled the air as she poured a little into her palms.
