Crossroads of Quiet, Part 1

Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 95 VP - 2600 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 87 VP - 5700 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 77 VP - 3000 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 74 VP - 2350 BP - 3 Achievs
Liesa - 70 VP - 4200 BP - 2 Achievs
Claire - 69 VP - 8900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emily - 57 VP - 6100 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 55 VP - 6300 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 47 VP - 3550 BP - 1 Achiev
Chloe - 45 VP - 4275 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 18 VP - 5600 BP - 2 Achievs
Myra - 14 VP - 4800 BP

Andy woke to the syrupy scent of jasmine, a residue from the party’s leis and Emi’s hair, and to the hush of the ocean drumming through the sealed glass. It was early: not “up at dawn for a run” early, but the time just before, when the light was still uncertain and the world didn’t demand movement yet. He lay on his side, arms half-wrapped around Emi, her body pressed in and her arms enveloping him like she’d picked him as her personal teddy bear.

The Master’s Suite looked hungover in the new light. Pillows askew, a drift of confetti half-swept to one corner. The guitar from last night still leaned against the couch, one string gone flat, as if it too had used up all its energy in the afterparty.

Andy tried to slip his arm out from under Emi without waking her. He managed an inch before she stirred, then—reflex quick, almost prehensile—her top right arm clamped across his ribcage.

“Mmmmmm,” Emi whined, barely opening her eyes. “Don’t move yet.”

He stilled. She wormed her face into the crook of his shoulder and made a little sound—a hybrid between a sigh and a hum—and her six hands, even the ones not actively employed, found some piece of him to anchor.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here in the morning,” Andy said, voice low.

She made a face, part indignation, part sleep-logic. “Rude. I only leave when forcibly evicted.”

He laughed, then let the silence eat up the next minute. The comfort of it was a small miracle. For years, waking up meant bracing for absence: Laura’s, or the echo of whatever came before. Even after the best nights, there was always the recoil, the certainty that he was alone in the aftermath. Now, the only echo was Emi’s slow, warm breathing, and the weird, sweet ache in his chest.

He traced the line of her arm with his thumb. “Thank you. For last night. For… all of it.”

One of her middle hands patted his stomach, then trailed up to his face. “It was nothing. You’re not exactly hard to hang out with, Andy.”

Andy smiled. “I meant for listening. And the company.”

Emi’s face colored, faint but unmistakable, and she burrowed further into his side, hiding a smile. “You remembered the words. You always do.”

Andy shrugged, uncomfortable with praise, even from her. “It helps to have an audience.”

She disengaged just enough to peer up at him, her hair a wild halo around her face. "You know, Laura would have lost her mind over that song." She let the words hover.

Andy didn't answer, but the compliment landed somewhere beneath his ribs and stayed there. "Last night felt..." he finally whispered, "endless. Like we stretched three hours into thirty. I can't believe we fit all that into one evening."

Emi's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Velvet Hours," she murmured, tracing his collarbone with one finger while her other hands remained perfectly still. "My transformation kicks in whenever we get... close. Time slows down just for us." Her eyes sparkled. "Our own private eternity."

They stayed in bed, entwined, until the sun edged high enough to burn the Suite in white. Emi was the first to stir, using three hands to untangle herself from the blankets and another to poke Andy gently on the nose. "Breakfast? Or do we just eat what's left of the cake?"

Andy considered. “Cake is technically a breakfast food. Eggs, flour, dairy. It’s basically an omelet.”

“You are a monster,” Emi declared, but her smile was fond. She pulled herself upright, stretching every limb to full extension, her torso a display of kinetic grace. “Let’s do both. Cake, then real food. We’ll balance the universe.”

She padded off to the kitchen, her arms already negotiating which task belonged to which set of hands. Andy watched her go, then sat up, rubbing his eyes.

The moment he did, the weight returned. Not crushing, not like before—but there, waiting: the knowledge that Laura’s birthday was the day after tomorrow. That every hour, from now until then, would be measured against it.

He took a minute, letting the ache settle, then dressed quickly and followed the sound of Emi’s humming. In the kitchen, she’d already started: one hand whisked eggs, another poured coffee, two more assembled a salad of leftover fruit, and the last two navigated a complicated ritual involving orange juice and cake crumbs. The fridge door hung open, casting pale light across her bare legs.

“Sit,” Emi commanded, and he did.

She plated their breakfast with the precision of a sushi chef and slid it across the counter. “I’m going for a record,” she said, “Most adorable breakfast served by a six-armed girl in a single fiscal year.”

Andy grinned, letting her carry the conversation. She bounced from topic to topic, recapping the party (her proudest moment: “When I hit Norah in the face with a cupcake and she pretended not to care, but then secretly wiped it off on Riley”), plotting out the day’s adventures (a morning swim, a mid-day nap, possibly a raid on the library’s “secret erotica collection”), and at every turn, she wove in a memory of their childhood, as if proof she’d always been here, waiting for this version of the story.

When they finished, Emi wiped the counters, set the plates in the dishwasher, then leaned across the table, all six hands braced in a pyramid. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than before.

“You’re okay, right?” she said. “About Laura’s birthday. Or… as okay as you ever are.”

Andy looked at her. There was no judgment in her eyes, no expectation that he’d fix himself overnight. Just the quiet concern of someone who’d been in the shadows long enough to know where all the light got in.

He shrugged. “I’ll be okay. It’s always weird, but this time it’s less… lonely.”

Emi nodded, not pressing. “If you want to skip it, or if you want to make it a thing, I’ll help.” She hesitated, then, with uncharacteristic awkwardness, said, “She’d be really happy to know you’re not alone.”

He smiled, the pressure in his chest less a wound, more a bruise. “I think so too.”

They sat together a while longer, talking about nothing, until the morning sun filled every corner of the Suite. It felt, for a few minutes, like all the world was contained in this small, bright kitchen: Emi’s laughter, the tang of orange juice, the faintest echo of old songs.

---

After breakfast, Emi left with a kiss and instructions to eat the leftover cake before Riley found it. A few minutes later, Andy made his way down to the lobby. The elevator ride was short and silent. By the time the doors slid open, the lobby had the feel of a theater before curtain—empty, bright, but expectant, every surface wiped clean and waiting for something to happen.

Myra was already there, standing by the main entrance. She wore a pale lilac sundress that managed the impossible trick of being both careful and accidental; the color brought out the green in her eyes, but she stood as if she'd rather be invisible. Her posture was a study in static tension: hands knotted in front of her, fox tail wound tight around one ankle.

She didn't hear him at first. The glass and the tile carried his footsteps, but her head stayed angled down, chin tucked, ears flattened backward in a posture that signaled distress more than defeat. It wasn't until he was within a meter that her head jerked up, eyes wide and raw.

"Sorry," Andy said, pausing to give her space. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She shook her head—quick, too sharp—and then immediately regretted the motion, her fingers digging harder into the fabric of the dress. "No, I—" She stopped, started again. "You move very quietly. I think it's the shoes."

Andy glanced at his sneakers. Myra smiled, a thin and fleeting thing, then set her face in the neutral mask that was quickly becoming her default. "Thank you for meeting me," she said, but the words came out hollow, almost rehearsed.

Andy nodded, not quite sure how formal to make it. "You said you wanted to take a walk," he said, keeping his tone neutral. "I’m glad to see you."

She winced, just barely, and the silence stretched.

"Myra," he said, "are you okay? If this is too soon, we can—"

"No." The interruption was abrupt, but not angry. More like a reflex. "No, it's—" She exhaled, the breath shuddery. "I wanted to talk. I just…" She let the rest hang.

Andy waited, letting her arrange her thoughts at her own pace.

She didn't quite look at him, but her gaze hovered somewhere over his shoulder, as if she could sense the density of his presence but not its location. "I need to be honest," she said. "About yesterday. About why I asked you to come here." She licked her lips, nervous. "It’s just—sometimes I say yes to things because I don’t want to disappoint anyone. And then I spend all night wondering if I should have said yes at all." She stopped, collecting herself. "You didn’t have to come. If you just said yes because I pressured you, or because you’d had a few drinks, it’s okay. We can call it off."

Andy considered his words, careful. "I didn’t feel pressured," he said. "And I’m sober now, so… this is still a yes for me, if you want it."

She smiled again, but it was a brittle, unfinished thing. "You make it sound so simple."

He shrugged. "It can be. Sometimes." He looked toward the Gardens, but didn’t move. "Unless you want to stay here?"

Myra shook her head. "No. The Gardens are… better." She hesitated, then said, "But if you want to do something else, I can adapt. I just—" She cut herself off, then looked up, almost directly at him. "It should be Claire’s day. She’s been looking forward to it. I don’t want to mess that up."

Andy felt the guilt in her words and tried to meet it with something steadier. "Claire gets it," he said. "We’ll see each other after lunch. She said it’s not a big deal." He hesitated, then added, "She wants you to have a good time."

Myra snorted, just a little. "She’s very forgiving."

He grinned. "She’s the most generous person I know."

For a moment, the tension bled out of the conversation. Myra’s shoulders dropped, her tail loosened by a centimeter. Andy took the opportunity to close the distance, stopping just beside her.

"Shall we?" he said, touching her hand, half a joke and half not.

Myra hesitated, then threaded her arm through his. Her skin was cold at first, but warmed quickly. The contact steadied her, gave her something real to focus on.

Together, they stepped out of the lobby and into the sunlit calm of the resort’s Inner Gardens.

---

The Inner Gardens stretched out in every direction—a tangle of stone paths, wildflower beds, and palm-shaded alcoves, all arranged with a randomness that Andy now understood was carefully curated. He took the first turn slow, letting Myra set the pace. The morning was bright, a thin mist burning off the leaves and leaving everything slick and hyperreal.

Myra's hand tightened on his arm whenever the ground dipped or the sounds changed, but she never lost her stride. Her fox tail floated behind her, a brown and white banner trailing their progress, and her head swiveled with every shift of wind, every new scent that passed through the garden's microclimates.

"Describe it to me," Myra said after a minute. "The path. The colors. I want to know how it looks."

Andy obliged. "We’re on the main path. Pebble stones, a little uneven. There’s a low wall to our right, covered in purple moss, and the sun’s coming through the palms at about a ten-thirty angle. Ahead there’s a bend with bougainvillea, magenta and white. Left side is all ferns. It’s like… walking through a terrarium that forgot to have a ceiling."

Myra smiled, her lips curving just at the corners. "It sounds beautiful."

"It is," he said, but left the rest unspoken: that it wasn’t just the place, but the company that made it feel less like a set and more like a world.

She walked in silence for a few more steps, then spoke, her voice low. "You know, I can sense all of it. I mean, not the color, but the way the air moves. The heat, the dampness, even your heartbeat when you get close to the fountains."

Andy arched an eyebrow. "I didn’t realize my pulse was so obvious."

She shook her head. "It’s not loud, just… there. I can tell when you’re happy, or when you’re anxious. I can tell when people are watching me, even if they’re far away." She hesitated. "That’s the hard part. I always know when someone’s waiting for me to mess up."

He considered this. "Does it help? Knowing what people feel?"

Myra frowned, her lips tight. "Not always. Sometimes it makes it worse, because I can’t not feel it. The party last night—it was like standing in the middle of a waterfall. Everybody’s emotions bouncing off the walls. When you gave that speech, I could feel the way the room changed." She trailed off, as if debating whether to say more.

Andy prompted her. "How did it change?"

Myra’s hand flexed on his arm. "It was like everyone’s pain went softer, all at once. Even mine. I haven’t felt that in a long time."

They reached a small plaza, ringed with benches and a shallow pond laced with lilies. Andy slowed, letting Myra stop if she wanted. Instead, she pulled him forward, toward a cluster of jasmine by the water’s edge.

"Can I try something?" she asked.

Andy nodded.

She released his arm, then moved carefully, using her tail for balance as she crouched beside the pond. She bent low, almost on all fours, her fingers splaying into the moss and her nose close to the lilies.

She inhaled, long and slow. "Jasmine. And… something else. Water hyacinth. And there’s a bird nearby, a small one, probably a finch. I can feel its wings moving the air." She smiled, not for him but for herself.

He watched her, struck by the intensity of her focus. She was beautiful here—undistracted, unguarded, letting her senses rule the moment. For a second, she looked almost predatory, a creature built to navigate this world by feel alone.

"Do you want to know what I sense about you?" Myra said, not turning.

Andy hesitated. "Sure."

She sat back, letting the moss cushion her hands. "You’re trying very hard to make this easy for me. But you’re worried you’ll say the wrong thing, or that I’ll run away. You want to help, but you don’t know how." She looked up, eyes glazed but direct. "You don’t have to fix it, Andy. I just want you to be here."

He let the words settle. "I can do that," he said.

Myra nodded, satisfied. She stood, dusted her knees, then reached out for his hand again.

"Let’s keep walking," she said. "There’s more I want to show you."

He didn’t correct her—didn’t say that she’d never seen these gardens before, or that he was supposed to be her guide. In that moment, she was as much the expert as he was.

They followed the path deeper, the conversation drifting from the literal to the philosophical. Myra talked about her life before, the endless grind of med school and the loneliness that haunted every rotation. "I used to think if I could just get to the next step, I’d finally belong somewhere," she said. "But it was always just out of reach. Then I ended up here, and… it’s like the universe is mocking me. The thing I wanted most is right in front of me, but I can’t even see it."

Andy wasn’t sure how to answer, so he just squeezed her hand.

She stopped them at a stone bridge, arching over a narrow stream. She ran her hand along the rough edge, tracing the indentations worn by hundreds of footsteps.

"I liked the party," Myra said, her voice almost inaudible over the rush of water. "I liked hearing everyone together, even if I had to stand on the outside. It’s better than pretending I don’t care." She hesitated, then added, "I don’t know what comes next. I’m not even sure I want to. But today, right now, I’m glad I came."

Andy watched her, the fragility in her posture offset by the certainty in her words. He realized, with a start, that she was telling the truth.

They stood on the bridge for a minute, listening to the burble of water, letting the garden’s noise fill the space between them. Then Myra turned, searching for his arm, and together they moved on.

"Can I ask you something?" Myra said, as they reached a patch of sunlight.

"Anything."

"What do you want from this? From me?" Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled in his.

He thought about it, about what he could say that wouldn’t sound like a line or a platitude. "I want you to feel safe. I want you to have a place where you belong, even if it’s just for an hour." He paused, searching for the right words. "About what you said earlier… I don’t want to fix you, Myra. You’re not broken. I just want to be here with you."

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder, the contact light but deliberate.

"Thank you," she said. "That’s all I wanted."

They moved in step for a while, neither rushing nor stalling. Andy kept his stride measured, letting Myra match his rhythm, always ready to slow for a rough patch or stray root. She gripped his forearm with steady pressure, not tight enough to bruise, just enough to calibrate her own sense of up and forward.

At first, the silence was a relief. Andy had spent so long learning to interpret Myra’s microexpressions, the shifts in her jaw and the set of her mouth, that words sometimes felt redundant. Here, in the filtered light, words seemed as unnecessary as walls; the garden did most of the speaking.

Still, he tried. "To the left is a row of oleander," he said. "White and pink. Past that, you can hear the first fountain. It's not big, but the water throws off enough spray that the air's cold for about a meter in every direction."

Myra tilted her head, and the wind toyed with the edge of her dress. "That's how I found it yesterday," she said. "The chill. And the sound, obviously. It’s like a glass breaking over and over, but softer."

They passed under a trellis, the shade casting them into temporary night before they stepped out into another burst of sun. Andy couldn't help but narrate as they moved: which birds were in the branches, which shadows belonged to the hibiscus, where the sky went from pale blue to almost silver.

"Are you doing that for me?" Myra asked, when he'd described the fourth set of flowers in as many meters.

Andy hesitated. "Not just for you," he said. "But maybe a little bit."

She nodded, considering. Then: "It’s nice." Her fox tail brushed his ankle, the fur so fine it might as well have been smoke. "You can keep going, if you want. Or you can stop. I'm not picky."

Andy wondered if she noticed her own word choices—if she realized she spoke in stanzas, sometimes. "You know," he said, "when you were telling me about the bird, earlier... you have a way of describing things that makes them sound more real than when I look at them."

Myra scoffed, but there was no heat in it. "I doubt that. Half the time I'm just guessing."

"No," Andy insisted. "You really do. Like before, with the lilies. Or the bird’s wings." He let the compliment hang, unadorned, because sometimes that was the only way to make one stick.

She didn't answer, but her hand slipped lower on his arm, almost holding his hand rather than using him for guidance. They came to a small clearing, just off the main path, and Andy steered her to the center, where the sun burned off the night-chill and turned every leaf into a neon sign.

"Describe it for me," Myra said, her voice low and steady. "Right here. Pretend I'm not here. Just… say it how you see it."

He tried, stumbling at first. "It's… uh, a ring of ferns. There’s a patch of blue wildflowers, I don’t know the name, but they look like mini stars on the ground. The trees open above us—a kind of oval—and the sky is lighter here. The bench is stone, and it's half-covered with moss. Someone carved something into the side, but I can't read the words."

Myra hummed, a deep vibration that ran through her. "Keep going."

Andy sat her on the bench, then stood in front, letting the sun hit his face and shoulders. "It smells like grass and, I guess, old rain. There's a bug somewhere, but it's just clicking, not a cicada. The air is heavy, but it doesn’t feel bad. It’s like—"

He stopped, aware of how clumsy he sounded compared to her.

Myra lifted her chin, searching. "It feels like what?"

"Like," he said, "like nothing bad could happen here. Like the world stops for a second. And if you sat here long enough, you’d start to forget the difference between you and the garden."

She smiled, her lips stretching a little wider than before. "That’s not so clumsy," she said. "You just needed practice."

Andy laughed, startled by how much the approval meant. "Guess so."

She closed her eyes, and for a while, neither spoke. Andy sat beside her, their shoulders almost touching. The only sound was the fountain, the clicking bug, and the whisper of wind through leaves. After a minute, Myra broke the silence.

"I liked the party," she said, her tone abrupt as always. "I wasn’t sure I would. I was ready to run after ten minutes, but… you were right. It was good to be included."

Andy looked at her. "You could always have left, you know. Nobody would have blamed you."

"That’s not true," she said, and he realized she meant herself. "But I didn’t want to be alone again. Not after the hospital. Not after everything."

She’d trained herself to move by sound and memory, since arriving, but The HH was a bad teacher: it changed shape too often, the corridors rarely matched from one day to the next.

"I’m happy you stayed," Andy said.

Myra blushed slightly, and shrugged. "Thank you. But I don’t know what comes next. I’m not like the others."

"How do you mean?"

She hesitated, the silence more revealing than any answer. "They know what they want. Or they pretend better than I do. I can’t even tell if I want to be here, or if I just want to want it. Does that make sense?"

Andy nodded. "You don’t have to know yet. Or ever. You arrived less than two weeks ago, and you have a lot on your plate."

Myra made a noise—a hybrid between a laugh and a sigh. "You make it sound so easy, and difficult at the same time."

"I know," he admitted, "but the only way out is through."

They sat for a while, just breathing the same air. A bird came close, bold on the edge of the bench, and Myra cocked her head, tracking it by sound. She extended a hand, not reaching for it so much as offering a perch. The bird didn’t take the bait, but it chirped once, then flitted away.

"I like birds," Myra said. "I always did. They never expect anything from you."

Andy wanted to say something—about how birds had terrible memories, how they’d keep coming back even if you scared them off—but he let the thought fade.

Instead, he asked, "Do you want to go to the koi pond?"

Myra nodded. He stood and offered his arm. She took it, the contact easy now, and they walked on, her tail a loose ribbon in the air.

As they neared the pond, Andy slowed, guiding her around a low hedge. The sound of water grew louder, joined by the plink of fish mouths breaking the surface. The pond was deeper than it looked, shot through with beams of morning light that turned the koi into living gold.

"This is my favorite spot," Andy said. "It’s not fancy, but it feels… old. Like it’s always been here."

Myra stopped at the edge, her hand tight on his. "Describe it," she said, her voice almost gentle.

He did, letting the words come in whatever order they wanted: the curve of the water, the ripple of color, the little flagstones that jutted into the pond like broken teeth. He told her about the koi—how some were white with orange spots, some so black they looked invisible until they turned in the light. He talked about the algae, the way it made the water smell alive, not sterile.

Myra smiled, and Andy realized she was cataloguing every detail, filing them away to build a world in her head. "Thank you," she said, almost a whisper.

He wanted to ask what she saw, but decided against it. Instead, he let her stand there, eyes closed, her face angled to the sun.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, after a long pause.

"Anything."

"If you could have anything—any gift, any skill—what would it be?"

He thought. "I always wanted to be able to fly," he said, a little embarrassed. "Or maybe to write songs people actually remembered."

She snorted. "You’re better at the second than the first."

Andy laughed. "What about you?"

Myra was quiet for a time. Then: "I used to want to be able to heal people. Fix them. But now, I think I’d rather be able to see colors again. Even if it’s just for a second."

Andy’s heart squeezed. He wanted to promise her that she’d see them again, that the world would one day return what it had stolen. But he knew better. Instead, he said, "I’ll be your eyes, if you want. Any time."

Myra smiled, a real one this time. "I’d like that," she said.

They lingered at the pond, letting the world shrink to just the two of them, until the sun crested higher and the garden filled with the sound of voices—other guests, other lives. Myra touched his arm, the gesture light but deliberate.

"Let’s keep going," she said. "I’m not tired yet."

---

They circled the koi pond once, a slow loop under the wavering palm shadows, before Myra gestured—almost a point, almost a caress—toward the bench that overlooked the water. Andy led her there, then watched as she used her own hands to feel for the edge of the seat. She sat with practiced care, fox tail curled across her lap, the sunlight catching in the honey threads of her hair.

Andy took the spot beside her, close but not crowding. For a while, neither spoke. Myra tilted her head back and let the sun bake the tension out of her brow. It was a posture of deliberate surrender, like she’d mapped every muscle’s release in advance.

Eventually, she broke the silence. “This is where you brought me my first day,” she said, voice level. “I was so scared I could have ripped up the bench with my bare hands. But you sat here and talked about the koi, even though you hated me.”

Andy let the accusation stand—mostly because it was true. That first morning, he’d still been tight with resentment and old blame; he’d offered her facts about the pond the way some people lob rocks into dark water.

He nodded. “I remember.”

“You wanted me to feel better,” she said, “but you also wanted to punish me for Laura.” She said it so simply that for a second, Andy felt the old bruise under his ribs.

“I don’t want to punish you anymore,” Andy said.

She shrugged, but the words seemed to have weight. “I don’t blame you, if you did.”

He watched the koi moving under the surface—twitches of orange and white, sometimes a flash of midnight. “I think I just wanted you to be okay,” he said. “But I didn’t know how to say that without making it sound like an order.”

Myra traced the seam in the bench with her nail. “You can’t make someone okay,” she said. “Trust me. I tried for years with my patients. It never sticks.”

The air was heavy with pollen and something saltier, less easy to name. Andy felt the words building inside her, a pressure against the silence.

Myra turned her face toward the sound of the fountain. “Do you want to know what I’m most afraid of?” she asked.

Andy waited.

“That even if I get used to this, even if I figure out how to walk in a straight line or pour coffee or smile at the right time, I’m still not… enough. I’m just a liability. I can’t do anything for myself, let alone for you.”

The words were flat, but there was a wound in them—a raw, recent one. Andy tried to find something that would make sense, something that wasn’t just “You’re not a burden.” He hated how cheap that sounded, even if it was true.

Instead, he said, “It’s not a competition. You’re not broken, Myra. You’re just… different than you planned to be.”

She almost smiled. “That’s very clinical of you.”

He let the joke land, then added, “I know you didn’t ask for this. But it’s not all you are. Not even close.”

She looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers as if reminding herself they were there. “You say that, but you don’t have to live with it. You don’t have to count the steps between your bed and the bathroom so you don’t break your nose on a doorframe at three in the morning.”

“No,” Andy said, “but I know what it’s like to build a whole life around something you lost. And then to realize you still have to keep going, even if you have no idea what you’re walking toward.”

Myra took a long, steady breath. “Is it okay if I’m not sure yet? If I don’t know what I want, or what to do with you, or with any of this?”

He nodded. “That’s more than okay. You can take as long as you need.”

Myra’s hands knotted together, then released. “I haven’t really dated since med school,” she said. “I told myself it was because I was busy. But the truth is, I never figured out what I wanted. I just kept moving, kept helping, because the moment I stopped, I felt… empty. Like a coat rack that lost its job.”

“That’s pretty bleak,” Andy said, but gently.

She snorted. “Well, it’s true. I poured everything into the career, and all I got was this lousy disability.”

He smiled at the edge of the joke. “You got more than that.”

She turned her head, as if listening for something. “Like what?”

He gestured to the pond, to the garden, to the world in general, even though he knew she couldn't see it. “You’re here. You’re still you. And you don’t owe anyone a performance—not even me.”

They sat in silence, the fountain’s burble a buffer against the weight of things unsaid. A breeze ruffled the surface of the pond, sending little waves across the koi’s lazy arcs.

Andy let the moment breathe, then said, “You don’t have to decide what you want from me. Not today. Not ever, if you don’t feel it.”

She touched his arm—delicate, but unhesitating. “What if I just want to sit here with you for a while?”

He smiled, genuine. “That’s perfect.”

Myra leaned back, letting the sun finish what it started. The knot in her jaw loosened, her tail unfurled behind the bench like a banner of surrender.

They sat like that for a long time, letting the morning spill forward, the world reduced to warmth and sound and the nearness of another body. There was nothing more to say, and—at least for now—no pressure to be more than what they already were.

When Myra finally spoke again, her voice was so soft Andy almost missed it.

“Thank you,” she said.

---

By noon, the garden heat pressed down in earnest, the old stones radiating a slow, even warmth that softened every angle and blunted every shadow. Andy and Myra made their way back to the main path, retracing steps toward the dining terrace. As they walked, Myra’s hold on his arm shifted from “guide me” to “don’t let go.” Andy let it happen without comment.

The terrace was nearly empty, just a few stragglers from the previous night’s festivities sipping mineral water and squinting at their phones. Andy steered Myra to a table at the far end, shaded by a canvas awning and angled perfectly to catch the salt wind from the sea. He helped her into the seat, then sat opposite, the garden’s wild geometry fanning out behind her.

They ordered from a fancy menu, Andy reading out the options, Myra vetoing anything with "exotic" in the description or more than one kind of cheese. They settled on a pair of sandwiches and a pitcher of iced tea. Mildred's eyes didn't leave them one moment. Andy cleared his throat. "Mildred, I—" He paused, then pushed forward. "Thank you. For last night. The gift. I should have said something earlier." Mildred's lips parted slightly, her posture softening before she nodded once and retreated. He wasn’t sure how to read that.

The first few minutes of lunch passed in easy quiet. Myra fiddled with the edge of her napkin, folding and refolding it into smaller triangles, her fox tail coiled over the seatback. Andy watched her hands, the muscle memory of medical work evident in the way her fingers dissected every fold.

Myra was the first to break the calm. “Can I ask you something?” she said, her voice a notch above the murmur of the terrace.

“Anything,” Andy said, and meant it.

She kept her gaze down, eyes fixed on her hands. “How does this work, exactly? The… group.” She let the word hang, as if there wasn’t a safe synonym for harem. “Are we just supposed to improvise?”

Andy stifled a laugh. “Aside from the nights, there’s no master calendar,” he said. “Not unless Sam gets bored and makes one. Mostly, it’s whoever wants to see me, whenever they want. If it gets weird, we talk about it.”

Myra nodded, digesting. “What if I never want to see anyone else? Not just you, but… any of them.” She toyed with the corner of her plate. “Does that make me a bad teammate?”

Andy shook his head. “It makes you honest. Some people here are all-in on the group dynamic. Some like their own orbit. Nobody’s keeping score.”

Myra’s lips quirked. “You say that now, but what about next week? Or when someone decides they want you for themselves?”

Andy hesitated, then shrugged. “If that happens, we’ll deal with it. But I don’t see anyone here trying to claim me. Most days, I’m lucky if they don’t conspire to throw me in the pool.”

A slow smile broke on Myra’s face. “I’d pay to see that.”

“Riley’s got a betting pool,” Andy said. “You can get in on the ground floor.”

The sandwich arrived, crisp and perfect, the kind of meal that made you forget food could ever be complicated. Myra picked at hers, but Andy noticed that she finished every bite, like she was working through a checklist.

They ate in companionable silence, the garden’s white noise wrapping around them. Every so often, Myra would tilt her head, listening, and Andy realized she was tracking the location of the other guests by sound alone.

After a while, Myra spoke again. “Do you ever wish it were simpler?” she asked. “Just you and one person. No politics, no competition.”

Andy thought about it, then said, “Sometimes. But I think I’d be lonelier. I like being needed. I like… being there for people.” He watched her, saw the tiny flinch at the word “needed.” “But I also like this,” he added, gesturing to the table, the terrace, her.

Myra looked up, her gaze nearly meeting his. “Even if I can’t offer anything?”

Andy shook his head. “You’re offering this. Lunch. Honesty. Company. That’s more than enough.”

She let the words sit for a second, then looked away. “I’m not very good at this.”

Andy smiled. “You’re fine.”

They lingered over the last of the tea, the breeze picking up and turning the garden into a shifting green tide.

Suddenly, Andy felt a light pressure on the back of his hand. Myra’s fingers, tentative at first, then firmer, sliding across his knuckles until her palm covered his.

Andy turned his hand over, threading their fingers together. Myra’s grip was dry and steady, her nails cut short, the skin around them rough but warm.

They sat like that for a long moment. Myra’s tail uncurling, her shoulders dropping another inch. She pulled her hand back, but Andy caught it, just for a second, before letting go.

He leaned forward, across the small table, and kissed her.

Kissed the Master! +1 VP

It was a brief thing, careful and soft. But when he pulled away, he saw the flush in her cheeks and the way her fox tail flicked once, twice, then stilled, foxfire dancing over her skin.

“Thank you for today,” she said, and for the first time, Andy believed she meant it.

He grinned, a genuine, helpless thing. “Anytime.”

They sat a while longer, two shapes in the sun, the rest of the world shrinking to the size of a garden bench and a table for two.

For the first time in weeks, Andy let himself imagine tomorrow—and found that, for once, he was looking forward to it.