Epilogue
LANI
The tide is low when I paddle out.
The water folds around the board in slow, glassy ripples, late-summer sun warming the back of my neck. It’s cool but not biting – that perfect in-between temperature where your body adjusts quickly and then forgets the cold entirely.
I settle onto the board and glance toward shore.
They’re all there.
Kai stands waist-deep in the shallows, demonstrating foot placement to one of the newer instructors with exaggerated patience.
He runs the surf school properly now – expanded it, modernised the booking system, introduced structured training programmes – and yet somehow the place still feels like him.
Loud. Bright. A little chaotic around the edges in ways that make people relax instead of tense.
He pretends not to watch me.
He fails.
Sol is at the beachside grill, sleeves rolled high, forearms now permanently bronzed from three summers in the same sun.
Smoke curls lazily around him as he flips something on the flat top with the focused calm of someone who treats food like both craft and offering.
The queue stretches halfway down the promenade. It usually does.
He built the menu slowly. Pop-ups first. Then weekend-only service. Then five days a week. There are whispers now – food writers passing through, quiet recommendations, talk of regional awards.
He pretends it doesn’t matter.
It does.
Koa stands on the terrace of the hotel, phone pressed to his ear, posture relaxed but sharp. He manages everything – weddings, staffing, renovations, expansion plans – with a steadiness that never falters. The place used to feel imposing. Formal. Slightly cold.
Now it feels warm.
Intentional.
Booked months in advance.
Finn is on the sand, barefoot, trousers rolled, jacket slung over his shoulder despite the heat because he refuses to stop dressing like he might be called into a boardroom at any moment.
He flew in late last night from Paris – another meeting.
Another quiet dismantling of the structures his father once controlled.
He doesn’t talk about those meetings.
But I know what they cost him.
The Nyugen name doesn’t loom over this town anymore. It’s simply one of many.
He did that. For himself. And for us.
A swell rises beneath me and I let instinct take over. I stand smoothly, knees bending with the shift of water, the board slicing cleanly through the wave as it curls toward shore. Salt spray catches sunlight in golden flecks, wind tugging at my hair.
And beneath it all – steady, unwavering – the bond hums in my chest. Not burning. Not demanding. Glowing. Four threads anchored deep.
I ride the wave in and step off into sand, laughter caught in my throat.
Kai reaches me first, towel already slung over his shoulder.
“You were showing off,” he accuses lightly.
“I always show off.”
He grins like that’s the correct answer and kisses me – quick, warm, unapologetic.
Sol joins us next, brushing salt from my shoulder with his thumb before pressing a kiss to my temple. His hands smell faintly of smoke and spice and lemon oil.
“Lunch in ten,” he murmurs.
“Bossy.”
“Efficient.”
Koa approaches with that quiet focus that never quite fades, phone finally pocketed. He doesn’t rush the kiss he gives me – it’s slow, deliberate, like he’s grounding himself in the simple fact of me.
Finn hangs back a moment, watching. Content. Then he steps forward and pulls me in properly, his kiss steady and unhurried.
“You’ve got an assignment due tonight,” he reminds me softly.
“I know.”
Final year. Environmental policy. Coastal sustainability. I commute twice a week now, train rides filled with notes and drafts and articles bookmarked for later.
Three years ago, I was trying to escape control. Now I’m building systems.
We walk back together, easy and unhidden.
The town doesn’t whisper anymore. They smile.
Grandma moved into a bungalow in Silver last year – smaller garden, easier upkeep, closer to her friends and the little bakery she insists is superior to ours. She says she prefers the simplicity. I suspect she enjoys watching us restore her old house from a comfortable distance.
The deed is in my name. Not the Butlers’. Mine. That was important to her and it’s nice to have something I can call my own.
The house is half-wrapped in scaffolding right now. We’re adding an extension with wide windows facing the sea. Sol wants light flooding the kitchen. I want space – open floors, soft corners, room for children to run without feeling contained.
We don’t rush the conversation. But we don’t avoid it either. Family. Future. Roots. All on the cards for us one day.
After lunch, Finn and Koa head toward the hotel to review renovation budgets and projected revenue.
Kai stays to finish the lesson block, shouting encouragement across the water like he’s conducting an orchestra of beginners.
Sol closes the grill early – “quality over quantity,” he insists – and we walk the shoreline barefoot, sand warm under our feet.
“You’re glowing,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
My next heat is due in a month.
We’ve talked about it.
Properly talked. Long evenings. Practical considerations. Laughter. Even spreadsheets Finn made that no one asked for but everyone secretly appreciated.
No more birth control.
The decision wasn’t impulsive. It wasn’t wrapped in fantasy. It was deliberate. We want this.
They never stopped courting me. Not after the bond. Not after the renovations. Not after three years.
Flowers still appear on my desk. Surprise weekends away still materialise without warning.
Kai still brings me absurd gifts purely to see my exasperated expression.
Koa still brushes my hair when we watch films. Finn still brings coffee to my bedside before I wake.
Sol still cooks like each meal is sacred.
“I love you,” I tell him quietly as we pause at the edge of the dunes.
He looks startled for half a second before his expression softens.
“We know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” he replies, brushing his thumb along my cheek.
That evening we gather on the hotel terrace.
The sun sinks low, molten gold spilling across the water in long, shimmering paths.
Aisling is there, tucked beneath one of her packmate’s arms, laughing at something Kai said.
The other girls join us – weddings in planning stages, toddlers tugging at dresses, life unfolding in quiet, ordinary miracles.
It feels full. Not dramatic. Not cinematic. Just…right.
Finn stands behind me, arms circling my waist as the sky shifts from gold to blush to deepening indigo.
“Three years,” he murmurs.
“Feels longer.”
“In a good way?”
“In a safe way.”
Sol settles at my right. Koa at my left. Kai sprawls across the bench at our feet, head tipped back to watch the sky as the first star appears.
I close my eyes and I feel them. Four steady lights. Four presences that do not flicker.
I waited my whole life for warmth without fear. For instinct without punishment. For love without conditions.
Now it isn’t dramatic. It’s daily. It’s in shared meals and quiet glances and renovation plans and exam deadlines and early-morning coffee and salt-damp kisses on the shoreline.
As the stars multiply above the water, something settles in me fully and finally.
This isn’t a happy ending.
It’s a life.
And it’s ours.
The tide will always rise and fall – but we don’t.