Before the Storm, Part 1

Andy woke first. He knew it before his brain really started: the sunlight was sharp on his eyelids, and his chest felt heavy, in a good way. For a second, he didn’t move—didn’t dare. He let the details register, slow and gentle, like ice melting in a glass.

Erin was sprawled half across him, one pale-green leg slung over his waist, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Her hair—red as sunrise, though she’d never admit it was that bright—had fallen in a messy sheet over his chest and up into his jawline, where it tickled each time she breathed. Her breasts, impossibly large and soft, pressed into his ribs as if trying to remold his bones for their comfort. Her hand, the one with the tiny scar on the thumb from when she’d slipped gutting a fish, gripped his t-shirt with the possessive muscle-memory of a toddler clutching a security blanket.

On his other side, Claire. Curled against him, almost fetal, her tail wrapped so tightly around his thigh it felt like a gentle tourniquet. She was facing him, nose less than an inch from his bicep, eyes closed but her ears up, twitching at each stray sound from the Suite. At some point, she’d claimed his hand and tucked it under her cheek, so his fingers grazed the bare skin below her jaw. Her breathing was steady, soft, almost mechanical. If he’d had to guess, she’d spent most of the night holding herself this still, too afraid of what would happen if she let go.

He lay there, not moving, counting heartbeats. Every minute, the sunlight got a little brighter, the weight of the two women a little more real.

They were his. Not in the possessive sense—at least, not the way Erin sometimes phrased it—but in the way that made it seem possible to actually belong to something. He thought about the letter Claire had given him, about the way her hands had shaken as she passed it over. About how easy it had been to say yes.

He was still thinking about it when Erin’s breathing hitched, and she rolled onto her back with a sleepy, exaggerated groan. “Holy shit,” she mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “Did you get run over last night, or is that just me?”

Andy laughed, low. “Just you, I think.”

She blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to calibrate to the morning, then turned her head and noticed Claire, still latched to Andy’s arm like a baby possum. Erin smiled, a lopsided grin that was pure devilry. “Did you see this, Catgirl?” she said, voice dropping to a stage whisper. “You turned the man into a body pillow.”

Claire’s ears twitched, and she cracked one eye open, but she didn’t let go. Instead, she stretched her leg, toes brushing Andy’s ankle, then nuzzled closer. Erin propped herself up on one elbow and watched, the smile growing.

It was only when Andy tried to extract his arm to rub his face that Claire reacted, clinging harder and fixing him with both eyes now. She didn’t speak—of course she didn’t—but the look was so direct, so unfiltered, that Andy felt himself blush.

“Breakfast?” he suggested, but didn’t make a move to get up.

Erin rolled off him, landing on her side of the bed with a thump. “You’re a fiend,” she said, sitting up and swinging her legs off the mattress. “You know she’s not going to let you go until she’s had her first coffee.” She reached for her shoes—worn white sneakers, the only thing she wore—and laced them with brisk efficiency.

Andy caught Claire’s gaze. “Are you going to hold me hostage until caffeine arrives?”

She nodded, then pulled herself upright, tail flicking once in amusement. She let go of his arm but compensated by grabbing his hand, threading her fingers through his with almost scientific precision. Andy followed her lead, not bothering to untangle the sheet from his waist. He looked at Erin, who stood by the window, stretching with her arms high overhead, breasts ballooning outward with the motion. He caught her eye, and she smirked, then turned back to the sunlight.

The kitchen in the Suite had been restocked—fruit in the basket, coffee prepped in the machine, bread fresh and still slightly warm in its paper bag. Claire let go of Andy’s hand long enough to pour three mugs, her movements precise, then set them on the counter in front of the big window.

They sat, shoulder to shoulder, the early sun turning Erin’s skin mint-green and making the veins in Claire’s ears visible through the fuzz. For a while, nobody spoke. Andy sipped his coffee, not caring that it was black and a little too hot. Erin tore chunks from the bread and dipped them in the yolk of her poached egg, while Claire peeled a clementine with surgeon’s delicacy and lined up the segments in a perfect ring on her plate.

Andy caught himself staring at the arrangement. “You’re doing it again,” he said, gentle.

Claire cocked her head, not understanding.

“Being an obsessive weirdo,” Erin clarified, grinning. “Nobody’s judging, but if you’re going to alphabetize the fruit later, at least do it in Latin.”

Claire stared at her, deadpan. Then she wrote something in her notepad, flipped it so both could read.

Says the girl who cries when the jam lid isn’t on straight.

Erin snorted, the laugh so hard she nearly choked on her bread. “You’re killing me,” she said. “You’re actually killing me.”

Andy laughed, but he felt the sting of embarrassment, knowing both women were watching him. Claire, as if sensing the shift, nudged her plate closer to his, offering the perfect half-circle of orange. He took one, and she relaxed, her tail uncurling from around the leg of the chair.

It was easy, this routine—so much easier than it had any right to be. Erin and Claire had found a rhythm, a kind of working truce, forged through weeks of survival and sudden, brutal honesty. It wasn’t romantic between them, not in the way either wanted with Andy, but it was something else: sisterly, or maybe a bit like old soldiers who’d survived the same war and didn’t need to name it.

Claire brought calm, a steadiness that let Andy breathe. Erin brought heat, humor, the ability to shatter a heavy moment with a single offhanded joke. Together, they made it feel possible to move forward, to keep the ghosts at bay, even if only for a morning at a time.

After breakfast, Andy cleared the plates, rinsed them, and set them in the dishwasher. Claire wiped the counter, then joined him at the sink, her tail bumping his leg in silent solidarity. Erin watched from the living room, sprawled on the couch, pretending not to stare but failing spectacularly.

When the kitchen was clean, Andy found Erin on the balcony, arms braced on the rail. She didn’t turn when he joined her, just watched the sea with a seriousness he hadn’t seen in her since college.

“Are you happy?” he asked, quietly.

She answered without looking. “Yeah,” she said. “I think so. Maybe for the first time in years.”

Andy waited. Erin wasn’t finished.

She turned, finally, and her eyes were soft, none of the usual fire. “I just keep thinking it’s going to go away. That I’m going to wake up and you’ll be gone. Both of you.”

He put his arms around her, careful but definite. She melted into it, her head finding the notch of his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

She nodded, but he felt the skepticism under her skin, the little tremor that said she didn’t fully believe it yet. That was okay. He’d wait as long as it took.

They stood that way until Claire appeared at the door, her notebook in hand. She hesitated on the threshold, not wanting to intrude, but Andy beckoned her over. She came, eyes on the floor, but when he put his arm around her, too, she relaxed into the hug.

For a long time, they stood together, not talking, just letting the sun warm them. It was enough.

Still, in the middle of that peace, Andy felt the hollow space where Laura should have been. Not a wound, not anymore, but an absence—like a missing tooth, or a favorite song you haven’t heard in years. He knew Erin and Claire felt it, too. Neither said anything, but they leaned into him, closer, as if their combined presence could fill the gap.

Maybe, one day, it would.

Eventually, Claire and Erin left, each of them claiming a kiss from him and then walking to the elevator, arm in arm, like companions in mischief. Andy smiled as he watched them go, and then found himself alone again in the cavernous Suite.

The Suite was silent now—emptied of all but the shimmer of old sun on glass and the faint, pulsing hush that settled in after a party. Andy wandered the length of it, rinsed his mug, and let the quiet circle him. He wondered if this was what the place sounded like for Katherine, after everyone left: the breathless interval between evenings, the world reduced to windows, polished floors, and the echo of what had once been a home.

He drifted back into the bedroom. Katherine’s painting sat exactly where he’d left it, on the low chest across from the bed. The light had shifted since morning; it caught the brushwork on her hair, the sharpness of her gaze, the delicate eyelashes beneath her eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. He knew the feeling.

Andy settled onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and looked at her. Not the painting, but her—the soul behind the paint, the girl with the impossible patience and the haunted, half-amused smile.

“Did you enjoy last night?” he asked, feeling faintly ridiculous for speaking to a portrait, even now.

Katherine’s head canted to one side. She brought her hands to her cheeks, fanned her fingers, and let them fall in a soft, sweeping motion. Pride, a little bashfulness, a flash of delight.

He smiled. “I’m glad you came out for Claire. I wasn’t sure you would.”

She rolled her eyes, exaggerating the movement, then pressed both palms to the inside of the frame and shrugged, the gesture unmistakable. What choice did I have?

Andy laughed. “Okay, fair. You’re right—I did tip her off first. But you could’ve just… you know. Stayed put.”

Katherine raised one brow, then mimed zipping her lips shut and tossing an imaginary key over her shoulder. She lifted her hands again, fingers splayed, and signed something he couldn’t quite parse. Then she simply pointed at him, then at the space beside him on the bed, then at her heart.

Andy felt the ache, then. “Yeah,” he said, softer. “I wanted you there. Claire did, too. She doesn’t know you—not really—but she figured it out. It wasn’t fair, keeping you to myself.”

Katherine’s expression twisted, half playful, half wounded. She cupped her chin in one hand, mimed a dramatic sigh, then winked. It’s not fair, but it’s funny.

“I don’t want to keep you to myself,” Andy said. “I want to tell the others. I want you to be part of this, too.”

Katherine shook her head. She planted her hands against the surface that separated her from him, like a prisoner gripping the bars, and shot him a look. It was stern, but not unkind: Don’t you dare.

He held up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Not unless you’re ready.” He looked down at the floor, at his own hands, at the wild sprawl of light on the comforter. “Can I ask why not?”

She tapped her own lips, then shook her head. She patted the glass, then pantomimed pushing something heavy away from her, then wiped her palms on her thighs as if she’d just handled something toxic.

“Not… ready?” he guessed. “Or you don’t want to burden them?”

Katherine nodded at the second. Then, to clarify, she gestured: first, a hand raised to her forehead in a salute—Erin. Then a twirl of the finger for Claire. Then, arms crossed over her chest, a sad face for herself. She finished by folding her hands together, then breaking them apart. The message was clear: Erin needed someone who understood her; Claire, she could sense, had already figured out the truth. But the others—she wanted to spare them.

Andy got it. “You’re afraid they’ll see you as a… what? A ghost? A cautionary tale?”

Katherine pursed her lips, then shrugged, but her eyes said everything. She was afraid they’d pity her. Or, worse, that they wouldn’t know what to do with her at all.

He let the silence stretch. “You know,” Andy said finally, “I think you’re braver than any of us. I don’t know how you do it—just, existing here. Watching everything, unable to touch or talk, or even close your eyes. And still caring about us enough to play along. Still wanting to be part of things.” He stopped, realizing how much it must hurt to hear this.

She smiled, a true one, then pressed her hand flat to the glass and held it there. A substitute for a hug.

He pressed his own palm to the painting, the warmth of his skin pooling against the cold veneer. They sat like that for a while, neither moving.

“I still think about what you said,” Andy murmured. “That I should stop trying to fix you. But I can’t help it. I want you to have… something. Even if it’s just a little more.”

Katherine rolled her eyes, but this time it was affectionate. She pointed at him, then at her heart, then at her head, then mimed winding a watch. Always ticking. Always trying to figure it out.

He grinned. “Guilty. But maybe I can offer you a consolation prize, at least?”

She lifted an eyebrow, curious.

Andy tapped his smartwatch. The old piece of tech looked out of place in a world of magic and talking paintings, but it was still his most reliable weapon. He tapped it a few times, then held it up to Katherine, showing her the interface.

“I’ve been poking around the system. Trying to understand how it tracks us—me, you, the others. You told me not to waste time trying to free you, and I know you meant it. But I found something, a little while ago, when Eden came to visit. There’s a cheat code—STATUS. It lets me peek at all the Contestants, past and present. It’s mostly gibberish, but there’s a field for ‘Set and Season Affiliation.’ I think that’s how Arabella’s magic keeps you tied to the original harem, even after you’re eliminated.”

Katherine leaned forward, interest alive in every line of her body.

“So,” Andy said, tapping something on the smartwatch, “there, I changed it. Your set and season are now mine. You’re still ‘eliminated,’ I can't change that, but the code thinks you belong to my harem, not Flint's.”

Katherine blinked. Her mouth opened—surprised, unguarded, then she closed it, a flush blooming on her cheeks. She touched her chest, uncertain, then the painting’s invisible horizon, as if testing her boundaries.

“It’s not much,” Andy admitted, “but it means you’re with me now. All the way. When this is over, I’m not leaving you behind. Ever.”

Katherine’s hands trembled. She pressed them to her lips, then extended them out, forming a heart shape in the air. She didn’t even try to hide the tears that followed. They were real—solid as the day she’d first looked at him from inside the frame.

He came close to the painting, close enough that if she’d had a body, she could have rested her head on his shoulder. “I know you don’t believe me, but I will find a way. Even if it’s just bringing you with me, painting and all. I’m not letting you go.”

She laughed, or tried to, shoulders shaking. She wiped at her eyes, then looked at him, fierce and luminous.

Andy let the emotion settle. He found himself smiling, the old ache replaced by something warmer, lighter. “You know, for someone who can’t talk, you’re the best conversationalist I’ve ever met.”

Katherine shrugged, then mimed flipping her hair, queenly. She winked at him, and for the first time since he’d found her in the Suite, she looked not just alive, but hopeful.

He sat with her, letting the light move across the room, not rushing the moment. He knew the world outside would come for him soon enough—the next challenge, the next round, the neverending cycle of days. But here, for now, there was just the two of them, and the knowledge that, even if only by a quirk of code, they belonged to each other.

It wasn’t freedom, not yet. But it was something.

When Andy finally left the Suite, the hotel’s main lobby was already a mild zoo. Not with people—there were only a handful of staff loitering in the wings—but with nervous energy. The sunlight from the glass doors was harsh and flat, as if the whole place had forgotten how to pretend at normal. He could feel the day’s tension crackling in the air, amplified by the empty stretches of marble and the perpetual, artificial scent of gardenias.

He almost made it to the doors without incident, but Dawn materialized from behind a column, tail and ears already twitching with anticipation.

“There you are!” She bounded over, her ponytail swinging and black-furred bunny ears canted sharply forward. She wore a sleeveless sundress, navy blue with white stripes. Andy wondered, not for the first time, if she’d ever truly been shy around him, or if the whole reserved-front-desk persona had been a social defense in a previous, less magical life.

“Hey, Dawn,” he said, and was immediately enveloped in a hug that managed to feel both spontaneous and perfectly engineered. She squeezed, then pulled back and fixed him with her best “you’re not escaping” glare.

“You’re coming with me,” she said, her tone brooking no debate. “It’s gorgeous out and I have something to show you.” Before he could answer, she seized his hand and started power-walking toward the doors, her grip surprisingly strong.

Outside, the wind was sharper, and the path through the gardens was busy with birds, each more eager than the last to announce the morning. Dawn led him not to the beach or the main walk, but across the lawn and into the little knot of woods that began just behind the east wing. Andy had only ever skirted its edge; the trees here were imported, meant to evoke the old-growth of his childhood forests, but they were still young enough to look uncertain about their place in the world.

Dawn navigated the underbrush with ease, her gait light, the cottontail at the base of her spine a cheerful metronome. They took a few turns, then a hard right at a half-collapsed log, and finally emerged into a clearing that Andy hadn’t even known existed.

There were three round targets set up at one end, painted with concentric rings, their stands half-embedded in the soft ground. A battered gym bag leaned against a tree, and next to it, propped carefully on a low stump, was a bow. Not the fancy Olympic kind, but a real, wooden recurve, the string taut and shining in the morning light.

Dawn beamed, watching his face. “Ta-da! Archery range. At least, until I get kicked off for scaring the wildlife.”

Andy grinned, a little sheepish. “Is it safe to do this so close to the main building?”

She shrugged. “If you hit a staffer, they respawn. If you hit a guest, it’s probably you.” She didn’t wait for him to process that; she was already picking up the bow, testing the flex of the wood with practiced ease.

“You ever shoot before?” she asked.

“Not since summer camp,” Andy said. “I was twelve. Pretty sure I sprained my arm and got a tick in my ear. Also, what do you mean they respawn?”

Dawn laughed, a short, bright sound with a hint of embarrassment. “Not important. You’ll be fine. I’ll coach.”

She set him up at the firing line—just a strip of flattened grass, but her rules were law here. She walked him through the stance, feet shoulder-width apart, left arm straight, right elbow up. She pressed herself behind him, not shy about the contact, her hands adjusting his shoulders and waist. She was smaller than him, and she radiated a kind of heat that made it impossible to feel self-conscious.

“Okay,” she murmured, her voice suddenly more intimate. “Draw back slow, then let the energy just… go.”

Andy tried. The first arrow wobbled off the string, sailed ten feet left, and vanished into the brush with a pathetic thunk.

“Again,” Dawn said, but she was smiling. She handed him another arrow, her fingers brushing his. This time, she didn’t let go of his wrist until the last second, her hand wrapped firm around his forearm.

The second shot went marginally better—at least it cleared the grass and hit the dirt in front of the target. Dawn gave a low whistle. “See? Progress. Do three more, just like that.”

By the fifth arrow, Andy managed to graze the outermost ring. Dawn whooped, so loud that a flock of birds erupted from the trees overhead.

She punched him lightly on the arm. “You did it! Total badass. Again?”

Andy doubled over, laughing, the tension in his chest loosening with every exhale. “You know,” he said, “I haven’t felt this uncoordinated in years. It’s refreshing.”

Dawn’s smile softened. “Good. You were looking a little… tense. Like, serial killer tense.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “I get it. Tomorrow is huge. The pressure, the stakes, the Laura stuff.” She made a face, but not an unkind one. “I thought maybe doing something totally pointless might help.”

Andy looked at her, and saw for the first time that she wasn’t as breezy as she pretended. The smile was real, but her eyes were shadowed, the set of her jaw just a touch tighter than normal. He realized she was as worried as he was—maybe more. But she’d still gone to the effort of dragging him out here, of setting up the whole range, just to give him an hour of normalcy.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Dawn’s voice went quiet. “My mom used to take me. Every Saturday, until I was fourteen. Then… well, life got in the way. Didn’t pick it up again until a few days ago. Figured, if I was stuck here, I might as well clear my head.”

Andy nodded, letting the story hang in the air.

He lined up the next arrow, steadier now. When he released, it landed squarely in the blue, just outside the red.

Dawn whooped again, this time bouncing on her toes. “You’re a natural! If you keep this up, I’ll have to train harder.”

She set her own arrow, drew back, and hit the bullseye on the first try. “See?” she said, grinning. “All about the follow-through.”

He grinned back. “You always make it look easy.”

“I cheat,” she admitted, not even pretending otherwise. “Bunny reflexes. It’s kind of embarrassing how many carrots I go through.” She winked.

He laughed, and she nudged his shoulder, the motion gentle but grounding.

They kept at it for a while, neither talking much, just the thrum of bowstrings and the warm static of two people sharing a silence that didn’t need to be fixed. The air filled with the green, loamy smell of the woods, and every time Dawn laughed, it drove the tension further away. When his arms got tired, she called a break and produced two bottles of cold water from the gym bag, along with a battered bag of dried fruit.

They sat side by side on the log, watching the sun edge higher.

Dawn spoke first. “You know, I used to think I had to hold it together for everyone. My brothers, my dad, all the kids at school. If I ever messed up, or lost it, I was afraid the whole world would come apart.” She grinned, self-effacing. “Turns out, it doesn’t. It just keeps spinning, whether you’re ready or not.”

Andy let that sink in. “You ever wish it would just stop? The world, I mean.”

She thought about it. “Sometimes. But then I’d have to deal with whatever was in my own head, and that’s scarier.” Her eyes met his, earnest. “It’s easier with you, though.”

He felt the compliment hit home, unexpected and profound.

“Thanks,” he said. “For today. I needed it.”

Dawn bumped his shoulder with hers. “Anytime. Now, drink up. We’re doing another round, and I want to see if you can outshoot me.”

He laughed, the sound bright and genuine.

The next set was better. He found a rhythm, the motion less alien now, and by the tenth arrow, he was hitting the target nearly every time.

When he finally nailed the bullseye, Dawn lost her mind. She did a little victory dance, ears flying, and Andy thought, for a second, that he’d never seen her more beautiful.

They packed up, neither in a hurry to return to reality.

As they walked back through the woods, Dawn reached for his hand. This time, her grip was softer. More deliberate.

“You know what I wish?” she said, her voice low.

“What’s that?”

“That we could keep doing this. For a long time. Even if the rest of the world goes to hell.”

Andy didn’t say anything, just squeezed her hand.

They spent the rest of the morning meandering through the woods, neither in a hurry to return to the wider world. Dawn made a show of being their unofficial guide, pointing out every curiosity the forest had to offer: a sycamore whose trunk twisted so severely it looked like it had been braided by giants, wildflowers that clumped in dense, tangled knots, a lizard so garish and self-important it seemed to have been imported from a cartoon.

Dawn’s commentary was pure performance, part nature documentary and part stand-up routine, each observation delivered with a straight face but twinkling eyes. She dared Andy to guess the Latin names for every odd plant, then made up backstories for the ones he couldn’t identify. When they passed beneath a low-hanging branch, she ducked theatrically, then accused the tree of being a “serial tripper” and vowed ****.

It was all, he realized, an elaborate distraction. She kept the talk light, the laughter frequent, always giving him somewhere else to put his attention whenever the world threatened to get too big or too sharp. It was a kindness he hadn’t known how much he needed until he had it.

They eventually found a clearing, shaded by a sprawling tree whose branches arched wide and low. Dawn dropped the gym bag on the soft moss and fished out a small box, opening it to reveal an assortment of sliced fruit: watermelon, pineapple, crisp apples. There was even a single, perfect mango, already diced for easy access.

“Best part of any hike is the snack break,” she declared, handing him a wedge of pineapple. “House rules.”

He accepted, sitting cross-legged on the moss, his back against the broad trunk. Dawn joined him, but when she tried to fold her legs beneath her, she winced and had to uncurl again.

Andy raised an eyebrow. “Is it the shoes, or…?”

She laughed, but the sound was a touch brittle. “You’d think after a couple of weeks, I’d be used to it. Turns out, it’s hard to get comfy when your transformation says you’re only allowed to sit on someone’s lap, or else it’s like sitting on gravel.” She poked at the moss with a finger, then shrugged. “It’s fine. I just lean a lot.”

He gestured to his own lap. “I’m pretty sure the rules don’t say you can’t share,” he offered. “And, to be honest, it’s not the worst thing, having a bunny girl up close.”

Dawn looked at him, genuinely surprised, then snorted. “You’re smooth when you want to be, you know that?”

He shrugged, and she, after a moment’s hesitation, settled onto his lap. It felt both ridiculous and weirdly right: her weight warm and solid, her tail a soft pressure against his stomach, the familiar scent of her shampoo mixing with the sharper smell of sweat and crushed grass.

She took a bite of apple, then twisted slightly to look at him. “You’re a good guy, Andy. I know you don’t always see it, but you are.”

He tried to joke, to brush it off, but she put a hand on his chest, stopping him. “Let me say this, okay?”

He nodded.

“I used to think that if I made myself indispensable—if I kept everyone happy, kept the system running, did everything right—then nobody would ever leave. That was the story I told myself, after Mom died. If I didn’t fuck up, maybe Dad wouldn’t disappear, too.” She let the words hang in the air, the space between them gone very still.

She kept her hand on his chest. “I get now that you’ve been doing the same thing. Maybe not for the same reasons, but… you carry everyone. Even the ones who don’t want to be carried.” She smiled, a small, sad thing. “That’s a heavy way to live.”

He didn’t answer right away. The truth was too raw, and her words had hooked something deep in his ribs.

“You did good today,” she continued, her voice softer. “I wanted to see you laugh, just once, without the weight behind it. And I did. So thanks for that.”

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She went easily, tucking her head under his chin, her hair cool against his skin.

They stayed that way, not talking, letting the world shrink to the slow pulse of heartbeats and the cool dapple of sun through the leaves. He stroked her back, feeling her breathing slow and even out.

She tilted her head up, then, her eyes bright and steady. “Tomorrow’s going to be hard,” she said. “For you, for everyone. But it’s okay if you let us help. You don’t have to hold the whole world up by yourself.”

He kissed her then—soft, grateful, with nothing to prove. She kissed him back, easy as breathing.

They sat that way for a while, sharing fruit in the dappled shade, talking about nothing and everything. The tension was gone, replaced by the lazy fullness of a morning well-spent and the sleepy contentment that came from being close to someone who didn’t expect you to be anything other than yourself.

But as the picnic wound down, the air changed. Dawn finished a slice of watermelon, set the rind back in the box, and leaned into Andy’s chest, her arms circling his waist. For a minute, she just breathed. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, stripped of the playful edge it wore all morning.

“Do you ever get scared?” she asked, not looking up.

He considered the question. “Yeah,” he said. “More than I let on.”

She nodded, as if she’d been expecting that. “Tomorrow, everything gets real. No more vetoes. No more second chances.” She picked at the edge of her skirt, her fingers restless. “I thought I’d be ready for it, but now I’m not so sure. I keep thinking—what if I don’t have what it takes? What if I screw up, and I can’t fix it?”

Andy felt her hand tighten on his, the grip fierce. Her knuckles blanched, but she didn’t let go.

“I trust you,” Dawn said, her eyes bright. “I really do. It’s just… it’s a lot.”

He didn’t know what to say. There were no guarantees; no way to promise her it would be okay, or that she wouldn’t be **** to leave, or worse. All he could do was be there.

He squeezed her hand, anchoring her. “You don’t have to be ready,” he said. “You will be okay.”

She gave a shaky laugh, then wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I guess that’s true. But I’d rather show up and not look like a disaster.”

He smiled, gentle. “You’ve never looked like a disaster in your life.”

Dawn snorted, but her smile lingered. “Flatterer.”

They sat in the hush of the clearing, hands clasped tight. Andy let the weight of her fears settle in his chest alongside his own. For once, it didn’t feel impossible to carry.

He cleared his throat. “No more vetoes, and I don’t get another glitch,” he said. “But not all hope is lost.”

She looked up, searching his face for a clue, but he didn’t offer one. After a second, she nodded, accepting the mystery. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. That’s what the team is for.”

She smiled, watery but real. “I’m glad you’re on my team, Andy.”

He didn’t say it, but he felt the same.

They sat together, silent but steady, until the shadows lengthened and the wind picked up, carrying the sound of the sea. When they finally stood to go, Dawn lingered one last time, pressing her head to his chest, arms wrapped around him as if to memorize the shape of him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, then led the way back through the woods.

The afternoon slouched lazily toward evening, the air cooling but still thick with the warmth of spent sun. Dawn and Andy walked the forest path in easy increments, neither talking much, both content to let the sound of their steps fill the space between them. The birds were quieter now, the island settling into that uncanny lull before dusk when everything waited to see what the night would bring.

When they broke through the treeline at the far end of the resort, the world seemed changed. The main building, usually so brash and bright, was bathed in the blue of gathering shadows, its glass front reflecting the low sky like a mood ring. The wind off the ocean made the flag over the lobby door snap and shudder. For a second, Andy almost turned to suggest they head back to the woods and never come out.

But Dawn didn’t hesitate. She led him across the lawn and up the main walkway, her stride sure and loose, as if there were nothing in the world to be afraid of.

“You want to change before dinner?” Andy asked, more as a courtesy than anything else.

Dawn looked down at her skirt—now stained green from their earlier picnic—and grinned. “Definitely. I’m going to have moss in weird places if I don’t shower.”

As they reached the wide glass doors, Andy caught sight of a figure standing just inside: Emily. She looked different in the light, her hair longer and more unruly than he remembered, with streaks of pink and gold catching the last of the day. Her bare legs were a splash of porcelain in the shadowed lobby. She clutched a blue duffel bag to her chest, and her eyes, when they found him, were wide and wary.

She didn’t wait for the doors to open. Instead, she stepped outside, blinking against the light, then hovered on the landing like she wasn’t sure whether to come forward or run.

Dawn noticed at once. She slowed, then gave Andy a gentle nudge. “Looks like we’re expected.”

Emily approached, stopping a few feet short. She looked from Andy to Dawn and back again, then offered a small, careful smile. “Hi,” she said. “I, um… I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Dawn beamed. “Not at all. Andy was just about to walk me up. You want to join?”

Emily hesitated, then nodded, eyes fixed on Andy’s face as if searching for a hidden message.

Dawn reached for the duffel. “Is that for me?”

Emily laughed, relief flickering in her shoulders. “Yeah. It’s, uh, your change of clothes. And maybe some of those dried mangoes you like.”

Dawn clapped her hands, delighted, then took the bag and slung it over her shoulder. “You’re a lifesaver, Em.”

Andy watched the exchange, a slow realization dawning. “You two planned this,” he said, but there was no accusation in his voice.

Dawn glanced at him, then at Emily. “Kind of? I thought you wouldn’t mind if she joined us for dinner. And maybe stayed after, if you’re okay with it.”

Emily’s cheeks went pink. She shrugged. “I wanted to talk to you. To both of you, actually. But I didn’t want to intrude.”

Andy caught the subtext immediately. Emily was anxious. Not the ordinary kind—the deep, churning kind that made her arms cross over her stomach and her eyes dart away from anything too intense.

He softened his tone. “You’re not intruding. I’m glad you’re here.”

Dawn stepped closer, placing a hand on Emily’s shoulder. The gesture was gentle, almost maternal. “We should all go up together. That way nobody has to feel weird.”

Emily nodded, then looked at Andy again, more **** this time. “I, um… there’s some stuff I want to clear up. About, you know… boundaries. And the arrangement. Dawn said she’d help.”

Andy understood instantly. For all that Emily seemed so open and unguarded, she was always careful—careful not to impose, not to make anyone uncomfortable, not to let her own transformations shape someone else’s choices. It made sense that she’d want Dawn there as a buffer.

He smiled, grateful. “That’s smart. I think we’d all feel better if we talked it out.”

Emily looked at Dawn, who gave her a reassuring squeeze, then at Andy, her eyes steady for the first time all afternoon.

“Thanks,” she said, simple and unadorned.

Dawn handed her the duffel back, then threaded her arm through Emily’s. Together, the three made their way to the elevator, Andy holding the door for them as they stepped inside.

It was a small moment, but it felt huge—a promise that whatever came next, none of them would have to face it alone.

The doors closed, sealing them in a small, bright world of their own.