Anchors and Echoes, Part 1

You would know in words that which you have always known in thought.
You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 88 VP - 2600 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 75 VP - 5700 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 74 VP - 2350 BP - 3 Achievs
Claire - 69 VP - 8900 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 62 VP - 5500 BP - 1 Achiev
Emily - 57 VP - 6100 BP - 1 Achiev (used)
Liesa - 56 VP - 4200 BP - 2 Achievs
Dawn - 54 VP - 6300 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 46 VP - 3550 - 1 Achiev
Riley - 17 VP - 5600 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 14 VP - 4275 BP - 1 Achiev
Myra - 13 VP - 4800 BP

He woke first to the shift of sunlight and the sound of Norah’s breathing. It was different than waking with Emily, whose sleep was a tangle of hair and constant micro-movements. Norah lay perfectly still, her cheek pillowed against Andy’s bare chest, arms and legs collected in a geometry of comfort that, even at rest, looked deliberate. She did not burrow; she did not seek. She simply existed, drawing warmth and sharing it back, as if the mutual exchange was a given.

He watched her a long while, tracing the line of her dark lashes, the gentle cut of her cheekbones, the shape of her lips. Her makeup had smudged and vanished in the night, leaving her face younger, unguarded. In sleep, the corners of her mouth turned up just enough to seem like she was plotting, or maybe just dreaming of something she intended to win. He’d never noticed how small her hands looked compared to her words, or how she curled her toes as if holding on to the last of the dream.

At some point, Norah woke, but didn’t move—just opened her eyes and looked at him, half-lidded, a grin forming as if to say, caught you looking. She didn’t speak, not for the first minute, letting the hush stretch between them. Andy waited, content, knowing she would break the silence with something that cut through sentiment but left the marrow untouched.

Finally, she said, “You watching for snoring, or you just like the view?”

He grinned, not bothering to look away. “You don’t snore. Not even a little.”

She yawned, stretching her arms overhead, every line of her body lengthening. For a split second, the covers dropped, and she made no move to recover them. She moved with the practiced grace of someone who always knew exactly what she looked like, but for the first time, Andy sensed it wasn’t about performance. There was no performance here at all.

The next few minutes felt oddly suspended, as if time had paused just for them. Norah let the covers slide to her waist, sitting upright and stretching with a slow, self-contained pleasure. She regarded Andy with a half-smile, eyelids low, then reached to brush a line of hair from her collarbone. She looked comfortable and at home in her skin—a small miracle, Andy thought, given all she’d ever told him about her past, about never being enough for anyone except as a symbol or a story.

He kept expecting her to reach for the heels immediately, but instead she just padded to the edge of the bed and swung her feet to the carpet, toes flexing into the soft pile. She did not stand, nor did she make any urgent move toward clothing or armor. For a while, she simply sat, bare back to him, the dark fall of her hair tracing the notch of her spine. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to always see her this unguarded. He doubted anyone else had.

When she finally moved, it was to crawl forward, hands and knees, gathering the black sheath dress from the floor and shaking it out. Andy watched her, marveling at the lack of hesitation, the pride in her posture, how each motion was deliberate and free of apology. She did not scuttle or flinch, did not glance over her shoulder as if fearing a laugh. It struck him, not for the first time, how much of her life must have been spent expecting ridicule, and how hard she’d worked to own every possible weakness before anyone else could name it.

Norah caught him looking and raised one eyebrow, then grinned, baring teeth in a way that said, Don’t you dare pity me, Cooper.

“I can hear your brain working,” she said. “Is this your first morning-after with a crawling girl?”

“So it seems,” he said. “But I like the view.”

She snorted and pulled her dress over her head in a single practiced move, then sat cross-legged, smoothing the fabric over her knees. “You’re supposed to say something chivalrous, like ‘you’re beautiful’ or ‘I respect you deeply.’”

He propped himself on an elbow, watching her. “You know I do.”

“Yeah.” She rolled her shoulders, then craned her neck, working out a knot. “But it’s nice to hear, sometimes.”

He almost said it—You’re beautiful—but something in her eyes said she already knew, at least for this moment. So he just smiled and watched, letting her collect herself at her own pace.

She gathered her underwear from the foot of the bed, but didn’t put it on, just balled it in her fist and set it atop the little bear. Then, with a kind of slow-motion determination, she crawled to the far end of the suite, where her stilettos sat against the wall like sentries. She picked them up, one in each hand, and turned to face him.

“I’ll wait for you to finish your leering,” she said, but there was no bite in it, only a faint pink at her cheeks.

He shrugged, still in bed. “You never have to wait.”

She weighed the shoes, then placed them gently on the dresser and returned to the bed, her movement now easy and almost playful. She stood on her knees, facing him, and rested her hands on his bare chest.

“I’m sore,” she said. “But not enough.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”

Her answer was to kiss him—hard, then soft, then hard again. The room tilted and spun with each press of his lips against hers, a vertigo that made her grip his shoulders to steady herself. She straddled his hips and pinned his hands to the mattress, her eyes wild with the thrill of having nothing left to hide. Then she released his wrists only to turn herself around, facing away from him, her back a perfect arch as she lowered herself onto him reverse. The position left her completely exposed, **** in a way that would have terrified her yesterday. She reached behind to grip his thigh, controlling the depth and angle with a confidence that surprised them both. Andy's hands found her hips, then slid up her spine, feeling each vertebra like piano keys beneath his fingertips.

When she came, she threw her head back, hair cascading down her shoulders, and bit her own forearm to keep from screaming. The sound that escaped anyway was half-laugh, half-sob—like she'd discovered something she never knew existed. Andy pulled her backward against his chest, arms wrapped around her, and felt her tremble, then relax, then tremble again, as if her nervous system didn't quite know how to process what was happening.

She twisted in his arms until they faced each other, spent and breathless. He kissed her again, softly, and the world swam around her, making her clutch at his shoulders as though she might float away. They stayed like that, a tangle of limbs and cooling sweat, until her breathing slowed and she nuzzled her nose into the hollow beneath his jaw.

"Fuck," she said, muffled, still fighting the pleasant lightheadedness his lips had left behind. "Now you have to marry me."

He laughed, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Give me another round and I’ll consider it.”

She rolled off, landing on her side, and stared up at the ceiling. The hush was companionable, neither awkward nor ****. Andy ran a hand down her arm, tracing the faint goosebumps. She shivered, but didn’t pull away.

After a time, she said, “I was scared you’d laugh at me. Last night, with the crawling.”

He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence speak for him. Then: “I couldn’t laugh if I tried.”

She turned to look at him, eyes sharp. “You say that, but you’re different. Most guys would have lost it, or made a joke, or… I don’t know. I’ve spent my whole life making sure no one ever saw me slip. I thought it would be the worst thing in the world.”

Andy considered, choosing words with care. “You don’t have to be perfect with me.”

She made a face, half-smirk, half-grimace. “Yeah, well, perfection is easier than being seen. I’m not used to this. I’m not sure I like it.” She bit her lip. “But maybe I do.”

He nodded, understanding.

She rolled onto her stomach, arms folded beneath her chin, and watched him with her face only inches from his. Her gaze was searching, as if she was still deciding whether to trust what she’d felt.

“I’m not going to be like this for anyone else,” she said, voice low. “Not ever.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to be.”

“I know.” She hesitated, then added, “But I’m glad you saw it.” She grinned, wicked now. “I’ll deny it if you tell anyone, though.”

He laughed. “Your secret’s safe.”

For a long while after, neither of them moved. It was the kind of quiet you didn’t want to end—Andy watching Norah as she gathered the will to break it, Norah letting her cheek press harder into his chest, eyes tracing the seam of the bedsheet like she was learning its shape by heart.

“You ever think about what you’d be if you weren’t… this?” she said, finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Andy thought about it. “I think I’d be a worse version of myself. Or maybe just a sadder one.”

She snorted. “Such a therapist answer.”

He smiled into her hair. “I could ask the same. Would you change anything?”

Norah pondered, then shrugged. “For the longest time, I wanted to be the opposite of what I am. Now? I think I just want to see what happens when I stop fighting.”

She rolled onto her back, arms above her head, the covers bunched at her hips. Andy watched the slow rise and fall of her chest, the glint of morning sun painting her collarbone in gold. He wanted to memorize her exactly as she was in this moment: unguarded, unafraid, beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with perfection.

Norah twisted to face him, and for the first time, Andy realized she was nervous. Not in the way he’d seen her before—this was different. It was a question forming at the back of her throat, waiting for permission to surface.

“Okay,” she said. “I want to try something.”

“Try what?”

Norah propped herself up on one elbow. “With my first transformation, you could make me into anything you wanted. You remember?” Her smile was crooked, but hopeful. “I want you to do it.”

Andy sat up, surprised. “You sure? You don’t have to—”

“I know.” She took his hand, and pressed it to her chest, right over her heart. “But I want you to.”

He considered, then nodded, remembering the rules: he had to picture it—really believe it—and then the transformation would lock in.

Norah grinned, conspiratorial now. “Okay. Here’s what I want: When I crawl? It’s not humiliating, or painful, or a punishment. It’s just… easy. No bruises, no rug burn, no awkwardness. Just comfort. Like my body is made for it.” She paused, searching his face. “And… maybe the other thing, too.”

Andy raised an eyebrow. “The other thing?”

She blushed, just a hint. “The boobs. Like, Erin-level. Or more.” She laughed, covering her face. “I know I’m pretty stacked already, dude. I saw Emily coming out of the Suite yesterday. It was like looking at a cartoon character. And she’s as tall as I used to be. But, you know, it was fun last time you made them bigger. And if Chloe can handle it, so can I.” She peeked at him through her fingers. “I’m going to show her and Erin how a girl really should carry them. You like that, right?”

He tried not to laugh. “It’s not a requirement. And you’re already pretty well equipped. Also, not sure what’s up with two out of two girls in the last couple of days asking for bigger boobs. Am I that much of a pervert, visibly so?” She smirked at him and he raised his hands in surrender. “But if it makes you happy…”

“It will.” She poked his chest. “You’re supposed to close your eyes and picture it.”

He obliged, shutting his eyes. He focused: Norah, crawling, and loving it; Norah, with her hair wild and a pair of breasts so exaggerated they made physics a suggestion, not a rule; Norah, on hands and knees, unashamed, unburdened.

He opened his eyes, and for a moment, nothing had changed—then he saw the slow ripple beneath the covers as Norah’s chest began to expand, pushing up, outward, and down in a slow-motion wave. Her nipples darkened, widening with the new territory, and as she sat upright, her breasts came to rest with a heavy, satisfying bounce.

Norah stared at herself, wide-eyed, then cupped her new assets in both hands, testing their heft. “Holy shit,” she said, laughing. “That’s… that’s a lot.”

Andy watched, transfixed. “Is it what you wanted?”

She squeezed them together, delighting in the effect. “This is Chloe-level, isn’t it? It’s better than I hoped.” She shifted, letting them settle, then crawled across the bed to the edge, testing each movement for discomfort. There was none. She moved with the smooth, feline grace of someone for whom the world was made of cushions. “I could get used to this.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then beckoned him with one finger. “Come here.”

He did, kneeling behind her. She looked up at him, then bent low, her back arched, her new figure displayed in perfect silhouette. Andy ran a hand along her spine, down to the curve of her hips, and she shivered with anticipation.

She glanced back over her shoulder, her hair a tangled curtain, and flashed him a conspirator’s grin. “This is your fantasy now,” Norah purred, her voice breathy and more than a little taunting. “Might as well enjoy it.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He took his time, tracing the new curves of her back, letting his palms settle on the impossible bounty of her transformed chest. She seemed to savor every second of it—each touch echoing outward, every caress telegraphed into a shiver or a ripple or a twitch of anticipation. He slid his hands beneath her, cupping the newness, hefting it, and she moaned at the sensation, part amused, part astonished, mostly just hungry for more.

When he pressed into her, the sound she made was totally unguarded—a raw, guttural gasp that vibrated all the way through his ribcage. She braced herself on her hands, her new weight pulling her forward, and rocked back against him with a surety and a wildness that was unmistakably hers. There was no hesitation or self-consciousness; she was at home in her body, and he could sense it in the way she moved, each motion confident, fluid, almost feline.

They found a rhythm that was slow at first, drawing out the tension, then faster, then slower again—a lurching, uneven, joyful improvisation, as if they were both making it up as they went along. Norah’s laughter punctuated the quiet at odd moments: sometimes teasing, sometimes triumphant. She’d encourage him to go harder, then clamp him with her thighs and demand that he slow down, her words painting the air between them with a mix of orders and endearments.

At one point, she turned her head to look at him, eyes wide and wild, her face flushed with effort and delight. “You know,” she said, her voice rough, “I always thought it would feel different. Like… weird. But it’s actually good, Andy.” Her breathing came in bursts. “It’s really fucking good.”

He grinned, and for a moment forgot himself, just wrapped his arms around her from behind, locking her in place—his hands overlapping beneath her new chest, squeezing her closer, letting her feel the full press of him against her spine. She tilted her head back into his shoulder and let out a noise that was equal parts surprise and gratitude.

The sensation spilled over, and suddenly it was all happening at once—her body clenching around him, her legs buckling, her whole being shaking in a way that almost knocked him off balance. She collapsed forward onto her elbows, surrendering to the **** of it, and he followed, both of them half-laughing, half-moaning, a mess of tangled arms and legs and sheets.

When it was over, Norah sprawled out on the bed, face mashed against the pillow, her breathing ragged and unrestrained. She didn’t move for a long moment, letting herself float in the afterglow. Andy ran a hand down her back, not sure whether she’d want to be touched, but she made a low sound that was all invitation, so he kept going, tracing lazy circles along her skin.

Finally, she rolled onto her side to face him, gathering her new proportions into her arms like a hoarder with a prize. She looked at him with an expression of pure satisfaction, mixed with a hint of embarrassment. “I could do this all day,” she said, her words muffled by the pillow but unmistakably sincere.

Andy lay beside her, catching his breath. “You might have to. Unless you want me to change it back.”

She shook her head and grinned, eyes closed. “Best present ever.”

For a while, they just lay there, side by side, hands touching, legs tangled. Then Norah sat up, her new figure impossible to ignore, and made her way to the edge of the bed. She reached for her stilettos, and this time, Andy could see the difference: she didn’t need them, but she wanted them. She buckled each strap with care, then stood, balancing with practiced ease.

She turned, catching Andy’s gaze. “Do I look ridiculous?” she asked, voice teasing.

He shook his head. “You look incredible.”

She stood taller, owning it. “Good. Because I’m never going back.”

Norah walked to the door, heels clicking, then paused, turning to face him. For a moment, Andy wondered if she was going to say something profound. Instead, she winked, blew him a kiss, and said, “Don’t forget—your secret’s safe, too.”

Then she left, her footsteps echoing down the hall, and Andy watched her go, a smile blooming on his face that lasted long after she was gone.

Andy lingered in the Suite for as long as he could justify, **** to break the spell of the morning. But the day pressed on, and so he dressed, slipped on a clean shirt, and headed for the elevator.

He found Marissa waiting for him in the Main Lobby, her posture immaculate, hands folded in front of her. She wore a sleeveless button-up, the color of fresh cream, and a pencil skirt that rode a few inches higher than the standard hospital cut. It was both modest and, thanks to her transformation, audaciously revealing: the shirt’s top three buttons were undone, and the deep V of her cleavage left nothing to the imagination. Andy was almost used to it by now—almost.

This was the third time in as many days that the girl whose date night was coming up intercepted him in the Main Lobby. If he didn’t know better, he would have suspected the women of planning it to keep him away from somewhere. Perhaps they had decided that each of them should get a day, like Myra had. That could explain why I haven’t seen any of the others during these full-day dates, he thought.

“Morning, Andy,” she said. Her voice was gentle, but he felt the effect at once—a subtle, pleasant tingle that made him hyperaware of his own skin.

“Good morning,” he replied, falling in beside her. “You look…”

She gave a tiny smile, almost self-deprecating. “I know. It’s a lot.”

“It’s great,” he said, and meant it.

She cocked her head, as if making a note, then gestured toward the main doors. “Walk with me?”

He nodded. Together, they stepped into the sun-bleached corridor that led to the Inner Gardens. Marissa walked with slow, unhurried steps, savoring the hush. Every so often she’d glance sideways at Andy, and he could tell she was studying him, not for weaknesses, but for changes—was he different, after last night? Had the weight he carried shifted, even a little?

She stopped at a turn in the path, just before a wall of glossy philodendrons. “This way,” she said, then pressed her hand to a section of wall that, to Andy, had always seemed like mere decoration. The surface shimmered, then parted, revealing a door—simple, dark wood, with an old-fashioned brass handle.

Andy blinked. “How did I never see this before?”

Marissa smiled, a glint of pride in her eyes. “I built it this morning. With Bonus Points.” She shrugged, modest. “The 88 Club was my first purchase, but that one is a place for everyone. This one… this one’s mine alone.”

She opened the door. Andy stepped inside, and the change was immediate: air thick with the scent of jasmine and moss, humidity softening the edges of his skin. Light spilled through a cathedral of glass overhead, catching in the beads of condensation that hung like tiny prisms on every leaf. The floor was warm stone, underfoot; the paths wound through thickets of bamboo, trailing orchids, and small, shallow ponds where koi flickered in the water like orange commas.

Marissa 5500 BP - 2500 BP = 3000 BP

It was quiet, but not dead. Birdsong threaded the air; now and then, the slow chime of wind through a distant spiral. Every few feet, benches were set into alcoves, half-buried in ferns, like invitations to pause and just be.

Marissa let the door close behind them and waited, letting Andy take it in. He did, and for a while, said nothing. When he turned to her, she was watching him, not for approval but for the little spark of awe she hoped to find.

“Wow,” he said, at last. “You made all this?”

She nodded, eyes bright. “Every plant, every rock. The temperature, the light—custom settings.” She strolled forward, and Andy followed, letting her set the pace.

They walked. Marissa led him along a twisting path, over a footbridge so fine it looked grown, not built, the handrails made of braided willow. She didn’t talk, not at first, letting the place do the work of filling the space between them. Andy, for once, was content to follow.

At length, Marissa stopped at the edge of a low pond. She watched the fish for a moment, then said, “I needed somewhere to go, when I couldn’t stand the pressure. I thought the 88 Club would be enough, but sometimes I just wanted quiet. Somewhere I could breathe.”

He nodded, understanding. “It’s perfect.”

She smiled, but her eyes didn’t leave the fish. “I was afraid it was selfish. To want something just for me.” She knelt, brushing a fingertip through the surface of the pond. The koi rushed to her, as if waiting for her touch. “I’ve spent so much of my life making sure everyone else is okay. I didn’t know what to do with… wanting something.”

Andy knelt beside her. “You deserve it,” he said, and was surprised at how easy it was to mean it.

They sat together, the hush around them as rich as any conversation. The air was heavy with the perfume of blooming night phlox, so sweet it bordered on intoxicating.

After a while, Marissa rose to her feet and offered Andy her hand. “There’s more to see,” she said, voice syrup-smooth.

He followed her deeper along the path, which soon veered away from the ponds and into a narrow, vine-draped corridor. The light dimmed, filtered through layers of leaf and glass. The air cooled, beads of moisture clinging to Andy’s skin like dew.

They reached a threshold, and beyond it the world opened: a water garden, wider than any pool in the Hotel, filled with glass-clear water and stone platforms, each one floating on the surface. Some were round, some square; all were covered in thick, springy moss. The only way forward was to step across the stones, each one a deliberate leap of faith.

Marissa looked back at him. “You trust me?”

He nodded, and she smiled—a real one, unguarded, her whole face softening.

She kicked off her shoes, then stepped lightly onto the nearest platform. Her skirt swished around her calves, and with each step, the water rippled outward, bending the light into rainbows. Andy followed, testing his weight. The moss underfoot was plush, forgiving. With each step, the world behind them blurred, until it was only the two of them and the hush of the water.

At the center of the water garden, beneath a dome of intertwined wisteria, was a single, wide platform, just above the waterline. Marissa stopped there, and Andy joined her, feeling the moss squish cool and damp beneath his toes.

“This is my favorite spot,” she said. He waited, knowing she had more to say.

Marissa sat, legs folded, and patted the moss beside her. He lowered himself, close but not touching.

She stared out at the water, then took a deep breath. “A couple of days ago, Arabella allowed me to meet my mentor. She's on another season of Harem Hotel. We had a good conversation, something I think we both sorely needed. And she gave me much to think about. For instance, that I haven't always been good in connecting and communicating with the other women, and I need to do better." She paused, hesitating. "I want to be honest with you, Andy. I’m not afraid of what I feel, but I think you are.”

He bristled, a little, but she squeezed his knee, grounding him.

“I know you love more than one person,” Marissa went on. “I know you’re trying to figure out how to be… enough, for all of us.” She turned to him, blue eyes searching. “But you don’t have to choose. We're all adults, here. We can all choose the shape our relationships should take. And most of the women on this island have chosen to be with you, Andy, even if we can only get one-on-one time with you once every ten days or so. We see you every day, and you give us as much of your time as you can. We know this. So you don't have to choose. You just have to be honest.”

Andy listened, silent. He didn’t trust himself to say anything yet.

Marissa touched his hand, traced the veins with her fingertip. “I would like marriage, someday, when I'm ready. Maybe kids.” Her smile went crooked. “But for now, I don’t need a ceremony, or a ring, or a claim. I just want to be part of your future.”

He met her gaze, finding only warmth, no demand. It knocked the wind out of him.

She continued, “I know what it’s like to be alone in a crowd. I’d rather be with you—really with you—even if it means sharing.” She pressed his palm to her chest, just above her heart. “That’s all I want.”

Andy felt the slow, steady beat beneath his hand, and something in him relaxed, unwound.

They sat that way for a while, breath syncing up. The conservatory’s hush made the moment feel infinite, like nothing existed beyond the dome of wisteria and light.

Finally, he said, “You’re amazing.”

She snorted, but he felt the flutter beneath her breast. “That’s the Hotel,” she teased. “You’re contractually obligated to say that.”

He laughed and shook his head. “No, pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

Marissa looked at him, eyes huge, and he suddenly saw her not as the therapist, the steady presence, but as a woman very much afraid of the next words to come out of his mouth. "So... What do you think?" She asked in a surprisingly small voice. Andy paused, not because he didn't want to reply, but because he had never seen her so ****. All the walls were down, in this particular moment. There was no barrier between him and the girl within her who had been hurt so many times by guys who could never accept coming in second, behind her sister.

An odd thought came to his mind, that the Harem Hotel had given Marissa exactly what she needed: a man who would love her, but whose other obligations ensured her sister could remain her first priority, without sacrificing Marissa's own happiness. "Marissa," he said quietly, reaching out for her hand. "I want you to be part of whatever future I have. I know it will be harder for you, all of you, than for me. I'll try to do my best to be with everyone who wants me, but you are right, each of you will only get a slice of me." He looked into her eyes. "And you know there is a part of me, a big part, that will never stop loving Laura." He sighed, shaking his head. "You deserve far more than what I can give you, Marissa, but if it is enough for you, then I want this too, and I don't need a ceremony for it to be real, either."

She tilted her head, lips close to his ear. “Kiss me, then. For real.”

He did.

The kiss was slow, deep, the kind that burned through the bones. Marissa pulled him closer, arms winding around his neck, her body yielding to his with an easy grace. She tasted like sunlight and salt and some unnamed spice that was wholly her.

He slid his arms around her waist, and she let herself fall back onto the moss, pulling him with her. The world shrank to the press of her body, the rush of blood in his ears, the rhythm of their lips.

Marissa’s hands were sure, mapping every inch of him with deliberate, slow touches. She undid his shirt, one button at a time, then traced the lines of his chest, her breath coming faster.

Andy’s pulse matched hers, his heart thudding in fierce, deliberate synchrony with the slow beat under her palm. He was acutely aware not only of Marissa’s body—every warm inch of skin, every flutter of breath—but also of how she was watching him, searching his expression as if she could witness the exact moment vulnerability overtook him. He let her see it.

His hand moved to her cheek, calloused thumb tracing the gentle slope of her cheekbone, then to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse beat wild and bright. Down, further, to her collarbone, and then lower still, slipping over the satiny contour of her shoulder and trailing down to the curve of her waist. She arched beneath the touch, never flinching, her gaze locked on his like a dare.

It would have been easy to lose himself—rush, consume, surrender to hunger. But Marissa, with a single palm pressed to his chest, slowed him, grounded him in the moment’s gravity.

“Go slow,” she whispered, her lips barely brushing his ear. “Make it last.”

Andy had never been more willing to obey anyone in his life.

He took his time, every movement deliberate. He reached to the top button of her shirt—he’d noticed earlier the way she’d left it uncharacteristically unbuttoned, and now he understood why. Her skin was slightly damp with the heat of the conservatory, and the fabric clung to her curves as if painted on. He peeled the shirt away, one side at a time, baring the deep, perfect swell of her breasts, which rose and fell with the tempo of her breath. He dipped his head, lips brushing the delicate skin just above her heart, and the warmth of her startled gasp almost undid him.

Her hands were in his hair instantly, fingers threading at the nape of his neck, holding him close. She smelled of jasmine and night phlox, and underneath that, something saltier, skin and want and the faint metallic taste of sweat. Andy kissed his way lower, letting his tongue trace quick, reverent circles. He could feel her heart galloping through the thin wall of her ribcage. Marissa shivered, her nails pressing into his scalp—he wondered if she was even aware that she did it, if her clinical detachment ever survived contact with touch, with pleasure.

She didn’t have to ask for more. He could tell what she wanted by the way she tilted her chin, the way she held him in place with a touch both gentle and absolute. He followed the request, mouth finding the fine edge of her breast, kissing up to the hollow, then lower, then lower still. She squirmed under him—he hadn’t expected the sound that came out of her, a little laugh, helpless and irreverent, as if she were embarrassed by her own pleasure.

“Andy,” she breathed, and for a second, the sound of his own name nearly buckled him.

He felt like he could have stayed there forever, mapping every inch of her, letting the world outside contract to the space beneath this dome of wisteria and glass. But Marissa was a woman who understood both need and its limits. She was in control even as she surrendered, directing the pace and rhythm with a precision that was, somehow, never cold or calculated.

When he reached the waistband of her skirt, she lifted her hips with an easy, fluid movement, making it clear she’d been waiting for this. He slid the skirt away, and the sight of her—bare beneath, skin gleaming against the moss—nearly stopped his heart. There was something at once statuesque and utterly human about her, caught between the beauty of an artfully rendered sculpture and the vivid, unrepeatable messiness of being alive.

He paused, eyes roaming, letting her see that he was looking, really looking. For the first time that morning, Marissa’s composure faltered; her cheeks went a shade redder, and she ducked her head for just a beat before looking up at him, a smile blooming, shy but not afraid.

She reached for his waistband, fingers nimble. “Your turn,” she murmured, which he knew was less invitation and more directive. He obliged, stripping away the rest of his own clothes, feeling suddenly exposed and yet, in her presence, never more seen.

For a while, they just lay together, side by side, skin to skin, the moss soft and cool against their backs. The sunlight played across their bodies in dapples, shifting with the slow arc of the day. They touched each other with a kind of reverence, hands moving in slow passes, neither in a hurry to escalate or be done. Andy traced her spine, the fine bumps of vertebrae, the smooth sweep of her hip; she cupped his jaw, thumb stroking the line of his cheek, as if she could sculpt him from memory.

Eventually, Marissa rolled on top of him, her hair loose and wild, tumbling over her shoulders and his face. She kissed him again, long and deep, then sat up, straddling his hips. Her breasts swayed, heavy and perfect, and Andy reached for them, cupping them in his hands with a gratitude that surprised him. She moaned, the sound so honest and unguarded that he felt it in his bones.

He guided her down, and she took him in, slow and deliberate, letting the sensation settle before moving. For a long moment, neither of them moved at all; it was enough just to be joined, to feel the press and warmth and fullness. When she did move, it was with the rolling, tidal cadence of someone who knew exactly what she wanted—and, for the first time in a long time, Andy realized he did too.

She set the rhythm, hips rolling in slow, oceanic waves, hands planted firmly on his chest. He lost himself in her, in the heat and closeness, in the way she never looked away, wanted to watch him feel every second. It wasn’t just sex, not by a mile; it was communion, a giving and receiving that wordlessly stitched together the lonely edges of who they were.

She moved faster, breath coming quick, her nails digging in for purchase. Andy felt the pleasure building, a sharpness and sweetness both, and Marissa must have sensed it, because she slowed, then leaned down and pressed her lips to his ear.

“Don’t hold back,” she whispered, the words almost a command.

He didn’t.

He came hard, hips bucking, and Marissa followed moments later, her whole body shuddering with release. She collapsed onto his chest, breath hot and ragged, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding tight as if that alone would keep them from unraveling.

For a long time, neither spoke. They just lay there, bodies tangled, hearts hammering in perfect sync, the air around them thick with the scent of sweat and sex and moss. The world outside—the scores, the contests, the endless tightrope of wanting and being wanted—receded until it was only this: the hush of the garden, the curve of her back, the shared, exhausted laughter as the aftershocks rippled through them both.

Marissa stirred first. She propped herself up on one elbow, hair falling into her face, and regarded Andy with a look that was equal parts mischief and gravity. Her cheek was flushed, lips parted, but her eyes were as clear as glass.

“You know this doesn’t make anything less complicated,” she said, voice low and rough.

Andy managed a lopsided smile. “I kind of assumed.”

She laughed, then, and the sound was warm, genuine, the kind of laughter that rewarded you for being exactly who you were.

“I spent years learning how to be alone,” Marissa said, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “I thought if I just got good enough at it, I’d never need anyone else.” She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Turns out, I was wrong.”

He ran a hand through her hair, fingers catching on a tangle. “I’m glad,” he said, and he was.

They lay there for another span of unmeasured time—the conservatory’s hush made minutes bleed into hours. Eventually, Andy felt her body grow heavy and loose against him, the tension and guardedness leaking out until she was almost asleep on his chest. He stroked her back in slow, endless circles, content to let the moment stretch.

When Marissa finally spoke, her voice was soft, dreamy. “I could live here,” she said. “Just like this. Forever.”

He believed her.

They lay together in the afterglow, listening to the water and the birds, the light shifting above them in slow, golden waves.

Romantically Committed to the Master! +7 VP

They lay together for a long time, the quiet as thick as the moss beneath their bodies. Eventually, the light through the dome shifted, and Andy felt the first flutter of reality creeping back in. He propped himself on one elbow, watched Marissa’s face in profile.

She was staring into the water, a line between her brows.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

She turned to him, then hesitated, as if calibrating how much truth he could handle. “I was thinking about Myra.”

He blinked, surprised. “Yeah?”

Marissa nodded, lips pursed. “She’s different lately. Have you noticed?”

Andy shook his head. “I briefly saw her before going up to the Suite with Emily, two days ago, but I haven’t seen her since.” He paused. “But I think I know what you mean. It’s like she’s trying to… be better.”

“She is,” Marissa agreed. “But that’s not all.”

She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees, the line of her back illuminated by the greenish light. “She told me how your date night with her went. And she did mention your check-in, before Emily’s date night. I think you’re finally starting to forgive her.” She paused, searching his eyes. “Maybe even yourself.”

Andy didn’t answer at first. He felt a small jolt of guilt—he hadn’t even noticed the change, not consciously. But she was right: it wasn’t just Myra who had softened. He no longer felt the flash of resentment when he heard her laugh, or the tightness in his chest when her name came up. He had even found himself wanting to help her, to ease her transition, instead of just tolerating her presence.

He exhaled, long and low. “I think you’re right,” he admitted. “I think I’m ready to move on.”

Marissa smiled, slow and sad. “I’m glad. Because I think she needs you to show it. Not just for her, but for the others.”

Andy frowned, not understanding.

Marissa continued, “Riley is still angry. She’s lost, and she’s scared that if Myra is forgiven, it means Laura never mattered.” Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly where they gripped her knees. “And Chloe… Chloe just wants everyone to be safe. She wants to be able to love you without feeling like she’s betraying the past.”

Andy felt the weight of her words settle on him. It wasn’t just about Myra. It was about the whole fractured family, and whether they could ever heal enough to belong to each other.

Marissa reached for his hand, squeezed it hard. “You can help them, Andy. But only if you show them you’ve accepted Myra. Not as a penance, not as a project—but as part of the family. Like you did with Emily.”

He swallowed. “I’ll try,” he said, and meant it.

Marissa smiled, relief flooding her face. She leaned in, kissed him, slow and lingering. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

They dressed in silence, helping each other with buttons and zippers, their movements easy and companionable. When they stood to leave, Andy felt the shift inside him, like a knot unwinding.

As they reached the edge of the water garden, Marissa stopped him with a hand on his arm. “There’s something else,” she said, voice softer than before. “I thought about inviting Myra to join us tonight. Not for… anything, just so she could see that you’re not angry at her. That maybe she could have something good, too.”

Andy hesitated. He thought of the private time he’d wanted with Marissa, the chance to be alone with her, just the two of them. But he also saw the wisdom in her suggestion: Myra would never believe she belonged unless someone made room for her.

He looked at Marissa, saw the hope and the hurt in her eyes. “You want her to join us?”

Marissa nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it. I just… I don’t think she’s ever had a night like that. With friends. With a family.”

Andy thought about it. Really thought about it. He pictured Myra, sitting alone in the hospital cafeteria, barely making eye contact or sharing words with others that did not relate to her work. He envisioned her alone in her apartment, probably a sparsely furnished studio, sitting at the empty table and reading a patient’s file, or perhaps laying exhausted on the couch, collapsing into an uneasy sleep. How hard had she punished herself? How much had she pushed her body, her mind, to help others in penance for something she hadn’t even known she had done?

He pictured Chloe, pushing through the hurt of discovering the friend she had cared about had betrayed her, upon seeing how much that friend had changed, how much she needed forgiveness. He pictured Riley turning the laser of her anger on Myra, hurting the fox-girl with her rage without even realizing it was simply another way to avoid dealing with her own grief. He pictured himself, not just a passenger in his own life, but the one who got to decide how it would be. The Andy from their first round wouldn’t have done it. The Andy from the second round would have iced her out, like he did Chloe. The Andy from the third round would have been angry, like Riley. But what about the Andy from now?

He remembered the dreams, Laura calling him coward, and he realized he wanted her to be proud of him. Wherever she was now, whether she looked upon him or not, he wanted her to be proud of him. To know he was trying to become a better person, for her. So that one day, if they ever met again, he could show her that he had taken the grief of her **** and used it to become something more than he had ever been.

He nodded, once, firm. “Let’s do it.”

Marissa’s eyes shone. She squeezed his hand, then led him back across the stones, their footsteps leaving only faint ripples behind.