Afterlights, Part 2

Emi was easy to find—there were only so many places at the margin of a party where a woman with six arms and the coordination of a metronome could disappear. She was near the edge of the dance floor, hovering with one hand curled around a glass of something pale and sweet, three others tucked into the crooks of her own elbows or moving unconsciously to the music. Her dress was still blush pink, but now its layers were rumpled and flecked with something like gold confetti, as though the evening itself had shed glitter every time she passed. Even at rest, the last two of her arms conducted their own silent orchestra: one fussing with her hair, the last tracing a gentle arc on the polished surface of the bar.

Andy closed the distance and pulled her in for a soft, brief kiss. Emi responded instantly, all six arms tightening in a hug that compressed her against him so fiercely he felt the sequins on her bodice grind into his ribs. When she pulled away, her cheeks were flushed with a delicate, honest joy.

“You did it,” Andy said, grinning. “You really, really got me. I thought you were Norah, right up until I gave you her answer and you, uh… broke character.” He mimed, with two fingers, the international sign for someone short-circuiting.

Emi giggled, her blush deepening. “I thought I could hold it together, but when you guessed wrong, my brain just—” She did a little explosion motion with two hands, the others still latched to his sleeve. “I spent the whole Salon hour practicing her moves. I was so wound up!”

Andy shook his head, still in mild disbelief. “It wasn’t just technical, though. Getting Norah right is a whole thing. Most people don’t bother.” He thought about the way Emi had held herself in the challenge: the stiff spine, the measured gait, the way her chin had dipped a half-millimeter every time someone tried to read her face. “You didn’t just play her. You actually understood her.”

Emi went quiet, ducking her head so her hair shielded the top of her face. “I’ve been watching her for a while,” she said. “Not in a creepy way. Just… There’s something about the way she moves through a room. And when Arabella gave me the card, I decided I wanted to do her justice.” She looked up, suddenly urgent. “I was really worried it would sound like a joke, or a parody. I wanted it to be a compliment.”

Andy let himself smile, soft. “That’s exactly what made it work,” he said. “Her ‘you had me’ is pretty much a standing ovation in Norah-ese.”

Emi’s arms all shifted at once—a ripple of delight so pure Andy felt it in his own chest. “Really?”

“Really,” Andy said, nodding.

Emi beamed, all six arms fluttering with excitement. Then, more quietly: “I was terrified I’d gotten it wrong. You know, that I would have made her feel—” She trailed off, unable to say the word.

Andy finished for her. “Mocked,” he said. “But you checked, didn’t you?”

She nodded, a little sheepish. “I went over to her at the drinks table before you came, just to make sure. She didn’t say much, but she poured me a glass and said, ‘I didn’t think you had it in you.’” Emi’s lips quirked, then pulled into a real, broad smile. “Then she said if I ever needed a sparring partner to practice again, she’d be game.”

“That’s as good as it gets with Norah,” Andy said. “She respects you. She always has, even back in the first round.”

Emi considered this, eyes wide. Then she nodded, the set of her shoulders relaxing as if a tension had been dissolved. “I’m happy,” she said, and let it linger in the air.

Andy poured her a new drink from the pitcher, then gestured to the far end of the room, where Anna had left. “Did you ever get a chance to talk to her?” Andy asked, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. “Anna, I mean.”

Emi shook her head, letting the soft fall of her bob catch the light. “No. I mean, she came up and said hi, and I said hi back, but I… I kind of chickened out?” Her laugh was self-effacing but not bitter. “I’m not sure what you’re supposed to say to your Grandmother when you meet her at a masquerade ball. Oh, and when she’s also a goddess.”

Andy grinned. “I think it’s like meeting a celebrity, but also maybe your grandma, and also the inventor of the wheel, all at once.”

Emi giggled, then tipped her glass toward him in a silent “cheers.” “I’m sure I’ll see her again,” she said. “I mean, how could you miss someone like that?”

Andy nodded. “She’s not only impossible as a relative,” he said. “You know Inanna technically married Laura and me two days ago.”

Emi’s eyes went delighted. “I’m glad it happened. For both of you.”

Andy leaned in, elbows on the bar. “For all of us, Emi. It doesn’t change how I feel about any of you. I’m still going to call you my wife, soon.”

Emi’s face went a color that didn’t exist in any visible spectrum, then she looked down, bashful and giddy at once. “You’re not supposed to say things like that when I’ve got gold glitter in my cleavage, Andy.”

He laughed. “Then I’d never get a chance.”

She ducked her head again, her voice small but fierce. “I would, you know. I very much do. Want that.”

Andy held out both hands, and she caught them with three of hers, while the others seemed to hover with excitement, like confetti settling after a parade. “I look forward to our next date night,” he said. “We’re going to need at least two days to make up for lost time.”

She squeezed, hard enough that he thought he might lose circulation. “I can make that work,” Emi said. She craned forward for another kiss, and this time when their lips met, it was all six arms hauling him in, nothing tentative about it.

When they finally broke apart, Emi’s laugh was bright and unfiltered. “If you keep kissing me like that,” she whispered, “I’m going to forget how to walk.”

He brushed her cheek with his thumb, feeling the warmth of her blush and the quickening pulse beneath. “Good thing I remember how to carry you,” he said.

Emi’s hands all shifted, tucking themselves shyly behind her back, and she beamed. The music changed, drawing her gaze toward the floor; her feet started tapping out a rhythm, and two hands unconsciously swayed with the beat.

“I have to go dance again,” she said. “I think Riley’s about to do the worm and someone needs to spot her.”

Andy gestured grandly. “Duty calls, Lady Kim.”

She did a mock-curtsey, almost tripping over her own feet in the process, and then grinned over her shoulder as she slipped away, every arm trailing a happy little afterimage. Andy watched her merge with the orbiting group at the center of the parquet, where Emi was instantly absorbed and, from the look of it, entirely at home.

He watched the cluster for a while, letting the memory of Emi’s touch linger, then took a slow breath and set off to find the next woman on his list.

---

Dawn was still at the drinks table, gold skirt fanned around her legs like a sunrise interrupted by a pastry platter. She was pouring herself something with the earnest concentration of a barista dosing out the perfect espresso, her bunny ears straight up and at attention. Her cheeks still glowed from the dancing, and she stood with her weight on her toes, as if ready to be called up for an award at any second.

Andy approached, glass in hand. “You know, pulling off Sam is harder than it looks,” he said. “You got closer than I expected anyone could. You were nearly perfect.”

Dawn’s eyes flicked up, caught between pride and embarrassment. “Nearly,” she said, then grinned and shrugged with both hands. “It was going okay for a while, then I started worrying you’d find me out and I just… slipped.”

Andy sipped his drink, amused. “What helped when it was working?”

She thought about this, chewing her lip, then said, “I stopped trying to copy the way she stands, or the way she jokes. I just asked myself, if you’re Sam, how do you decide to take up space?” Dawn blushed a little deeper. “And then I realized she doesn’t decide. She just... stops un-deciding.”

Andy’s expression shifted—tiny, but real, the kind of micro-glance that made her ears tilt forward in hope. “Did I get it?” she asked.

“You absolutely did,” Andy said. “What made you think about it that way?”

“I’ve been watching her since day one,” Dawn confessed. “Not in a creepy way! Just... she never apologizes for existing. I wanted to know what that feels like.”

Andy nodded, slow. “Best description of Sam I’ve heard in ten years,” he said. “I’ll be thinking about it for a while.”

Dawn glowed, the sort of delight you could only get by saying the perfect thing by accident. “Thank you,” she said, voice soft.

He refilled her glass from the pitcher, careful not to spill, and Dawn straightened, her ears going even higher as if taking in a compliment was a physical act. “You should tell her,” Andy said. “I think she’d like to hear it.”

“Really? You don’t think she’d find it weird?”

“Sam appreciates honesty more than anything,” Andy said. “Especially when it’s insightful.”

Dawn grinned, bashful but pleased, and watched as Andy moved on, her gaze following him through the crowd with a brand-new ease.

---

Shortly after Andy left, Emily drifted into Dawn’s orbit like a particularly shy moon, her pink-highlighted hair tied up in a messy ponytail and her bare shoulders hunched just enough to betray her discomfort in the borrowed gown. She held a glass with both hands, as if bracing herself for some kind of impact.

She cleared her throat, just enough to be heard above the music. “How’s it feel to be a zero-scorer?” she said, eyes bright with nervous humor.

Dawn grinned. “Best time I ever had losing,” she said. “I don’t even care. I’m just glad I got to be Sam for a night.”

Emily’s smile softened, and the tension in her neck visibly eased. “Same,” she said. “I was kind of waiting for someone else to say it first.” She took a sip, then set her glass down, emboldened by the camaraderie. “Pretending to be Erin was… really weird at first. But also kind of amazing? Like, I could tell when I got the walk right. Or when the other girls thought I looked hot, which is not usually my thing. But what surprised me is how—” She hesitated, searching for words. “How different it felt to exist in a body like you own it. Like there’s no apology built into how you move.”

Dawn tilted her head, bunny ears twitching. “That’s exactly it,” she said. “When I was Sam, I stopped worrying about being ‘too much.’ She just is, and everyone else has to keep up.” She glanced down at her own torso, and then at Emily’s. “I think the only way I’m not the center of attention in a room like this is if someone else decides to outshine me on purpose.”

Emily snorted. “You realize your transformation makes it physically impossible to sit in most chairs, right? If the island can’t teach you to take up space, nothing will.”

Dawn laughed, ears flattening. “I upgraded that transformation, actually. I can sit in chairs now, but it’s still not as comfortable as a lap.” She looked at Emily, then shrugged. “But I get your point.”

They stood quietly for a moment, watching the other women swirl around the floor. Emily spoke, softer this time. “I don’t think getting a zero is failure, you know? We did something harder than winning. We tried to become someone else, and then we found out something true about ourselves in the process.”

Dawn’s ears perked up, and she nodded. “I like that,” she said. “Makes me feel like I didn’t just lose. I learned something, too.”

Emily smiled, her hands folding together at her stomach, and the tension in her shoulders dropped another notch. “So what are you going to do with all that self-knowledge?”

Dawn thought, then grinned slyly. “Maybe start by dancing with the real Sam. She always looks like she’s having the most fun.”

Emily giggled, and the sound was contagious. “I bet you’ll win at that,” she said.

Dawn’s ears rose to full height, and she offered Emily a hand, leading her back toward the floor where the energy was less about scoring points and more about simply being alive.

---

Erin found Marissa at the margin of the room, standing alone near a half-reflected window where the music faded to a hum. Erin slid into the open space beside her without preamble, pouring herself a glass of dark wine from the nearest carafe. She sipped, then held the glass up to catch the blue and gold of the chandelier in its depths.

Marissa didn’t glance over, but her lips curled in acknowledgment. “You did well tonight,” she said, voice pitched for two.

Erin snorted, amused. “You mean I didn’t trip and set fire to the tablecloth?”

Marissa shook her head, the movement sending a shimmer through her pale hair. “You outlasted the odds. That’s winning, around here.”

Erin sipped again, then set her glass down and folded her arms, but not in a way that made her look smaller. “Can I tell you something?” she said.

Marissa nodded.

“I wanted to win this challenge,” Erin said, “but not for Andy. Not for anybody but me.” She glanced at Marissa, then at the party. “Does that count as a breakthrough?”

Marissa smiled, soft and honest, nothing of the therapist mask about it. “Yes,” she said, “it does.”

Erin seemed taken aback by the simplicity, then let it settle. She looked down at herself — the forest-green gown, the covered mint skin — and said, “It’s strange, wearing clothes again. Even for one night.”

Marissa regarded her, calm. “Do you miss it?”

Erin considered. “I thought I would, but… it’s like wearing a cast after the bone’s already healed. I’m not uncomfortable, I just… don’t need it.” She shrugged, awkward, and said, “I didn’t expect to feel more like myself with nothing on. But now, with the dress, it’s like I’m pretending to be someone else.”

“That’s not nothing,” Marissa said.

“It’s probably the most honest thing my transformation’s ever given me,” Erin replied, and surprised herself with how true it felt. She reached up and, in an **** gesture, tugged her neckline down just a little, as if airing out an old habit.

They stood together in silence, the kind that didn’t require fixing.

Neither noticed Laura until she was already there, blue-gold gown catching the candlelight and moving as if she’d always belonged in it.

Erin smiled, a quick and real one. “Hey, Laura,” she said, and made room at the ledge for the other woman to join.

Laura shook her head, “No, thank you, I only wanted to speak with you for a moment.”

Erin’s eyebrow rose. “Oh?”

Laura shrugged, and with a grin, began. “Well, it’s like this…”

---

Laura found Andy as he was circling the heart of the Dance Hall, not dancing but not still, either, just tracing the invisible field lines that connected every woman in the room to every other. He felt her approach before he saw her; the bond was back in full ****, enveloping him like a soft blanket, and he could tell she was coming.

She joined him, blue-gold gown trailing in soft arcs, her glass abandoned somewhere near the piano. “You’re still working,” she said, not quite a question.

Andy smiled. “I like to check in. It’s a habit.”

She slipped her hands into his, then matched his pace, so they moved as a unit even though neither was steering. “Have you used all three Gift upgrades this round?” she asked, as if the thought had just crossed her mind.

Andy paused, counting in his head. "Two," he said. "I used them to see if I could bring Katherine out of the painting in the dreamscape. Never got around to picking the third."

Laura’s eyes narrowed—just a flick, almost a joke. “You know you lose them if you don’t use them before the next round,” she said, not quite a warning but the reminder of someone who knew the shape of all his bad habits. “That Gift you have, the one that makes you split? Is there an upgrade that lets you pick if both bodies are Andy, or both Andi, instead of always a set?”

The question landed like a pebble dropped in still water – small, but the ripples went further than he'd expected. He turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised.

“I'm just curious,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “It's a pretty powerful thing, being able to be in two places at once.” She grinned in stereo. “I speak from experience.”

“It is,” Andy said, letting the conversation drift for a moment as a group of dancing women passed close by. He tried to track the thread of why she'd ask, but couldn't quite catch it. “I haven't looked at the upgrade tree for it in a while. There probably is, though.”

Laura nodded, a little too quickly. “Exactly. And it's not like you're running out of upgrades. You’ll get more tomorrow.”

He snorted. “True.”

“Then maybe check it out,” she said, dropping her voice as if sharing a secret. “Before the next round of transformations. Just to know what's possible.”

There was something in the careful way she kept her eyes forward that made Andy's internal alarms ping, faintly. He squeezed her hand back. “Planning something I should know about?”

She laughed, bright enough to make the question seem silly, but her pulse jumped where their fingers touched. “Just wondering what my options might be, if we wanted to...” She trailed off, then lifted her free hand in a vague, suggestive gesture that made absolutely no sense but which she clearly thought was obvious.

Andy's brain scrambled to interpret this as a sex thing, because that was usually where vague hand gestures led, and the thought of having both bodies in one room with Laura was—but then he looked at her face, and the color creeping up her neck wasn't arousal, it was nerves. Or maybe both. It was hard to tell with the way she was smiling, like someone trying not to give away a surprise.

“I'll take a look,” he promised, and because he couldn't help himself, he leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. “But you know you could just tell me what you're thinking, right? We've got all night.”

Her eyes darted to his, then away, and she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand. “It's nothing, really,” she said. “Just an idea. I'll tell you after you've had a chance to see what the upgrade does.”

Before he could press, she pulled away, her fingertips trailing across his palm. “I should go catch up with Riley before she decides the night's over,” she said, already backing up. “See you when you're done checking?”

He nodded, bemused, and watched her melt back into the crowd with the casual precision of someone who'd never left a room in a hurry.

Andy shook his head, finishing his drink. He needed to make the rounds with the rest of the women anyway, and the thought of a quick break to check something that had clearly intrigued Laura had its own pull. He made one more slow circuit of the dance floor, catching Emi's eye and giving her a wink, before slipping out the side door and heading for the Commissary.

The Main Lobby was quiet compared to the Hall, just a Mildred who gave him a nod without stopping her dusting. He made his way to the terminal, pulling up the Gift menu and scrolling past the flashier, more immediate options to the Master's Gifts.

Sure enough, there it was:

• Connect++++ [Two for One]: Both forms may freely swap genders while the Master is split, enabling him to present both forms as the same gender, or one of each, as he wishes. Comes with an additional little tune-up in attractiveness towards women.

His first thought was simply: that's clever. It would mean he could be in two places as Andi, or as Andy, or split between them as usual. The next thought, immediately following, was: why does Laura care?

He read the description again. Nothing jumped out at him about why she might have flagged it specifically – there wasn't even a mention of any particular advantage for the women he was with, just the practical implications of having a consistent form when needed. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the terminal, thinking.

Maybe it was just strategy. Or maybe... he let the thought of two Andys in the same bed with Laura rise, then firmly pushed it down before he had to explain to anyone watching why he was suddenly very interested in the wall sconce.

He shrugged to himself and hit the purchase button. The terminal hummed and accepted the update with a cheerful ping. Whatever Laura had in mind, he'd find out when he got back to the Hall. And if he had to spend the rest of the night wondering, well – that was hardly a hardship.

He headed back toward the Dance Hall, letting the question turn over in his mind. Whatever she was planning, the part he was sure of was this: the flicker of a secret in her eyes was exactly the same as it had been when they were thirteen.

---

The party had thinned enough that the music felt less like a command and more like an invitation. Andy leaned against the edge of the refreshment table, the cool cut-glass tumbler sweating gently against his palm, and let the slow roll of the evening settle into him. The third whiskey had etched a warmth in his chest that was neither urgent nor dulled his senses, thanks to his Gifts. But its warmth softened the edges enough to take the measure of the room without feeling the need to fix or steer anything.

The orchestra, now half its original size, had shifted from a precision machine to something looser, improvisational, the violin section flirting with jazz and the pianist riffing off whatever the last dancer’s tempo had been. It was music for memory, not for spectacle, and for the first time all night he could feel the weight of eyes in the room drop away. The pageantry was over; what remained was real.

Across the room, Chloe and Riley were sharing a banquette near the garden doors, their heads bent together like schoolgirls plotting a quiet coup. Riley’s lips were moving fast, barely above a whisper, her hands painting shapes in the air as she told some story that clearly delighted both of them. Chloe’s smile was a line of pure, unfiltered light: open, honest, a kind of expression that felt purest Chloe.

It warmed him to watch, and also stung him in a way that was only half jealousy and half relief. He’d been expecting fractures in this group from the beginning, small cracks that would grow under the pressure of competition and heartbreak and elimination and the relentless machinery of the show. But the opposite had happened. If anything, the girls had closed ranks, found each other’s silences and stitched them up, turned rivalries into in-jokes. He was proud of them, and for the first time unsure he had anything left to protect. It was a feeling both liberating and lonely.

Closer to the piano, Dawn and Emi had decided the evening called for a percussion section. Dawn, in her gold dress and with her bunny ears at full mast, kept time with a pair of chopsticks scavenged from a sushi tray. Emi, all six arms free, played the row of crystal glasses in front of her like a xylophone. The Mildreds watched from the orchestra, with the wary glance of chaperones who suspected the students might eventually go too far. A few of the other women drifted over to join, tapping out rhythms on the edge of the bar or adding their voices in a soft, tipsy chorus that never quite resolved into lyrics. It was the kind of scene Andy would have killed to witness as a socially anxious undergrad: genuine, unguarded, a little ridiculous.

But the real axis of the evening was in the far corner, where Sam and Liesa had found each other and quietly failed to let go. Sam had her jacket off, and her sleeves were rolled just so, baring the ink on her forearms. She was leaning against the wall like she owned it, which in a sense she did; Sam’s gift had always been to claim territory not by **** but by sheer inertia, by standing until the world rearranged itself around her presence.

Liesa, for her part, had clearly started the evening with every intention of keeping her shoes on, but now dangled them from one hand, using the other for balance as she swayed in time to the music. She stood close enough to Sam that their hips touched, but not in a calculated way – it was the casual, mutual gravity of two people who had long since given up pretending they could or wanted to keep a safe distance.

At first Andy watched out of habit, the way he’d observed a hundred couples over the years, parsing body language for power dynamics or danger signs. Sam was not performing, and neither was Liesa. Their faces were open, unmasked, the lines of fatigue and relief and hope all visible at once. Andy felt something settle inside him, a low, resonant chord of pride. This moment belonged entirely to them.

It was so small a thing, and yet it hit Andy like a wave. He'd known Sam for a decade, had watched her date and flirt and swear off the whole institution of romance at least fourteen different times, but he'd never seen her look quite like this: relaxed in a way that had nothing to do with the ****, and everything to do with the woman whose head was tipped against her shoulder.

He caught Emi’s eye across the room, expecting a flash of mischief or commentary, but she gave him a look both gentle and deliberate, then looked away with a smile he recognized as complicity. We’re not watching. You’re not watching. Everyone here is only what they want to be, at least tonight. Andy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and let himself disappear into the observation.

He made a show of taking his time with the whiskey, studying the cut of the glass as if it contained some secret to the universe, but his focus drifted back to Sam and Liesa. He watched as Sam reached up to tuck a stray lock of Liesa’s hair behind her ear, her touch as careful as if handling a rare artifact. Liesa smiled, not with her trademark dazzling performance but with a softness that made her look younger, almost undone by the attention. They leaned in, and their foreheads touched, and in that moment the rest of the party could have vanished for all they cared. Andy felt, absurdly, like a proud parent, and also a little like a ghost who had stayed too long at his own funeral.

But he kept watching, because that was his best friend, his sister really, and the way her hand had settled on the back of Liesa's neck was as careful as it was certain. He'd seen Sam with a hundred different people, but the way she leaned down to whisper something that made Liesa laugh – that was new. The genuine, unpracticed delight that washed over Liesa's face in response wasn't something she'd rehearsed for the cameras.

They'd both been in the game long enough to know the difference between a performance and the real thing, and this, tucked away in the corner of a thinning party, was as real as the day was long.

A passing Mildred caught his stare and followed it to the pair, then raised an eyebrow in silent question. Andy shook his head, the barest motion: don't interrupt. What he was watching was fragile, and precious, and exactly the kind of thing that got lost when too many eyes turned its way.

He made a show of checking his watch, then looking pointedly toward the door, as if reminding himself of some appointment. If they noticed, they'd think he was leaving. If they didn't, no harm done. He pushed away from the table, gathering his empty glass, and let his path take him on a slow arc that would bring him no closer to their corner.

As he passed, he heard a snatch of Liesa's laughter – low, private, the kind that was just for one person. He didn't look, but he didn't have to. He'd known Sam long enough to recognize the particular stillness that came over her when something mattered.

The band was winding down, the last few dancers swaying in lazy circles. He set his glass on a passing tray and turned toward the door, letting the two of them have their moment in peace.

---

The orchestra had wound down to something slow and undemanding, a gentle waltz that no one was really dancing to anymore. The last of the champagne bottles had been opened, the dessert trays picked clean of everything but a few lonely macarons that no one had the heart to take the last of. The party had the particular warmth of a room where the best of the night had already happened, and everyone knew it.

Andy stood near the center of the emptying floor, letting the last of his whiskey burn slow and sweet across his tongue. He watched Chloe and Riley leave together, heads bent in some private joke that made them both snort with laughter. Dawn and Emi followed close behind, the former's bunny ears perked up with barely contained excitement, the latter's six arms all gesturing at once as she recounted some part of the evening that clearly required maximum physical expression.

Norah departed with the straight-backed dignity of someone who'd had a better time than she'd ever admit out loud, pausing only to give him a nod that was almost a salute. Myra and Claire left together, the former's tail swishing in lazy, contented arcs, the latter's notebook clutched to her chest like a shield or a treasure, depending on the moment.

Sam gave him a long hug on her way out, squeezing tight enough that if he had not had the stamina of his Gifts, she would have cracked all his ribs, and said absolutely nothing, which was the Sam Collins version of a ten-minute speech about how much she'd needed tonight to go exactly as it had. He hugged her back just as hard, then released her to the waiting Liesa, who gave him a quick, brilliant smile that held none of the careful calculation she'd arrived with.

Marissa was the last to approach, stopping just close enough that he had to lean in to hear her over the dwindling music. "Good night," she said simply, and kissed him. Her smile, when he pulled back, was knowing. "Don't overthink it," she added, before he could ask. Then she was gone too, her slate-blue gown sweeping the edge of the parquet as she moved toward the door.

He turned, glass in hand, and there was Laura – both of her, at the same moment, stepping out of the shadows near the far wall where she'd been watching the exodus. She'd unpinned her hair at some point, and the blue-gold waves of it fell loose around her shoulders, catching the low, golden light like she'd been dipped in honey.

"You look like you're counting," she said, taking the empty glass from his hand and setting it on a passing Mildred's tray without looking. "One, two, three, where did everyone go?"

He smiled, feeling the pull of the bond like a living thing between them. "Just making sure no one's left behind."

She stepped closer, one hand coming up to straighten his already-perfect bow tie. "Very noble of you," she said, and the teasing in her voice was so familiar it ached. "Ready to go up?"

He nodded, and she took his hands with the ease of someone who'd been doing it all her life. Laura's fingers were tight in his, and the look she gave him when he hesitated was pure, uncomplicated want.

The corridor outside was quiet, just the distant clink of glasses being cleared and the soft shuffle of the cleaning staff beginning their work. The elevator waited at the end, its doors gleaming in the warm, low light.

"You're thinking too loud," Laura said, bumping her shoulder against his. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

He shook his head, not quite ready to put words to the swirl of tenderness and anticipation that had been building all night. "Just wondering what you've got planned," he said instead.

She squeezed his hand, and her smile was warm and open and entirely ordinary, which was the thing that should have told him something was off but didn't. "Nothing you won't like," she said, and the teasing lilt in her voice was exactly the same as it had been when they were thirteen and she was leading him somewhere she wasn't supposed to.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and they stepped inside. As the doors slid closed, cutting them off from the last strains of the party's music, Andy finally let himself exhale. Laura's hand tightened in his, and she smiled at the middle distance, like she was sharing a secret with herself.

He didn't ask why. Some surprises were worth the wait.