Emi's Night (V)

The last elevator ride before the night was always a little haunted, but tonight the air inside was so charged that Andy expected a poltergeist to punch the “Master’s Suite” button before he could. Emi—beside him, still a little wild-eyed from the afternoon—kept flexing and unflexing her hands, as if she’d borrowed someone else’s arms and needed to calibrate them. She’d been quiet since the forest, her thoughts floating in lazy, pleasant loops. Andy let her have the silence, because for once, he didn’t have the urge to fill it.

When the elevator doors sighed open, Andy stepped into the lobby and felt it instantly: the wrongness. Not danger, not even fear—just the unmistakable, ticklish sense that something in the air had shifted a half-degree off its normal. Emi noticed his pause, cocked her head, and said nothing, but three of her hands drifted to the center of her chest, as if to check the heartbeat under her skin.

Andy stepped forward in the dim light of the lounge, but everything else was a little… not-right. The lights were still set to the dim, off-amber he liked, and the room smelled faintly of driftwood and clean laundry, but the chill in the air made Andy check over his shoulder, as if a prankster was crouched behind the planter. He stepped in, and Emi trailed after, craning her neck in mock-suspicious fashion.

It took only a few seconds to spot the first clue: on the coffee table, among the scatter of flash cards he was using to keep notes, someone had built a pyramid of seashells. It wasn’t elaborate—a little lopsided, like a kindergartener’s effort at a sand-castle—but the balance of it, the casual care, was unmistakable. Emi stopped, stared, then giggled into her palm.

“Did you do this?” she asked, voice pitched low so the shell tower wouldn’t collapse from the sound.

Andy shook his head, slowly. “I haven’t touched those since last week.”

He drifted toward the kitchen, scanning the countertops and then the floor for further evidence. Emi followed, her steps light and soundless on the marble. Nothing in the kitchen seemed off. “You’re being weird,” she said, but there was no heat in it.

Andy was halfway to the bedroom when he froze. The hair on his arms stood up. He was certain: someone had been here. Not recently—he’d have noticed the shift in air pressure if it was—but not long ago, either. Maybe an hour. Maybe less. The sense of intrusion was so specific, it felt personal.

Emi caught his mood, moved in closer. “What is it?”

He gestured, not sure how to say it without sounding insane. “There’s a… I don’t know. Something’s off. It’s like a puzzle, but I can’t see the edges yet.”

Emi’s face went all in, lighting up with curiosity. “Oh, like a game?”

He almost smiled, and motioned for her to follow. They stepped into the bedroom. For a second, Andy saw nothing out of place—then his brain caught up to his eyes. The pillows were reversed, their tags sticking out like tiny white tongues. The top blanket had been folded—badly, but with intent—into a long-necked, long-tailed origami crane, perched awkwardly in the dead center of the bed.

Andy stared at it. Emi let out a delighted gasp and dashed forward, then stopped short, squatting on her heels to examine the handiwork. “Oh my God. That’s— That’s not a towel animal, is it? Did Mildred leave us turn-down service?”

Andy moved in, not trusting his memory. The sheet wasn’t folded the way a maid would do it. It was creased, and crumpled, and then pinched at the neck, just like… He picked up the blanket, careful not to destroy it. There, stuck through the beak, was a scrap of folded paper.

He fished it out, hands suddenly a little shaky. Emi was right behind him, all six arms clustering close as she peered over his shoulder. Andy unfolded the note. It was one word, in jagged, capital letters:

GOTCHA.

Underlined, twice. No signature, no smiley face, nothing else—but Andy knew the handwriting. Even now, even after sixteen years. It was Laura’s. The world wobbled. Andy felt the words pin him in place—GOTCHA, in Laura’s hand, so brash it could have torn the paper. For a split second, the years peeled away and he was thirteen again, standing in front of the Ashford fridge, facing a note that said the exact same thing after Laura had swapped the salt and sugar. It was childish, it was dumb, it was perfectly, awfully her. For a moment, his whole body buzzed with something like vertigo.

He laughed, but it came out more like a hoot—loud and startled and so contagious Emi joined in, her giggle spiraling up an octave before she had to cover her mouth with all six hands. The origami swan, which had been balancing so bravely on its uneven butt, listed sideways and collapsed, the note fluttering to the sheet like a surrender flag.

“Holy shit,” Emi said, still laughing. “It’s her.” She sounded almost reverent. “She came here just to prank you?”

Andy shook his head, but his eyes wouldn’t stop leaking. He wiped at them with the back of his hand, grinning so wide it hurt. “She always used to do this. Whenever she was mad, or scared, or wanted to let me know she wasn’t actually mad or scared.” He tapped the paper, hands trembling. “She’s saying she’s okay. Or she’s going to be.”

Emi crouched next to him, her legs tucked under and arms propped on the edge of the bed. She took the note, turned it over, and sniffed. “No cologne, no perfume. But she must have been here, what, less than an hour ago? Must have been while I was changing and you were in the sunroom.” She peered up at Andy, her face shining. “She didn’t even try to take anything, or move anything else. Just… this.” Emi shook her head in admiration. “She’s still herself.”

Andy collapsed onto the edge of the bed, feeling like someone had just turned on all the lights in his head. He looked around at the room—at the pyramid of shells he could still partially see in the living room, at the weird, droopy swan, at the reversed pillows—and saw what Laura meant. He’d worried about her every second since her return: about the trauma, the horror, the uncanny valley of being alive again after so long, and then the harem, the duplication, and last but not least, the curfew accident. He’d worried that she would be hollow, or angry, or lost. He’d worried he would never get her back, not really, or that she wouldn’t be the same. But this—this was so perfectly her that it was a better proof than any deep talk or DNA test. This was what Laura had meant—the reassurance, the signal: I’m okay. I can play again. You don’t have to worry every second. You don’t have to mourn.

He looked at Emi and realized she’d gone quiet. She was holding the crane with all six hands, pressing its floppy neck gently back into shape. There was a look in her eyes—nostalgia, yes, but also something sadder, something like mourning. Andy reached out, caught her hand, and squeezed. “She wanted you to know,” Emi said, her voice a whisper. “She wanted you to laugh. She always did.”

Emi let Andy hold her hand as long as he needed. For a while, neither said anything. The room was dim, the walls washed in a blue-shadowed half-light, and the wrecked origami bird slumped between them on the comforter. Andy thought about a hundred things he could say, but none of them felt real enough for this moment. He pulled Emi into a hug, their faces so close he could see every fleck of gold in her brown eyes. “She wanted both of us to know,” he said. “She was always the best at this.”

Emi nodded, solemn, but her smile was brighter than the moonlight on the bedspread. “I think I love her even more for this,” she admitted. “It’s like she’s telling us to stop being so sad.” She turned the note over, fingers brushing the edges. “She used to leave these everywhere, didn’t she?”

Andy managed a nod. “I found one in my backpack after finals, and another under my pillow the night before her thirteenth birthday.” He wiped his face, aware of how ridiculous he must look—crying over a dumb piece of paper, laughing at the same time. “She always signed them the same way. GOTCHA. Like she wanted to make sure you knew she’d outsmarted you.”

Emi grinned, but there was a shimmer in her eyes too. “I remember. She got me once. In fourth grade, right after my mom got the surgery. I couldn’t stop crying at school, and Laura put a frog in my locker. She knew I was terrified of frogs, but when I freaked out and started screaming, she popped out from behind the corner and made everyone laugh. She told me later it was to prove I could still feel anything but sad.” Emi looked down. “She did it on purpose. She always did it on purpose.”

“She did,” Andy said. He felt the ache in his throat melt a little, replaced by something sharp and bright. “It was how she cared.”

They sat side by side on the edge of the bed, the note between them. The silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It was the hush after a good rainstorm, everything rinsed out and new.

Emi broke it, gently. “You think she did this just for you?”

He thought about it. “I think it was for us.” He hesitated, then added, “I think this is her way of saying she’s not broken. Or she’s going to try not to be.”

Emi’s lips twisted, as if she were biting back a sob or a laugh or both. “You know, I always wanted to be her, just a little.” She glanced at Andy. “Not in a weird way. But I admired her. She was so…” Emi struggled for the word, then settled on, “fearless.”

“She was,” Andy said. He closed his hand around hers, warm and soft and strong, and felt the world tilt back onto its axis. “I think she still is, or will be again. Once she’s settled. And you are, too. Even if you don’t see it.”

Emi rolled her eyes, but the compliment made her blush, faint and pink and perfect on her cheeks. “You’re just saying that.”

“No,” Andy admitted. “I think it’s true.”

She ducked her head, then said, “Do you want to keep the note? Or should we put it somewhere?”

He took it from her, held it up to the light. The paper was cheap hotel stationery, but the ink was the same dark blue Laura had always used. He tucked the note into the bedside drawer, then turned back to Emi. He couldn’t help it—he kissed her, quick and grateful, then again, slower, letting the warmth of her hands melt away the last of the tension. She kissed him back with a sweetness that was pure Emi: a little awkward, a little eager, all-in.

When they parted, Emi said, “Let’s not touch it. Not for a little while. It’s perfect like this.” She gestured at the mess on the bed, the way every detail had been tilted just off-center, just enough to show a human hand behind it.

The kitchen was still bright with afterglow, both from the setting sun and from the mood that lingered in the Suite. Andy and Emi, still a little giggly from the prank, decided to make dinner together—nothing ambitious, just a salad, some leftover bread, and a fancy bottled dressing Emi had filched from the pantry when no one was looking.

Emi stole a t-shirt from Andy’s closet to use as an apron, and tackled the salad with scientific focus, though she kept pausing to glance at Andy and beam like a dork whenever she made a particularly even chop. Her lower two arms were best at spinning the salad bowl; the middle set handled the knife with speed and accuracy; the top two arms alternated between passing ingredients and periodically mussing Andy’s hair. She narrated her progress in a stage whisper, occasionally holding up a perfect radish slice as if it were a world record.

Dinner was never really about the food, not on the island, and tonight was no exception. Emi’s idea of meal prep was “maximum hands, minimum thought,” which led to a salad so perfectly tossed it could have survived a hurricane, and bread so thick with butter it squeaked between your teeth. Andy pretended to be sous-chef, but mostly he just fetched things down from high shelves and let Emi's arms do all the actual work. She kept up a patter of faux-serious cooking show narration, each new ingredient greeted like an old friend.

“Look at this tomato, would you just look at it? If I were this tomato, I’d retire right now. Never show up on another sandwich again.”

Andy laughed, and Emi did, too—a soft, bubbling sound that always seemed to come as a surprise to her, like she’d forgotten she knew how. She caught him looking and flicked a piece of cucumber at his head. He dodged, and in retaliation, Emi’s third left hand (the sneaky one) delivered a ninja-grade towel snap to his leg.

When the food was done, they left it on the counter for a bit, both **** to leave the kitchen’s pool of warmth. The suite’s big picture window threw long rectangles of orange and indigo across the marble, and Andy found himself just standing, taking it in. Emi came to lean next to him, shoulder to shoulder, six arms all in a tangle of crossed and uncrossed. She looked outside, then at Andy, and for a long second neither spoke.

For a while, neither of them moved. Emi leaned against the counter, all six arms folded or fidgeting, and Andy pretended to study the color gradient outside. The room felt so full—of laughter, of ghosts, of the weird almost-heat that lingered after a good memory—that Andy found himself **** to even sit down, for fear it might dissipate.

But eventually, Emi’s stomach made a quiet, embarrassed noise, and she made a show of clapping two hands over her belly. “Oops,” she said. “I think my body forgot we ate all that food at the picnic.”

Andy smiled. “Well, you did burn a lot of energy this afternoon.”

She stuck out her tongue, but the reminder seemed to kick her back into gear. “Come on, let’s at least pretend to eat dinner. We made all this, after all.” She started ferrying food to the little dining nook by the window, three arms carrying bowls, another two grabbing plates and forks, the last opening the mini-fridge to retrieve a bottle of ginger beer. Andy followed, letting himself appreciate the way Emi moved now: less self-conscious, more like someone who had finally decided she could have a place at the table.

They sat across from each other, Emi still in her stolen t-shirt, Andy in the same jeans and loose button-down he’d worn to the Forest. He watched as Emi tried to eat salad with three forks at once. After a minute of silent struggle, she abandoned two of them and, with a kind of sheepish laugh, said, “Still not an expert.”

Andy shook his head. “It’s great watching you try, though.” He meant it: her energy was so relentless, so bright, it made the world’s other lights look lazy by comparison. “I used to get so embarrassed,” she admitted, once she’d finished chewing. “Remember? Like, if anyone looked at me funny, I’d want to crawl inside my room and close the door.” She glanced up, saw that Andy was genuinely listening, and added, “But now it’s like… it’s not just okay to be weird, it’s, um, maybe even good?”

He nodded. “You’re way more fun now. I mean, you were always fun, but you let yourself show it now. That’s the difference.”

Emi went a shade pinker. “You think I’m fun?”

He let the word hang for effect, then said, “Absolutely. You have the best energy. It’s contagious.”

Her smile was so bright he had to look away, which made Emi giggle and accidentally squeeze her ginger beer too hard, making it fizz over the rim. Three hands reached to rescue it at once, and one just fanned the air in mild panic.

Once the mess was contained, Emi looked down at her hands—at all of them, splayed on the table like she’d forgotten what they were for. She flexed her left, then her right, and then all at once, like a test. “You know,” she said, her voice lower, more thoughtful, “I’m pretty sure I’m still changing.” She looked up. “I mean, physically. Like, I think I grew since last week.”

Andy gave her a once-over, exaggerated. “You think so?”

Emi nodded, biting her lower lip. “I feel I got a little taller. And, um, my chest is a little… bigger? Not a lot, but more than before.” She looked genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know if it’s just me, or if I’m going to keep mutating until I’m a six-armed kaiju.”

He had to laugh. “You’d be the cutest kaiju in California.” Andy smiled. “You’ll always be you. And, honestly? You’ve never looked better. I mean that.” He said it plainly, without the nervous edge he might have had even a week ago.

She froze, mid-bite. “Really?”

“Really.” He let his eyes linger, just for a beat, so she’d know he meant it. “And if you want to talk about the changes, I’m here for that, too.”

Emi was quiet for a moment, chewing on the thought as much as on her salad. Then she asked, “Do you remember, that first week? When I asked if you could ever love someone with, you know, six arms?”

Andy remembered it perfectly. “You thought it was a deal-breaker.”

She nodded, all her hands busy in nervous choreography. “I was convinced nobody would ever want me like this. Not even as a friend, let alone…” She trailed off, then, in a single breathless exhale: “Sometimes I still worry that you only like the idea of me.”

That landed heavier than he expected. Andy put his fork down and reached across the table, taking her upper right hand in his. “I don’t like the idea of you,” he said. “I love you. And I love all of you, including the extra arms, the weirdness, even the fact that you eat salad like a literal tree-shredder.”

That was almost too much for Emi. Her face went scarlet, and her lower arms made a helpless little “eep” gesture, which she tried (and failed) to hide behind her napkin.

He squeezed her hand, then the lower two, then—why not?—the middle set, until all six were involved. “You’re perfect,” he said. “And I wouldn’t change anything. Well, except maybe your salad technique.”

Emi burst out laughing, but this time there was no hiding, no self-consciousness. She let him hold all six hands at once, their fingers tangled and messy and perfect, and for a long time, neither of them felt the need to speak. Dinner, such as it was, wound down with more laughter, some actual eating, and a little bit of Emi just watching Andy with this dopey, glowing look that bordered on worship. Andy was self-aware enough to realize how dorky it was, but also aware that he liked being the cause of it.

When the food was gone, Emi started gathering plates, but Andy stopped her. “Let’s just sit for a minute.”

They sat in silence, the sunset giving way to the first pricks of evening star, and Andy thought—maybe for the first time—that the future, whatever it was, might actually be worth looking forward to. Andy leaned in, kissed her cheek, then—because he could, because she wanted him to—kissed her lips, soft and slow and real.

Emi melted into it, all six arms winding around him, pulling him closer, her whole body radiating warmth. When they broke apart, she said, “Thank you.”

He didn’t know what for, but he accepted it.

They cleared the table together, arms and hands everywhere, laughter turning into wordless hums of contentment, and by the time the kitchen was tidy, the Suite felt like home for the first time in months.

After dinner, Andy and Emi drifted naturally toward the living room, the kind of post-meal migration that felt more like instinct than intent. The lamps were set low, just a couple glowy orbs in the corner, and the oversized couch made everything feel a little squishy around the edges. Andy dropped onto one end, stretched his legs out, and Emi collapsed into his side, all arms and elbows and loose-limbed comfort.

“See?” she said, snuggling in, “I told you I could fit.”

Andy grinned, shifting to make more room. “You’re surprisingly compact.”

She wiggled an eyebrow. “It’s called efficiency.”

He couldn’t help it—he laughed, a soft, loose sound that felt like exhaling after a long, hard hike. Emi curled tighter, resting her head on his shoulder. For a while, neither talked. The hush was so pleasant that Andy just let himself relax into it, hands idly stroking Emi’s arms, whichever one came within range.

After a long moment, Emi spoke, her voice a little dreamy. “I always used to imagine I’d grow up to be a cool artist. Like, the kind who lived in a converted warehouse and wore paint-splattered overalls and made everyone jealous with her perfectly tragic lifestyle.” She made a face. “Turns out I’m just really good at being alone.”

Andy turned, not sure what to say. “You’re not alone anymore.”

She nodded, burrowing closer. “I know. I didn’t even realize how much I missed having people until…” Emi let it hang there, then, more quietly, “Until I saw you again. Do you remember? I nearly fainted. I thought it was some kind of cruel prank.”

He remembered that day—the way Emi had watched him, believing it was all a dream, and how he’d been too numb to really process it at the time. “It wasn’t a prank,” he said. “I’m still here.”

Emi smiled, then shifted so she could see him. “Can I tell you something weird?”

“Always.”

She hesitated, then went for it: “I think the show might be the best thing that ever happened to me. Not because of the arms, or the magic, or even the games.” She looked at her hands, opened and closed all six at once, as if counting the ways. “But because I stopped feeling like a side character. For the first time, I get to be… a real part of the story.”

Andy didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to say something profound, but came up empty. Instead, he just reached for her hand—one of the middle ones—and held it, tight.

Emi’s smile was tremulous, but very real. “What about you? Do you ever think about, like, what happens after?”

Andy considered Emi’s question—what about after, what comes next—and felt a genuine terror rise in his chest, the kind that made your thoughts buzz with static. He’d spent every day on the island improvising, never thinking further than the next challenge, the next emotional crisis, the next person who needed him. A future? He’d never mapped one out, not even in the shape of a fantasy. For a second, he thought about lying, or giving her something soft and noncommittal, but Emi deserved better than that.

He looked at her, at the way she curled so tightly into him, the arms cocooning his chest, the pink flush at her cheek that never fully faded. “Honestly?” Andy said, voice low. “I haven’t let myself think about it. Not really.” He shrugged, awkward. “The idea of going back, of having a real life—sometimes it feels impossible. Like I’m not allowed to want that.”

Emi nodded, as if she understood. “I get it,” she said. “For a long time, I couldn’t picture anything either. Not after, you know—” She trailed off, but Andy knew what she meant: the years after Laura’s ****, the way she’d drifted out of her own life, becoming a ghost in her own apartment. “But then this place happened. And I… I got to want things again. Even if it’s weird, or embarrassing, or impossible. It’s the wanting that matters.”

Andy reached up, brushing a strand of black hair behind her ear, careful not to dislodge the way her head rested on his shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked. “For after.”

Emi went still, her breath barely moving. She closed her eyes, steeling herself. “I want to belong to someone. Not in a creepy way, but in a… home way. Like, I want to be the person who makes breakfast for you when you forget to eat, or who brings you a book in bed, or just… sits next to you at dinner. I want the kind of boring, ordinary love that everyone else takes for granted. I want the other girls to be with us, and I don’t want to lose all we have built here.” Her voice grew softer: “I want to not be afraid anymore.”

Andy let the words settle. He felt something loosen in his ribs, like a knot untying. He thought about how many times he’d seen Emi on the periphery, always watching, never reaching for the center. “You’re not boring,” he said. “You’re a wonderful person, Emi. You make everyone smile. You made me smile when I could not find a reason to. When I saw you, the first day, on the beach, all I could think of was that this place couldn’t be that bad, if you were going to be in it.”

Emi snorted, not meanly. “That’s you, Andy. You’re the glue.” She poked his chest with two index fingers, then four, then all six, as if making a point. “I just follow you around and try to keep you from self-destructing.”

He laughed, because it was true. “Then we make a good team.”

For a while, they let the quiet be enough. The only sounds were the faint crash of surf against the cliffs and, farther out, the wind cutting across the glass balcony rail. Emi relaxed by slow increments, letting her guard down, her arms going slack and pliant around Andy’s waist. Every so often, she’d tuck her face in closer, her hair grazing his jaw, and Andy realized he liked the sensation so much he could spend a lifetime just feeling it.

Eventually, Emi asked, “Do you think we’ll remember any of this, when we go back?”

He nodded. “We have to. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Emi smiled, a wistful, sidelong thing. “I hope you’re right.”

Andy let himself sink deeper into the couch, feeling the weight of Emi on his chest, the strange but perfect rightness of her presence. For the first time in months, he let his mind wander, painting a picture of a future that wasn’t a minefield or a trap. He pictured waking up to this—her warmth, her arms, her stubborn, silly joy. He let himself want it, just for a moment.

She must have felt it, because Emi asked, “What are you thinking?”

He answered without thinking. “That I wish we could stay like this.” He paused. “That I want you. For real. Not because the game says I should, not because of fate, but because…” He trailed off, searching for the words.

Emi helped him. “Because you love me?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Because I love you.”

Emi’s reaction was so big and bright it startled him. She pulled back, grinning so wide it split her whole face, then immediately covered her mouth with four hands, as if embarrassed by the intensity of her happiness. The other two hands found Andy’s face, cupping his jaw like he was something precious. She kissed him, then, not shy or tentative but all in, a six-armed, whole-body kind of kiss that nearly knocked him sideways off the couch. Andy laughed into her mouth, and Emi laughed too, the sound bubbling up between their lips. She kissed him again, deeper, and when she pulled away her eyes were wet with tears she didn’t bother to hide.

They stayed on the couch until the stars outside were so dense and close they looked like a snowglobe of light. Andy lost track of time, lost track of his own body, let himself be held by Emi’s arms and the softness of her words. At some point, she shifted so she was sitting in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, hair falling like a curtain around them both.

She pressed her forehead to his, breathing slow and steady. “I never got to say thank you,” she said, voice fierce and quiet. “For not giving up. For being here. For bringing me back to myself. For…” She hesitated, then finished, “For loving me back.”

Andy didn’t know how to answer, so he just held her, letting the world shrink to the span of six arms and the steady rise and fall of their chests.

When they finally left the couch, it was only because the sky beyond the window was filled with stars, and Emi’s eyelids kept fluttering shut even as she fought to stay awake. Andy scooped her up, bridal style, and carried her into the bedroom, where the remains of Laura’s prank still decorated the bed. Emi giggled when she saw the origami crane, now slumped sideways but still gamely clinging to the blanket. She picked it up and set it on the nightstand, then climbed under the covers and patted the space beside her.

Princess carried by the Master! +1 VP

Andy joined her, and as soon as he was settled, Emi slid in so close their bodies fit like puzzle pieces. She draped four arms around his chest, two more at his hips, and let out a long, contented sigh.

“This is nice,” she said, muffled by his shoulder.

He agreed, and wrapped his own arms around her, careful not to tangle in the extra limbs. For a while, neither of them spoke. The room was so quiet, so full of breath and warmth and promise, that Andy wanted to bottle it, keep it for the rest of his life.

The world had narrowed itself to the bedroom. The rest of the Suite faded into blue quiet, save for the warmth that radiated from the bed—Emi pressed in close, every curve and limb a silent exclamation point, and Andy, for the first time in a year, letting himself rest into the gravity of another human being.

They lay side by side, at first just breathing. Emi had kicked off the borrowed t-shirt and left it crumpled on the floor, and now all six of her arms tangled the sheets, one set crossed at her chest, two others pillowed under her head, and the rest splayed between their bodies, as if unsure what to do with themselves. Andy was bare, too, the covers pulled up for modesty neither of them really believed in. They spoke little, trading only the softest words, letting the hush fill in the spaces where nerves might otherwise skitter.

The bed, for all its size, felt comically large compared to the warmth on Andy's left: Emi, body radiant and alive, every bit of her tuned to the room and to him. She fit perfectly against his side, head tucked under his jaw, her hair tickling his neck. It was a new intimacy, the way she pressed her face into his chest, inhaled his scent, then peeked up at him as if checking for permission. It would have been easy to make a joke, to break the tension, but Andy just smiled, stroking her hair with his free hand.

It didn't take long for the stillness to become a different kind of charge. Emi’s hands—one by one, then all at once—started tracing lines down his chest, her touch tentative at first, then bolder. She giggled into his neck when Andy shivered, the sound as bright as the moonlight striping the covers. "Is this okay?" she whispered, her voice just a tickle.

He answered with a yes, but it came out as a hum, the kind of sound that says everything and nothing at once. She seemed to like the answer, because all at once, Emi rolled on top of him, bracing herself on four arms, her thighs straddling his hips. The hair curtained them both, casting her face in a shadow broken only by the shy but insistent glint in her eyes.

She grinned, then ducked down and kissed him. Her lips were soft, at first, but the press of her body said she wanted more—needed more. Andy kissed her back, and the electricity that ran through him was so sharp, he nearly gasped. Emi’s body was a map of pleasure; every inch of her skin seemed tuned for touch, and every new place Andy discovered with his hands was rewarded with a flutter, a gasp, or a helpless shiver.

Her arms never stopped moving. They explored him like he was a secret to be solved, fingers working through his hair, drawing circles on his chest, holding his face as if it was the most precious thing in the world. With every new point of contact, Emi grew bolder, and Andy matched her, his hands running up her back, then lower, until she let out a noise that was half-laugh, half-moan.

She kissed him again, longer this time, her breath quickening. Then she pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, every one of her hands still working—stroking, kneading, cradling his head. "I want you," she said, so direct it made Andy dizzy.

He nodded, a little stunned by the honesty of it, and Emi giggled, four hands braced on either side of his head now, the other two roaming lower, a promise of more. She leaned in, nipped at his jaw, then at his collarbone, her hair spilling forward to shroud them both. Every kiss left Andy a little more undone.

She worked her way down his body, not in a straight line but in increments, as if she was drawing a constellation and needed to connect every star. Her kisses made patterns—shoulder, chest, down his side, then back up to his mouth, like she couldn’t decide where she liked him best. The hands, though, were the revelation: as she trailed lower, they mapped new territory, sometimes moving in perfect symmetry, sometimes working independently. Andy lost track of which hand was where, and that made it better.

When Emi reached his waist, she paused, glancing up as if to check if he was still with her. The look on her face was pure mischief. "Ready?" she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. Her hands danced, one set parting his thighs, the others stroking his hips, every touch orchestrated and deliberate. Andy felt like his body was being played by a maestro.

She took him in her hand, then her mouth, and Andy made a noise so loud he was glad the room was soundproofed. The sensation was overwhelming—six hands, two lips, and a tongue so agile he had to bite the inside of his cheek not to lose it instantly. Emi was thorough, and she was inventive; she alternated pressure and pace, hands squeezing, stroking, sometimes even pinning his wrists or thighs to the bed so he couldn't move. It was a symphony of sensation, and Andy gave up all thought of control.

He didn’t last long, but Emi seemed to take it as a compliment. When he finally came, she swallowed every drop, then licked her lips, looking almost proud. She crawled back up to kiss him, and Andy could taste himself on her tongue, a strange but not unpleasant echo. He kissed her until he could breathe again.

Blowjob! +4 VP
Swallowed! +2 VP

He tried to flip her onto her back, but Emi stopped him, laughing. “Let me,” she said, and then she was riding him, her knees bracketing his hips, her lower arms guiding him inside her. She was tight, and so hot it almost hurt, but Emi knew what she was doing; she rocked slowly at first, letting him get used to the rhythm, then sped up, one set of hands gripping his shoulders, the others roaming, pinching, teasing.

Andy reached up and cupped her breast, and Emi moaned, arching into his touch. Her arms fluttered in a blur, hair swinging wildly as she rode him, and Andy thought he might die from the sheer beauty of it. She leaned down and kissed him, hard, then gasped into his mouth as her body started to shake.

When Emi came, it was volcanic—her whole body clamped down, all six hands digging into his skin, her head thrown back so her hair fanned out behind her like an angel's. She made a noise so raw and lovely that Andy came again, right then. He clung to her, arms locked around her back, riding out the storm together.

They collapsed in a heap, Emi boneless and smiling, Andy unable to move anything but his hands, which kept petting her hair as if to check that she was real. They stayed like that for a long time, hearts thumping, the only sound their breath and, now and then, a tiny giggle from Emi when she realized she was still clamped around him.

“I want more,” Emi said, her voice barely a whisper. “If you’re okay.”

He laughed—an easy, joyful sound he hadn't made in months. “Anything. Everything.”

This time, Emi rolled onto her side and spooned him from behind, two arms hugging his chest, two wrapped around his thighs, and two more splaying his legs apart so she could fit herself perfectly against him. She ground against his back, kissing his neck and shoulders, her lower hands stroking him back to hardness. Andy surrendered to it, letting her do whatever she wanted.

Ground against the Master! +1 VP

She guided him into her again, this time from behind, and the angle was so new and so intense that Andy almost lost it. Emi bit down on his shoulder, not quite breaking the skin, and whispered, “I love you,” in a tone that was all fire and need. Andy reached back and grabbed her ass, squeezing hard, and Emi laughed, then groaned, the sound vibrating through both of them.

Groped by the Master! +2 VP

They moved together, Emi’s rhythm relentless, every part of her body wrapped around him, and Andy was lost. When he came again, it was with a shout, and Emi followed right after, her whole body shaking. They slumped forward, tangled, neither of them letting go for a long, long time.

Eventually, Andy flopped onto his back, spent and happy, and Emi flung herself across his chest like a blanket, every arm and leg draped over him. Her hair was a disaster, her eyes glazed, but her smile was blinding.

10-Time Combo! +5 VP

She kissed him, soft and slow, then whispered into his ear: “She gave you back your laugh.”

Andy went still, then smiled, the realization blooming bright in his chest. “Yeah. I think she did.”

Emi nuzzled into him, one arm tracing lazy spirals on his skin. “You should let yourself have it,” she said. “You deserve it.”

He kissed her head, not trusting himself to speak.

They drifted like that, letting the sweat cool and the quiet settle in, until Emi rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin on her hands, staring at Andy as if he were a puzzle. “Can I tell you something?” she asked, voice lower now, heavier.

“Anything.”

Emi hesitated, then dove in: “What I told you earlier today… I realized I don’t know who I want to be. I mean, to you. Like, am I your girlfriend? Are we supposed to get married? Do you want me to be the mother of your kids? Or am I just—” She shrugged, all six arms moving at once. “I don’t know if I can be anything but this, but I want to try.”

Andy considered that, the old guilt rising, but this time it wasn’t enough to drown him. “What do you want to be?” he asked, the words careful, real.

Emi looked at her hands, then at him. “I want to be your family,” she said. “Not just for now. For… as long as we get.” She flushed, then added, “I know what Arabella said. About all of us living for hundreds of years, maybe more. I keep thinking—what if we get stuck, and everyone else moves on, and we’re all that’s left?” She laughed, shaky. “Does that make me crazy?”

Andy reached for her, and she collapsed against him, letting herself be held. “Not crazy,” he said. “You have always made sense to me.”

She snorted, but her eyes were wet. “You don’t have to say that. You have a whole harem now.”

He shook his head, kissing her forehead. “That’s true. I love each of you. But you’ll always be my Emi.”

For a while, they just held each other, the quiet so profound it made the air hum. Emi toyed with his hair, twisting it into little horns, then untwisting them, as if she was practicing for some distant future where she might have to explain Andy to a very confused child.

Andy’s mind drifted. He thought about the years ahead—decades, maybe centuries, with Emi and the others, with the strange new family they were building out of trauma and hope and raw need. He didn’t know what it would look like, but he wanted to see it.

He wanted it all.

Emi must have sensed the shift, because she said, “Tell me what you see. When you think about after.”

He pictured it—maybe in a little house near the ocean, sunlight streaming in. There would be laughter, and messes, and sometimes pain, but always this—this warmth, this certainty that someone wanted him. He saw the women there, too: Emi and Erin and Claire and Laura and all the others, all of them intertwined in the way roots make a forest strong.

He tried to say it, but the words came out rough: “I see you,” he said, “and I see us. All of us. Making it work, even when it’s weird, or hard. I see… a home.”

Emi closed her eyes, letting the tears fall. “I want that,” she said. “More than anything.”

He held her until she stopped shaking, then whispered, “Let’s build it. Together.”

She nodded, too overcome to speak, and they melted back into each other, the exhaustion finally catching up. They drifted in and out of sleep, Emi’s arms and legs entwined around him like she’d always been there, like she always would be.

On the far wall, the painting watched. Katherine stood, as always, but tonight her painted eyes were soft, her expression proud. In her strange, silent world, she had watched the entire thing unfold—every touch, every laugh, every secret hope confessed in the dark. She felt the aftershocks in her own painted skin, the echoes of pleasure and release, and though she could not speak, her heart, such as it was, overflowed with pride.

She watched them, not with envy but with satisfaction. This was what she had always wanted for Andy, and for herself—a life not just endured, but loved.

The moonlight shifted, pooling on the edge of the canvas, painting a thin line of silver across her cheek. Katherine smiled, just a little, and waited for morning, and for the next dream meeting.

In the bed, Emi and Andy slept, a tangle of limbs and breath and, somewhere in the deep quiet of night, the faintest echo of laughter, rising up to meet the dawn.

Bonus Picture!

Liesa's Pathfinder 2e druid: Shadow Whisperwind!