"Paul! It's too dangerous out there. Mudslides could happen any second!" I grabbed his sleeve.
He turned back, eyes determined. Then he reached up and gently touched my cheek. "Casey, trust me. For Tommy. And for... you." He pushed through the ER doors and vanished into the black deluge.
I ran to the doorway. He was already on the motorcycle. Within seconds, the rain soaked him through—his gray sweatshirt plastered to his back, darkening, his hair dripping.
I watched him disappear into the storm. In that moment, my emotions were impossibly tangled. Six years ago, if this happened, what would Paul have done? He'd have made international calls, summoned the best private doctors, and thrown money at any pharmacy door. But now, now he charged headlong into the rain without hesitation.
I returned to the ER. Tommy lay on the bed. Mark had applied a topical cream that helped slightly, but his brow stayed furrowed, his face flushed, murmuring for Mommy. I gripped his hand, sat by the bed, eyes fixed on the wall clock. Every minute dragged. Outside, thunder rumbled, rain intensifying, the sound closing in from all sides. Tommy drifted into fitful sleep beside me, his small hand clutching my finger, occasionally shuddering.
An hour passed. Heavy footsteps echoed from down the hall. I jerked my head up to see a drenched figure staggering toward us.
Paul looked like he'd been pulled from the ocean floor. His hair was glued to his forehead, water streaming off him endlessly, his sweatshirt transformed from light gray to charcoal. His knee was badly scraped, blood diluted pink by rainwater trickling down to his shin. He'd lost a slipper—his bare foot left prints of mud and crushed leaves on the cold tile. He looked like he'd crawled out of a mudslide, but clutched in his hands was a small wooden jar wrapped in layers of plastic wrap, pressed clean against his chest.
"Got it." His voice was ragged, his lips nearly blue, teeth chattering, but his eyes were bright.
I grabbed a towel from the nurses' station and handed it to him. He roughly wiped his face and immediately pushed into the room. "Mark, I have the medicine."
Mark took the jar, opened it, sniffed, and nodded, quickly applying it to Tommy. The pale green salve smelled strongly of herbs and grass. It felt cool on the skin, releasing a bitter-clean scent as it spread. Within ten minutes, the angry red swelling began miraculously receding—fading from deep red to pink to faint traces. His breathing gradually steadied.
Paul stood by the bed, watching Tommy anxiously. His lips were still purple, his face pale, but he didn't care. Tommy's little hand emerged from the blanket and unconsciously wrapped around Paul's finger dangling by the bedside. Paul didn't move. He just stood there, letting Tommy hold on, looking down at him with infinite tenderness.
"Don't be scared, Dad—I'm here. It won't hurt much longer." His voice carried the relief of someone who'd survived disaster. Tommy seemed to sense that protection, nuzzling the pillow, slowly sinking into peaceful sleep, his hand still gripping Paul's finger tight.
The word "Dad" hadn't fully formed before it twisted awkwardly into "I'm." He probably thought I hadn't heard. ButI had. Standing there watching, my feelings were indescribable. This was the instinct of blood calling to blood—a connection no disguise or lie could sever. Tommy didn't know him, didn't know who he was, but Tommy's hand found him anyway, held his finger, quieted at his voice.
Four a.m. Tommy finally slept soundly, breathing steady, the rash almost gone—only faint pink traces remained. Mark checked him and said he was stable. If there was no relapse by morning, we could go home.
Back in the waiting area, Paul stood against the wall, not sitting. A small puddle had formed at his feet. His bare foot pressed against the freezing tile.
"Paul, take a hot shower. Don't get sick. The hospital bathrooms have hot water." I looked at him, my eyes stinging. He shook his head. "I'm fine. I'll stay a bit longer. Until I'm sure he's stable."
Watching him stand there shivering in soaked clothes, my tears came like a broken dam. All the fear and guilt I'd suppressed all night and something else I'd forced down for six years erupted in that moment. "Paul, I'm sorry. If it weren't for me..."
He stepped forward and pulled me tightly into his arms. He was soaking wet, ice-cold, but his chest was warm. His chin rested on top of my head. "Don't apologize, Casey. Taking care of you both—it's what I owe you. And it's the only thing I want to do for the rest of my life. You don't have to forgive me. You can keep hating me. Just don't take away my chance to protect you."
My face pressed against his drenched shoulder. The last wall around my heart finally crumbled. I closed my eyes and let the tears fall.
I remembered what Lina said on the beach that day. "Ella, if you still love him and you've seen him change, then love him boldly. Don't let old wounds become obstacles to yourhappiness." At the time, I thought she was being glib. But now, in this rainy night, in Paul's soaking embrace, I knew she was right.
"Paul," I said his name softly but firmly. "Go shower. I'll wait outside."
His body went rigid, like he hadn't heard right, or couldn't believe his ears. After several seconds, he exhaled a long, relieved breath—like something he'd been waiting for forever had finally arrived.
"Okay."
He released me and walked toward the bathroom. After a few steps, he looked back, making sure I was still there, then continued. His silhouette was wretched—clothes plastered to him, hair wild, one foot bare. But watching that retreating figure, for the first time, I felt this was someone I could lean on.
The rain kept pounding outside, hammering the windows, wind whistling through door cracks. But in this small waiting area, some long-lost warmth was quietly returning. I watched light spill from the bathroom doorway, listened to the sound of running water, and smiled from the heart. Maybe tomorrow in Hawaii really would bring clear, bright skies.
Chapter Twenty-One
Paul
I stood at Casey's door, holding fresh tomatoes from the grocery store and a twelve-pack of local beer. Ever since that night Tommy had his allergic reaction, when I rode through the rain on my motorcycle to bring back the herbs, the door Casey had slammed shut on me had finally cracked open.
"Come in, it's unlocked." Casey's clear voice rang out from inside.
I pushed the door open. The smell of garlic and basil hit me. Tommy sat on the carpet playing with his Transformers. When he saw me, he let out a whoop and ran over.
