Erin's Night (III)

The elevator was all brushed metal, bad lighting, and impossible silence. Erin stood next to Andi, shoulders hunched, every muscle in her body tensed to minimize surface area—never mind that the Audience’s unseen eyes had almost certainly leered at her huge-breasted, shoe-only silhouette from across half the multiverse already. She pretended not to notice her reflection, but the metal sheets caught everything: the tan skin in wet dapple from her last-minute dip, the stiff way she clamped her arms under her chest, the brown, green and yellow of her hiking shoes like an afterthought at the bottom of all that bare, exposed skin.

Andi, for her part, seemed immune to the tension. A few inches taller than Erin even if she was a little shorter than her male form, she wore the black swimsuit from the pool, hair still damp, but her posture was open—almost relaxed. She braced her arms behind her, watching the digital floor count tick upward. If the situation was awkward for her, it didn't show.

Only when the elevator began its slow glide to the Master’s Suite did Erin dare a glance at her reflection. The sight made her cringe. “Is it… weird?” she asked, voice low, almost swallowed by the hum of the hydraulics. “Being like this, I mean. Not even the naked thing—just… being in the wrong body.”

Andi caught her eye in the glass. “You mean my Andi form?”

Erin nodded. “You switch back and forth like it’s nothing. I can’t even walk to the pool without feeling like I’m a freak show.”

Andi’s smile was more real than Erin had expected. “Honestly? It’s not that bad, once you get past the first five minutes. My brain just… knows what to do. I don’t have to think about it. Muscle memory, I guess.” She shrugged, then added, “There are some things that are distracting, though.” She nodded at her own chest, which—while not in Erin’s current league—still pulled serious focus in the reflection.

Despite herself, Erin laughed. “Of course that’s what you’d notice. You’ve been a boob guy since sophomore year.”

Andi gave a sidelong look, mock-offended. “That is slanderous. I have always been a perfectly equal-opportunity pervert.” She caught Erin’s gaze again and held it this time, the humor in her face softening. “But really. After a couple days, the novelty wears off. Then it’s just… life. You get used to it.”

Erin exhaled, feeling a little of the ice in her chest melt. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. The whole… being on display thing. It’s like my skin doesn’t even belong to me anymore.” She gestured, awkwardly, at her own breasts, which looked more like props than anatomy at the moment. “I feel like I’m walking around with headlights on, twenty-four-seven.”

Andi’s lips quirked. “It’s not the same as a choice, I know. But you do get to decide how much it ruins your day.” She leaned in a little, conspiratorial. “The way I saw it last week, they **** me to spend twenty-four hours in the ‘wrong’ body every week. I could fight it, or I could burn through the hours early and get it over with. Once you decide you’re in control, even a little bit, it helps.”

Erin turned this over, the gears in her head visible in her eyes. “So you just… ride it out?”

Andi nodded. “You burn through the quota, and then it’s done. Like jury duty, but with less paperwork and more ass.” She smiled, then let her tone go serious for a beat. “And it helps having people who don’t make it a big deal. Sam doesn’t care which version shows up for her date. Neither of us wants anything sexual from it, so we’ll probably just hang out and play chess until the timer runs out.”

Erin barked a laugh—real, this time. “You two are hopeless.”

Andi shrugged again, comfortable in her own skin. “Hopeless is easier to manage than miserable.”

A beat, then Andi added, “I overheard Liesa’s advice to you, earlier. She raised some valid points.” She looked at Erin, eyes clear. “You can hate it, but at least make it yours.”

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open on the Master's Suite. Erin stepped out without hesitation, her head higher than it had been in the elevator. The familiar marble floors gleamed under the recessed lighting.

"Back again," she muttered, moving past the entryway with practiced steps. But she moved more smoothly, less self-consciously. She knew it would be only the two of them, there. And as she had said the first time they had slept together in the Suite, ‘we’re way past shy, you and me.’

Andi kicked off her sandals at the usual spot. Erin nodded, arms no longer welded across her chest—just loosely folded now, hands shielding without smothering. She padded across the cool tile toward the living area, not bothering to look at the coastline view she'd seen a dozen times before. Instead, she traced the familiar path to the kitchen, leaving damp footprints that would evaporate in minutes. She knew exactly how long they'd last on this floor.

In the bathroom, Andi flicked on the lights, revealing a marble expanse that looked like it had been designed by someone with a serious water fetish. There were three different kinds of showerhead, a sunken tub big enough for six, and at least one wall that was just a waterfall behind glass. Andi ran her fingers under the faucet, tested the temperature, then started the water. “Want to go first?” she asked.

Erin shook her head. “You can take it. I’ll just—” She gestured vaguely at the counter, then froze when she caught her own reflection in the mirror.

Andi didn’t push. She peeled off the black swimsuit, letting it fall in a soft slap against the tile, and stepped into the shower without a trace of self-consciousness. Erin watched, half-mesmerized. The shift was subtle, but it was there: the way Andi’s body moved, the easy confidence in her shoulders, the lack of awkward fidgeting or defensive posture. She looked like she belonged there.

Erin realized with a little shock that she missed that feeling. The sense of being at home in her own skin.

Andi poked her head out from the shower, hair plastered to her face, a grin splitting her features. “There’s room for two, if you want to save water.”

Erin rolled her eyes, but the line of her mouth softened. “Smooth.”

Andi held the grin a moment longer, then ducked back in, letting the water run. Erin watched the steam rise, filling the glass with ghostly outlines. There was a moment—a flicker—where she wanted to join, just to feel normal again. But the old walls kicked in, and she just hovered in the doorway.

After a couple minutes, Andi’s voice drifted out. “Can I show you something weird?”

Erin hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

There was a ripple of movement in the glass, a shimmer in the air, and then—seamlessly—Andi was gone and Andy stood there, same wet hair, same smile, but broader shoulders and a different geometry to the body. The change was so fast, so natural, that it left Erin blinking.

Andy stepped out, grabbing a towel and scrubbing at his head. “It’s not a big deal, but I figured you should see.”

Erin gawked, then snorted. “Show-off.”

He shrugged, then tossed her the towel. “Your turn. I promise not to peek.”

Erin took the towel, then paused. She looked at Andy, and saw that there was no judgment, no teasing—just the calm of someone who had learned to accept the hand he’d been dealt. She exhaled, shoulders dropping, and stepped into the shower, letting the water run over her skin.

She expected the shame to flare up, but it didn’t. Not as much, anyway. She just let the heat work its way into her muscles, and for the first time since noon, she felt something close to human.

When she finished, Andy was waiting, jeans and t-shirt already on, hair still damp. He handed her a second towel.

Erin took the towel and dried her skin with quick, efficient movements, careful not to linger too long in any one spot. She glanced at the closet with a flash of longing.

“They stocked with everything. And because of Andi, there are women’s clothes too. You sure you don’t want to see if you can find anything?”

Erin’s lips thinned, and she shook her head. She draped the damp towel over the rack and squared her shoulders, refusing to cross her arms over her chest. "I can’t even cinch a towel around my waist. But if I'm going to be stuck like this, I might as well own it." She stepped into the bedroom, completely bare, and shot Andy a look that dared him to comment. "Don't get used to the view."

He grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They stood there a minute, not quite ready to break the moment. Erin felt her chest—still massive, still absurd—heave with a breath that didn't end in a sigh.

Andy broke the silence. "Hungry? I could make that cedar-plank salmon you liked last time."

The memory hit her unexpectedly—their first night here, when she'd stormed in ready for a fight and found him standing nervously by a table set with her favorite dish. He'd remembered, even after all those years. She'd eaten every bite while maintaining her glare.

"You don't have to go to all that trouble," she said, softer than intended.

He shrugged. "It's no trouble. I like cooking for you. But I’ll fix something else, if you wish."

As Andy headed to the kitchen, Erin lingered in the bathroom, watching the last of the steam dissipate. She caught her reflection once more and didn't look away.

The kitchen had the kind of surface area usually reserved for test kitchens or high-end science labs. It never ceased to amaze Erin, each time she came up here. Andy moved through it with an easy, practiced grace, rifling through the fridge and stacking ingredients on the marble counter. Erin hovered a few feet away, arms loose and posture almost casual. The glow from the pendant lights bounced off her skin, gave every shadow a soft, homey edge.

“You still make that thing?” she asked, nodding toward the fresh basil, tomatoes, and a loaf of crusty bread Andy was assembling. “The weird not-quite-pasta thing?”

Andy grinned. “Panzanella. It’s classic. Also, you banned me from making real pasta after the great sauce incident of ’18.”

Erin let a laugh slip, the sound lighter than she’d intended. “That was your fault for thinking habaneros belonged in everything.”

He slid her a cutting board. “Want to help? I can never remember if you were a tomato chunker or slicer.”

She stepped up, took the knife, and started slicing with short, confident strokes. “Liar. You remember everything. And I’m a chunker. Slices are for cowards.”

“Glad to see you haven’t changed.”

They fell into an old rhythm: Andy tearing bread and prepping a vinaigrette while Erin did all the knife work, the two of them working side by side, not bothering to fill every silence. It was easy, familiar, and for a while Erin forgot that she was supposed to feel embarrassed. She reached across the counter for a bowl, leaning forward. Her bare nipples brushed against the cold marble countertop, sending an unexpected shiver through her body.

She straightened, knife still in hand, and turned to Andy with one eyebrow raised. "I know I'm not supposed to wear clothes, but do they expect me to cook topless, too? This seems like a safety hazard."

He looked up, and—without a beat—said, “Honestly, it’s kind of hot.”

She snorted. “Yeah, until I lean in too far and flambé a nipple.”

He grinned, then pointed at the stove. “You do have to watch the flame. Those things have, like, their own weather system now.”

She shot him a look, but there was no sting in it. “Glad to see you’re still a teenager at heart.”

He laughed. “I’ll watch the stove from now on, okay?”

They finished the meal in companionable silence, bumping hips as they reached for salt or a spoon, Erin’s skin prickling not from shame but from the strange comfort of it. Andy never once ogled or made a big deal of it—he just treated her like she was still Erin, minus clothes and with about ten or fifteen pounds of extra breast tissue.

When they sat down to eat, Erin tucked one leg up under her and didn’t even bother trying to cover herself. “This is weirdly good,” she said, mouth half-full. “Did you swap bodies with a real chef, or just level up?”

Andy shrugged. “Turns out the secret to cooking is having no one to impress. Once I stopped trying, it all worked.”

She nodded, thinking about that, then wiped her mouth with the napkin. “What do you want to do after dinner?”

He looked at her, earnest. “Honestly? I want you to decide. Anything you want. If you want to talk, we can talk. If you want to do something dumb and fun, I can dig up a deck of cards. Or we can just—” He stopped, searching for the right word.

Erin finished for him: “Have sex?”

He blinked, not expecting the bluntness, and then smiled. “Only if you want to.”

She looked down, toying with a bread crust. “Normally I’d say yes. You know that. But tonight… I think I’d fall apart if we tried. At least… not yet. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Andy nodded, not a trace of disappointment on his face. “Then we do something else.”

She was quiet for a second, then said, “How about Mario Kart? Didn’t you once claim you could never lose?”

He groaned. “That was before Claire got hold of the Switch. She destroys me every time. But I’m pretty sure you’re worse than I am, so there’s hope.”

Erin’s competitive streak flared. “You’re on.”

Andy nodded, but she suddenly realized he was thinking about something. “What’s up?” She asked him, knowing that face. He blinked, looked at her.

“I think you need to meet someone, first.” He stood, offering her his hand. She looked at him, confused. “We can’t leave the Suite, can we?” She asked, and he could hear a hint of anxiety. He shook his head. “No, she’s here. Come.”

Andy took Erin’s hand and led her toward the bedroom. The transition from living area to private space was immediate; the lighting softened, the air temperature ticked up, and the soundproofed door sealed out the drone of the ocean.

The centerpiece of the bedroom was not the king-sized bed, nor the glass wall with its blackout curtains, but the painting on the wall facing the bed. Even with the lights dimmed, the canvas glowed with its own strange internal illumination—a standing nude, painted in a hyper-realistic style, with a depth of expression that made the eyes seem almost animate. The woman’s skin was pale but warm, her hair black and glossy as wet ink, and her gaze—direct, ****, fearless—was fixed at a point just above where the real bed’s pillows would rest.

Erin slowed as she approached. “You moved the porn painting here?” She asked him, an eyebrow raised. She felt the air on her bare back and shivered—not from cold, but from the uncanny sensation that the painting was watching her.

Andy noticed. He reached up, fingers tracing the edge of the frame but not touching the canvas itself. "Katherine," he said softly, "I think it’s time."

The painting remained perfectly still.

"Come on," Andy coaxed, his voice gentle but insistent. "Erin needs to meet you. She's going through the same thing you did."

Erin shot him a look, eyes wide. "Are you… talking to the art?"

He nodded, eyes never leaving the woman in the painting. "She's just being stubborn. Katherine, please. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

Erin's mouth opened, closed, opened again. She glanced between Andy and the painting, concern etching across her features. "Andy, it's a painting. Should I be worried about—"

Then—so subtly she almost missed it—the painted woman's eyes flicked downward, meeting Erin's gaze directly. It was a small movement, but deliberate, unmistakable. The nerves along Erin's spine snapped to high alert, her breath catching in her throat as the impossible registered.

“What the actual fuck,” Erin whispered, stepping back.

The lips of the woman in the painting parted in a silent gasp, then curved into a shy, tentative smile. She raised her hand, palm facing the room, and pressed it flat to the inside of the canvas.

Erin stared. “It’s… she’s…”

“Alive,” Andy finished. “Her name is Katherine. She’s an old contestant. From a season fourteen years ago. She was eliminated, but the Master of her season left her behind. Arabella put her here.”

Erin looked from Andy to the painting and back. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” said Andy. “She can’t talk or write, but she can move in there. I figured you’d want to meet someone else who’s been through the whole ‘naked in public’ nightmare. Katherine’s transformation was the same as yours.”

Katherine nodded, a quick, almost grateful bob of her painted head. She made a complicated motion with her hands—a combination of fingers fluttering and shoulders shrugging—and then pointed at Erin, her expression full of commiseration.

Erin tried to process it. She looked at Andy, mouth open, then back to Katherine. “Does she, like… watch us sleep?”

Andy shrugged. “She can’t turn around. It’s part of the deal. She’s stuck facing out. At least she gets to see the sun.”

Katherine made a face that was equal parts tragic and “I know, right?” then mimed shielding her eyes from a glare that didn’t exist.

Erin laughed, the sound breaking through her initial weirdness. “God, that’s rough.”

Katherine grinned, then made an obscene gesture involving her middle finger and a looping wrist motion. Erin burst out laughing, and Andy couldn’t help but join in.

“She’s got a good sense of humor,” he said.

“Does she… watch when we…” Erin gestured at the bed.

Katherine’s painted cheeks flushed an artful shade of pink, and she nodded, bashful but unashamed.

Andy grinned. “She said once that it was the only entertainment she got. She’s rooting for you.”

Katherine gave a double thumbs up, then traced a heart in the air.

Erin felt something uncoil inside her. She stepped closer to the painting, studied the woman’s face, then lifted her own hand to mirror the gesture. For a second, the illusion was perfect: two women, both laid bare by the world, both choosing to greet it rather than shrink away.

Katherine mimed a hug, arms wide and inviting. Erin grinned and hugged herself, looking at Andy with new warmth.

"I like her," Erin said. "She's not sorry for herself. Neither am I."

Andy watched her, pride flooding his chest. "Yeah. I thought you might."

Erin studied Katherine's face, the painted woman's eyes now alert with interest. "Do you get bored in here all day? Just staring at an empty bedroom?"

Katherine tilted her head, making a so-so gesture with one hand, then pointed to the window where sunlight streamed in, pantomiming watching birds or clouds.

"Would it be okay," Erin asked, turning to Andy, her voice suddenly soft, uncertain, "if I came to keep her company sometimes? Just to talk or sit? She shouldn't have to be alone all the time."

Andy's eyes widened slightly, something catching in his throat. Katherine's painted features froze in surprise, then melted into unmistakable gratitude.

"I'd need to be in the Suite for you to access it," Andy said, clearing his throat. "But as long as I am... of course."

Katherine pressed both hands to her heart, then extended them outward toward Erin, tears glistening in her painted eyes.

"Sorry if we get too loud when we're here," Erin said, blinking rapidly. "Or if he's a little vanilla sometimes."

Katherine recovered her composure, rolling her eyes and making a suggestive "stir the pot" gesture that made Andy laugh out loud.

Erin felt the blush rise in her own cheeks. "Maybe we'll give you something good to watch tonight," she said, voice half a dare, half a promise.

Katherine's eyes went wide, and her smile turned sly.

Andy’s Suite was set up for comfort and indulgence, but tonight it was built for distraction. After getting Erin acquainted with Katherine, Andy had taken her to the den, where he had the foresight of requesting a large pizza waiting for them, because, he said, he could not conceive of playing the game without munchies. Erin rather thought he wanted to remind her of their college days. Erin perched on the edge of the sprawling sectional in her battered sneakers and nothing else, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around her shins. The only other thing on her body was a flush that reached all the way to her hairline. Even after hours, the shock of permanent nudity had not faded, particularly due to the unfortunate combination of huge breasts that bracketed her vision every time she glanced down, and Andy’s occasional gaze sending fire running through her veins.

To be fair, Andy did his best to keep things casual. He wore black jeans and a white t-shirt. In the background, the flatscreen scrolled through Mario Kart character selection, a constant, cheerful loop that stubbornly refused to acknowledge the existential crisis in progress.

It had taken a full ten minutes for Andy to convince Erin to try a round. Her competitive streak had cooled down during the meeting with Katherine. “You’ll destroy me,” Erin said, the words half a dare, half a plea. “I haven’t played since college.”

Andy just handed her a controller and said, “There’s a learning curve. It’s like biking, except the bike is driven by a turtle.”

The first race was a massacre. Erin steered directly into the wall at the starting line and spent the next two minutes ricocheting from barrier to barrier while Andy lapped her three times with almost balletic grace. The game awarded Andy a trophy, and Erin a blue participation ribbon, which made her laugh hard enough to nearly tip off the couch.

By the third circuit, Erin was holding her own. She hunched forward, controller gripped like a vise, breasts pressed so hard to her chest she left faint red marks where her arms dug in. Every time she lost a lead or tumbled off a ramp, she muttered a new curse, and every time she advanced, her face split into a crooked, competitive grin that made Andy’s stomach flip for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

“You’re cheating,” Erin said, squinting at the screen. “There’s no way you can get a blue shell two races in a row.”

Andy shrugged. “Maybe the universe is rewarding me for my restraint. I had to do something, during the last six years, you know.”

Erin rolled her eyes, but the joke landed. She let her arms relax a little, letting the weight of her chest settle naturally. “If the universe is fair, I’ll get you back next lap.”

They played four more rounds, the banter ratcheting up with every race. Erin dropped the pretense of modesty, unconsciously bracing a hand against her bare thigh as she took a tight corner or thumped the couch in mock rage when Andy slid past her at the finish line. By the time they reached Rainbow Road, she was howling with laughter, and neither of them cared when the controllers fell to the floor and the race devolved into a wrestling match for the last slice of pizza.

Andy caved, finally, and let Erin have the piece. He watched as Erin inhaled it, cheese trailing down her wrist, crumbs catching in the groove between her breasts. “I cannot believe this is my life,” Erin said, licking sauce from her thumb.

“Is it the pizza, or the nudity?” Andy asked, grinning.

Erin leaned back, letting her body splay, unfiltered and exposed. “Mostly the company,” she said, voice softening. “I forgot how easy it was, when we weren’t trying to pretend we were better than we were.”

Andy felt the words hit, deeper than he wanted to admit. He reached for the remote, muted the TV, and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Erin. They were inches apart, close enough to feel the heat radiating from each other, close enough that Andy had to remind himself not to reach out and trace the outline of Erin’s shin with his thumb.

For a while, they just sat, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the low whine of the wind at the windows.

Erin spoke first. “Can I ask you something?”

Andy nodded.

Erin’s eyes, always sharp, softened around the edges. “Is it true, what Riley said? About Chloe, and Laura, and what happened that night?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and electric. Andy had known it was coming, but it still felt like a punch. “Which part?” he asked, careful.

“Any of it,” Erin said. She tugged at the laces of her shoes, nervous again. “All of it. You never told me, the whole thing, not really. Last week you gave us the Cliff’s Notes version. And I’m grateful, really, I am. You opened up more in a week than you did the two years we dated. I can see this hurts you. But now that we’re… I don’t know, together again, harem and all, I kind of want to know what I missed. Back then.”

Andy closed his eyes, just for a second, then he pulled his legs up to his chest, hugging them, a perfect mirror of the posture Erin had held all evening.

“It’s not a fun story,” he said.

Erin shrugged. “Neither is Mario Kart if you lose every round.”

Andy barked a laugh, then sobered. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what really happened.”

Andy steadied himself with a deep breath, as if he could compress and flatten the years by will alone. He’d told the story before—skimming the surface, reducing it to a few safe sentences, letting the narrative calcify into a fable for the comfort of friends and therapists—but never the full anatomy of what happened under the skin. He knew Erin would see right through anything less than the whole story. Maybe that was the point.

He started with Chloe, the way he remembered her: small and birdlike and earnest, with huge brown eyes that flickered away whenever she met his gaze. Andy had met her in sixth grade, but it wasn’t until eighth that she’d started shadowing him, trailing at a respectful distance in the cafeteria and on field trips, never quite finding the courage to walk beside him. She was so obvious, so painfully transparent, that even the teachers noticed; Andy’s own mother had commented, once, on how sweet it was that he had a little admirer.

Erin listened intently, her posture softening bit by bit as Andy filled in details he’d never shared before—Chloe’s handmade valentines, the way she always picked seats two rows away but never spoke up in class, the strange, **** hope that radiated from her whenever he so much as nodded in her direction. “I never wanted to hurt her,” Andy said. “I just thought if I talked to her, it’d be worse. Like I could break her by accident.”

“So you ignored her?” Erin asked, but there was no accusation in it, just curiosity.

“I tried to,” Andy said. “But then it escalated—notes in my locker, little gifts. A box of jellybeans with all the black ones picked out. Stupid things, but it all added up. And everyone noticed. The jokes started. I hated it. And I hated what it would do to her, when I turned her down.“

Erin nodded, as though she remembered the flavor of adolescent cruelty. “What happened?”

“Rumors,” Andy said. “Every school has them. A kid named Liam started hinting that Chloe and I were a secret couple. At first it was just dumb stuff, but then people started asking if I’d… you know.” He trailed off, ears burning, but Erin only listened, head tilted empathetically.

One afternoon, Andy had found Chloe waiting at his locker, cheeks red and arms folded tight across her stomach. So he’d stammered something about “needing to talk.” He was so flustered by the open attention that he blurted out, “Meet me behind the gym after school.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it; he’d never wanted to lead anyone on, but suddenly he was locked into a rendezvous he didn’t understand. “But I thought perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. I steeled myself, and told myself I was going to be honest with her, even if it hurt her. Because I knew the rumors were hurting Laura.”

Andy described the meeting as clearly as if it had just happened: the way Chloe lingered at the edge of the field, eyes darting everywhere except at Andy, the weird, brittle silence as he tried to find a gentle way to say, “This isn’t going to happen.” He’d rehearsed a dozen versions of the speech, all of them awkward and overwrought, but what came out was blunt and unceremonious. “Chloe, I don’t think of you like that.”

He expected her to cry, or run, or yell at him. Instead, Chloe had leaned in with a panicked energy and pressed her lips to his. It was a dry, fleeting kiss, more like a peck from a startled grandmother than the passionate embrace he’d read about in books or seen in movies. It ended almost before it began. Andy didn’t kiss back; he just stood there, stunned.

Chloe pulled away, mortified. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, hands bunching into fists at her sides. “I’m so sorry. I thought—” But she didn’t finish, just turned and bolted toward the parking lot. Andy was left standing in the shadow of the gym, numb with confusion and a little bit of guilt.

“So you didn’t even want it,” Erin said, more a statement than a question.

Andy shook his head. “I didn’t even know how to want anything. I was a thirteen-year-old boy who had been in love with his best friend since he couldn’t even walk. I thought girls were a nice idea, but I was terrified by all of it. I just wanted everything to be simple. But it never was.” He sighed. “I wanted Laura. That’s all I wanted. And I was too young to even realize that it was.”

He paused there, letting the silence knot up between them. Erin didn’t prod, just waited, hands resting on her knees, eyes steady on his face.

“This is where it gets complicated,” Andy finally said. “Because Chloe told someone. Or maybe someone saw. Either way, the story got out. And the next morning, everyone was looking at me different. Like I’d done something, like I’d crossed a line I didn’t even know existed.”

He remembered walking into homeroom and seeing the girls clustered in the back, whispering and shooting glances his way. The boys were worse—snickering, elbowing each other, making crude jokes he didn’t understand. By third period, the news had mutated: Andy and Chloe were not only a couple, but they’d been seen making out behind the gym, hands everywhere. Somewhere in the retelling, Andy had turned from a **** rejector into a secret Casanova.

Erin’s mouth twisted in a grim little half-smile. She said, “Classic middle school telephone.”

“Exactly,” Andy said, relief and bitterness mingling in his voice. “But I didn’t care about the rumors so much. What mattered was that Laura believed them.”

He stopped, breath catching.

Now he was back on the footbridge, every detail sharp and stinging in his mind’s eye: the mossy wood slick from a recent rain, the river beneath swollen and gray, the November chill in the air. Laura was already there, arms braced on the rails, hair plastered to her forehead in the damp. She turned when Andy approached, and he could see the tears carving tracks down her cheeks.

“She didn’t even let me talk,” Andy said, voice growing quiet. “She just started yelling. Not like her, Erin. Laura was passionate, yes, jealous, yes, but never raging. But this—she was wild. She said I betrayed her. That I’d gone behind her back. That Chloe told everyone I’d said I loved her, that I’d touched her.” Andy’s throat went tight. “She believed it, Erin. She really believed it.”

He felt Erin’s hand slip into his, light and hesitant. He squeezed it, grateful.

“I tried to explain,” Andy said. “But I was so flustered, I made it worse. I said it was a lie, which I think Laura took as me calling her stupid, and that just made her angrier. She started to leave, and I panicked. I grabbed her arm to make her stay, but I slipped. The whole bridge was wet. I remember my foot sliding out from under me and the next second—” He made a sharp, downward motion. “I was in the river.”

Erin’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

“It was cold. So fucking cold. I couldn’t swim, not really, not in a panic. I was thrashing and screaming, and Laura—she didn’t even think about it. She just jumped in.” Andy’s voice broke then, and he set his jaw to keep it together. “She got to me, Erin. She pulled me to the other side. But she—she was tired, and I was heavy, and the water was moving too fast. She got me to the bank somehow, but she couldn’t hold on, and I was mostly ****, in no condition to help.”

Erin covered her mouth with her free hand, eyes shining. “She drowned. Saving you.”

Andy nodded, unable to speak for a full ten seconds. “The current took her. I saw her hand going under. By the time I got out, she was already gone. I ran home, called nine-one-one, but it was too late.”

He looked down at his knees, ashamed. “After that, no one talked about it. Everyone just kind of… moved on. The official version was that Laura fell. That it was a freak accident. But I knew the last thing she heard was that I’d betrayed her. And the last thing she felt was that I hurt her.”

Andy could feel Erin’s gaze on him, but he didn’t look up. “I’ve been living with that since I was thirteen. Even after therapy. Even after college. Even after building a whole fucking business on safety, like I could undo one moment of being unsafe.” His laugh was short and ugly.

He ran his hands over his face, then looked up. Erin had tears on her cheeks and a ferocity in her eyes that frightened him a little.

“She didn’t think that, Andy,” Erin said, voice trembling but clear. “She was your best friend. If she jumped in after you, it means she loved you. Even if she was angry.”

He shook his head. “You don’t know—”

“I do,” Erin interrupted, quiet but forceful. “I do.”

Andy stared at her, feeling raw and exhausted and, for the first time, lighter. Like he’d handed over a burden and found that, miraculously, it didn’t crush anyone else.

They sat with the story, letting it reverberate through the quiet den, the controller lights still glowing faintly on the carpet. Andy reached for Erin’s hand again, and this time she didn’t hesitate.

After a long while, Andy said, “You know, I always thought if I told the truth, nobody would want to hear it. Too messy. Too ugly.”

“I wanted to hear it,” Erin said. “I needed to. It doesn’t make me think less of you.” Erin rested her forehead on his. “I believe you,” she whispered. “I always have.”

They stayed like that, breathing in tandem, for a long time.

Eventually, Erin broke the silence. She brushed the hair from his forehead, the gesture so tender it made his heart ache. “So,” she said, voice steadying, “do you think Riley believes all that happened?”

He considered. "I think… I think Riley believed Laura. I think Laura went to Riley, or maybe Riley was the one who told Laura. And I think she blames me and Chloe for her ****."

Erin's face softened. "Riley can get in line. I was furious at you for years, and look at me now." She gestured to her body, then to his, her voice gentling. "Sometimes the people who hurt the most find each other again."

She reached for his hand, squeezed it once, then let her fingers trail up his arm. The touch started as comfort but lingered too long to be just that. Andy caught her wrist, held it for a moment as something unspoken passed between them. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—the first real one since he'd begun his story. Erin mirrored it, and suddenly they were tangled on the couch, the weight of confession giving way to a lighter kind of intimacy. Their laughter came in fits and starts, punctuated by half-finished jokes that dissolved into touches. Andy looked at Erin with a focus that was half reverence, half pure hunger. Erin matched him stare for stare, and every second he held her gaze, she felt her body respond—hips squirming against the upholstery, nipples rising sharply.

He moved closer, one hand on her shin, the other tracing the line of her jaw. She shivered, but didn’t look away. “You know,” she murmured, “this transformation has its upside. Less time wasted on undressing.”

Andy grinned. “Should we try to break your old record?”

Erin barked a laugh, then slid into his lap, straddling him. The feeling was different from before—not just because her breasts now enveloped his chest, or because she could feel the heat of him between her thighs even before he touched her, but because for the first time in years, she wanted him to see her. All of her.

He kissed her, slow and thorough, and let his hands wander her back. She responded in kind, fingers knotted in his hair, lips devouring his, the friction of skin on skin making her dizzy with want. The first time he reached for her breast, she flinched—reflex, not fear—but he just squeezed, gentle, reverent, and the embarrassment melted away.

They didn’t make it more than two minutes before she was rocking against him, moaning into his mouth. “Fuck, Andy,” she hissed, every syllable a soft explosion. “If you look at me like that, I’ll—”

He looked. She came, violently, the spasm shuddering through her whole body. He watched, awed, then caught her as she nearly toppled off the couch.

Master's Gaze made her orgasm! +2 VP
First! x2

When she could breathe again, Erin smirked, still panting. “Guess I lost that round, too.”

Andy’s hands were still trembling from the **** of her climax, but when she shifted on top of him—one knee pressing into the couch cushion, the other hooked around his ribs—he felt his own body light up in response. There was a new hunger in Erin, a wildness that surprised and thrilled him. She bent to kiss him, hair falling around their faces, and for a moment all Andy could do was marvel at her: the flush rising across her chest, the tremble lingering in her thighs, the way her lips parted like she was about to say something but decided against it, choosing instead to inhale his breath as her own.

She rolled off him, panting, and stretched out, arms above her head and breasts rising and falling with each gasp. Andy watched her in profile, the slope of her hip against the upholstery, the way her toes curled into the edge of the cushion. He wanted to say something funny, something to break the intensity, but couldn’t find words for once. Instead, he just watched, utterly present, until Erin’s breathing slowed and she turned to face him, propping herself up on an elbow.

It was a moment that might have felt like an ending, but to Andy it was an invitation. He reached for her, intending to pull her back into his arms, but she dodged, scooting to the end of the couch and perching on the armrest with an impish grin. “You look wiped,” she said.

He raised a brow. “You’re the one with jelly legs.”

She smirked. “I recover fast. You, on the other hand—” She flicked his thigh. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

Andy snorted, appreciating the verbal sparring as much as he did the sparks still jumping between their skin. “I’ll show you ‘hit by a truck’,” he said, and launched himself at her, pinning her against the armrest. She squealed, then tried to buck him off with surprising strength, but he held her fast, showing her who was stronger before relenting, both of them tumbling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

He landed half on top of her, half on the rug, and found himself face-to-face with her—a mere inch between their noses. Her hair was splayed out like a halo. Erin grinned wide, eyes bright, cheeks still ruddy from exertion. “You’re ridiculous,” she said.

He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “And you’re beautiful.”

The words hung there for a fraction of a second. Erin didn’t roll her eyes, didn’t deflect. Instead, she pulled him closer, whispered, “Say it again.”

He did. He told her she was beautiful, that he loved her, that nothing on earth was more important than this—the way she looked at him, the way the world receded when she was near. He said the words over and over, until her laughter faded and her eyes filled with tears, and then she kissed him, hard, as if she could drown out everything else with the press of her mouth.

They stayed on the rug, bodies pressed close, limbs entwined. Andy traced the outline of her face, her collarbone, the line of her shoulder down to the small of her back. He tried to memorize every inch, every tiny scar and freckle, as if he might need to reconstruct her in his mind if she ever vanished again.

Erin let him, at first, but after a minute she became restless—shifting under him, arching her back to bring their hips together. Andy felt himself hardening again, and was both surprised and a little proud. Erin noticed, of course, and ground herself against him slowly, rhythmically, her gaze locked to his. She liked watching him lose control, liked the way his pupils dilated and his jaw clenched.

He rolled her over, settling between her legs, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Wait,” she said, voice husky. “I want to try something.”

He stilled, heart pounding. Erin smirked, then sat up, guiding him onto his back. She straddled him, taking her time, hands braced on his chest as if she was testing out a new motorcycle or surfboard. Andy laughed at the comparison, then caught her hips as she settled her weight on him.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

She gave him a look. “Oh, I plan to get very comfortable.”

She lowered herself slowly, letting his cock slide along her slickness without letting him in. The heat of her was almost unbearable. She grinned at his frustration, then circled her hips, teasing them both, until he bucked up and nearly lifted her off her feet. “Patience,” she crooned, and ran her fingers along his jaw.

When she finally took him in, it was gradual—each millimeter a deliberate escalation, as though she could control every nerve ending in her own body. Andy gasped, hands grasping at her thighs, but Erin was in no rush. She made him wait, made him feel every pulse and tremor, and when she finally bottomed out, she closed her eyes and just breathed.

They stayed like that, unmoving, for several seconds. He could hear her heartbeat, wild and uneven. He could feel the slick heat of her around him, the tremble in her muscles. When Erin started moving, it was slow at first—tiny movements, more pressure than thrust. Andy wanted to fuck her, hard and fast, but he held himself in check, letting her set the pace.

She picked up the rhythm gradually, and when Andy looked up at her, he saw something raw and beautiful: not just lust, but a kind of giddy triumph, like she’d conquered some private demon and was now claiming her reward. She rode him with increasing urgency, hands gripping his chest, hair flying wild, the slap of skin-on-skin growing louder as she chased her own pleasure.

He lost track of how many times she came—at least three times, for sure, then again, her nails raking down his arms, then again, her voice rising and falling in broken syllables. Andy felt himself nearing the edge, but he held off, determined to let her finish first.

When she finally collapsed on his chest, spent and trembling, Andy wrapped his arms around her and rocked them both gently, as if easing a baby to sleep. He pressed kisses into her hair, her temple, the tip of her nose. Erin laughed, then buried her face in his neck, still gasping for breath.

“God, I love this,” she whispered.

He squeezed her tighter. “Me too.”

They lay there, sticky and yet surprisingly energized, for several minutes. The cold air of the Suite prickled at their skin, but neither wanted to move. Eventually, Erin rolled off him, landing on her back beside him. She stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths.

Andy propped himself up on an elbow, watching her. “You okay?”

She turned her head, met his eyes, and smiled—a soft, **** smile that made him want to take care of her forever. “I’m really okay,” she said. “I know that sounds weird, given—” She gestured to her naked body, her exaggerated curves, the faint marks he’d left on her hips. “But I feel more like myself now than I have in years.”

He nodded, understanding. “You’re not alone.”

They didn’t need to say more. Andy pulled the nearest throw from the couch and draped it over them both, then shifted onto his side to face her. He traced idle patterns on her stomach, mapped her ribs with the tip of his finger, and listened as her breathing gentled.

Erin reached over, laced her fingers with his, and squeezed. “Do you ever think about what comes next?” she asked quietly.

Andy shrugged. “If you mean tomorrow, I’m hoping for breakfast and maybe a rematch in Mario Kart. If you mean after all this—” He gestured at the world outside their Suite—“I honestly don’t know.”

She frowned, thoughtful. “I used to have a plan for everything. School, sports, work… you. Now it feels like I’m just making it up as I go.”

“Maybe that’s better,” Andy said. “Less pressure to be perfect.”

Erin looked at him, eyes wide and earnest. “I wasn’t perfect, was I?”

He shook his head and smiled. “No. But you were always perfect for me.”

She bit her lip, then rolled close, tucking her head under his chin.

It was a minor miracle they ever made it back to the couch, given the state of their bodies and what Andy’s brain had been reduced to—a grayish slurry of endorphins, Erin’s moans, and the way her hair caught the lamplight every time she leaned over him. But they did, collapsing together in a tangle of limbs and nakedness, and later, in the whispery hush that overtook them, it was Erin who set the next game in motion.

She was the aggressor now, the unapologetic tactician, and Andy quickly realized this was not going to be a repeat of round one. She straddled him with a wrestler’s precision, her knees pinning his hips, her hands pinning his wrists to the rug. Her smile was feral, but her eyes were bright with something softer—adoration, maybe, or mischief, or the pent-up longing of a thousand nights spent wanting and not touching.

“Rematch?” she challenged, grinding herself over him in a slow, torturous rhythm that nearly undid him on the spot.

He tried to arch up and claim her, but she only pressed down harder, keeping him at her mercy. “Unfair advantage,” he gasped, and she grinned, teeth flashing.

“You gonna whine, or are you gonna win?” she asked, and then she kissed the side of his neck, right where she knew he was most ticklish. It was not a seduction so much as a dare.

For the next few minutes, neither of them spoke. Every word that needed saying had been said, and now there was only the clatter of their bodies, the slap and drag of skin, the frantic pulse that made Andy dizzy. Erin was already slick, already needy, and the friction between their bodies was almost enough to finish him without anything more. But when she lined him up and sank herself down, the heat and tightness of her was overwhelming—a different kind of hunger, sharper and less forgiving.

She didn’t ease into it, not this time. The pace was urgent, almost frantic, as if she’d been holding back for years and now refused to let anything slow her down. Andy watched her, entranced: the way she braced her hands just above his shoulders, how her hair swung forward to brush his face with every bounce, how her tits—God, her tits—moved in counterpoint to her hips. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and the knowledge of that left him feeling both helpless and grateful.

He tried to slow her down, to draw out the moment, but Erin was having none of it. She rode him hard, grinding down at the end of each thrust with a purpose that left him gasping. He could feel her getting closer—her breathing growing ragged, the little tremors that started in her thighs and worked their way up her spine. He reached for her face, wanting to pull her in for a kiss, but she caught both his hands in hers and pinned them above his head again, locking her gaze to his while she moved.

The control was intoxicating. Andy wondered if she knew that, if she understood how much he wanted to surrender to her. He let her have it, let her use him however she wanted, and the feeling of being pinned and ridden and adored all at once was so good he thought he might pass out.

When Erin came, it wasn’t pretty. There was nothing delicate or composed about it—just a raw, guttural sound and a spasming of her entire body. She swore, loudly, then collapsed on top of him, legs shaking, hands still holding him down even as her grip weakened.

Andy was right behind her, the orgasm crashing through him in a wave that left him trembling and blinded by the aftershocks. He clung to her, arms wrapped tight around her back, and tried to memorize the sensation of her heart beating against his chest.

For a long time, neither of them moved. Erin was a boneless heap on top of him, her face mashed into the crook of his neck. Andy stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds as his pulse slowly returned to normal. He was distantly aware of the cold tile beneath his back, the faint stickiness of sweat drying on his skin, the way his own hands shook when he finally brought them down to rest on the curve of her hips.

Eventually, Erin stirred, shifting her weight so she could look at him. Her hair was matted to her forehead and her cheeks were cherry red, but her eyes were clearer than he’d ever seen them.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she said, and it was the most honest thing he’d heard all night.

Andy laughed, a soft helpless huff, and brushed a strand of hair from her brow. “Want me to carry you?”

She made a skeptical noise, but her smile was grateful. “You’d probably throw your back out.”

“Try me,” he said, and before she could protest he slid his arms under her and rolled them both upright, cradling her as if she weighed nothing. The strength surprised even him, but he didn’t show it. He just stood, Erin wrapped around him, and took several unsteady steps toward the bedroom.

She giggled the whole way there, clutching at his neck, occasionally nipping his earlobe or licking his shoulder. “I feel like a princess,” she declared as he crossed the threshold.

Princess carried by the Master! +1 VP
First! x2

The bed was vast and soft and smelled faintly of cedar. He lowered her onto it, then lay beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. “You okay?” he asked.

Erin grinned, eyes shining. “Never better. You?”

He shrugged. “I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow, but worth it.”

She rolled toward him, pressing her body flush against his, and for a moment they just breathed each other in. His hand traced down her spine, igniting a trail of goosebumps. She responded by hooking her leg over his hip, drawing him closer until he slipped inside her again, both gasping at the renewed connection. They moved languidly this time, savoring each slow thrust, their foreheads pressed together, sharing breath more than kisses. When they finished—him with a shudder, her with a soft cry against his neck—Erin finally let her gaze drift beyond him. For the first time since entering the Suite, she noticed the painting on the wall—Katherine, standing in her meadow, face turned just so.

Erin blinked. “Did you—”

Andy followed her gaze. Katherine’s expression was unchanged, but her hands trembled against her thighs, and her chest heaved in a way that was unmistakable.

“Is she—?” Erin said, voice dropping.

Andy smiled, then explained. “Katherine has a transformation. She can… enjoy herself, if she watches and is remembered as a person. Not just art.”

Erin stared, then started to laugh. “So you’re saying—what, she just watched us fuck and had a vicarious orgasm?”

Andy nodded. “Probably.”

Katherine, as if on cue, gave a subtle thumbs up from the painting, her face flushed and hair slightly askew.

Erin waved, still giggling. “Glad we could help.”

Katherine’s lips curled into a smirk, and she made a so-so gesture, as if grading their performance.

Erin turned to Andy, eyes bright. “I don’t think I can top that.”

Andy shrugged, then gave her a look that was half challenge, half promise. “We could try.”

She tackled him, rolling him over so fast the bedsheets spun into a cocoon beneath them, pinning him beneath her with a thud. The **** of it, the sudden shift from languid post-orgasmic warmth to wild, grappling energy, made him laugh; she seized both his wrists in one hand and flattened them to the mattress by his head, straddling him with predatory intent. “Maybe this time,” she purred, dipping close so her hair swept over his face, “we give her a real show.”

Andy’s breath tangled in his throat. He could feel every delicious, impossible contour of her against him—her weight pressing into his hips, the furnace heat of her thighs, the faint tremor of her need. Erin was already wet, already so open for him that he wondered if she’d ever been like this with anyone else. He hoped not, but the question left his mind when she bit down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

She kissed him next, all teeth and hunger, and he responded in kind. There was no finesse to it now; the first time had drained away restraint, leaving only raw compulsion and the craving to leave something permanent on each other’s skin. She bit his lower lip, then soothed it with her tongue; he pulled her hair until her neck arched, then mapped her collarbone with his mouth, savoring the salt and softness and the delicate, racing thump of her pulse.

Erin let go of his wrists, then slid her hands down his chest, nails trailing faint red lines—exaggerated marks, like tally strokes to keep count of every time she’d missed him. Andy grabbed her hips, but she swatted him away, taking control, guiding him into position with one deliberate stroke. She didn’t ease herself down this time; she impaled herself on him in a single, wild move, and the entire bed shuddered with the impact.

A moan ripped from her throat, unselfconscious and loud, and Andy was distantly aware that the painting’s eyes followed every motion, the girl in the meadow no longer demure but rapt—her painted lips parted, her hands pressed tight between her thighs as if even the oils and canvas couldn't contain the heat.

Erin rode him like she meant to break the frame around their world. She braced herself with both hands on his chest and bounced with unrestrained vigor, her enormous breasts swaying in wild counterpoint, her entire body gleaming as sweat prickled her skin. Andy tried to slow her down, to pull her in for something tender, but she leaned forward, clapping his hands to the headboard, whispering, “You’re not getting off that easy.”

He’d never seen her like this: ruthless, grinning, insatiable. She looked back at him with a dare in her eyes, a challenge to keep up, and every time he thought he had a rhythm she changed it, grinding down so slow he thought he’d lose his mind, then slamming down with enough **** to bruise his hips. She clawed at his back, raked hot lines across his ribs, bit his shoulder again just to hear him gasp.

In the corner of his eye, the painting had shifted. Katherine’s face was flushed, her hair wild, her hands now more explicit: one desperately trying to clutch her breast as far as she was allowed, the other stroking her painted inner thigh, unable to touch between her legs, her expression a frozen mask of longing and release.

Andy lost track of time. There was only the fevered slap of flesh and the animal noises Erin made when she neared the edge, that guttural, **** pitch that always threatened to undo him. He wanted her to come first, and she did, spectacularly—her entire body seizing in a long, shuddering spasm, her nails digging into his chest as she howled his name to the ceiling.

He wasn’t far behind. With a last, ragged thrust he emptied himself inside her, his vision blurring, his ears ringing with the aftershock of her scream. She collapsed onto him, limp and sweating, her face buried in his neck, both of them gasping for breath as if they’d survived a shipwreck.

For a long time, Erin didn’t move. She just lay there, every inch of her pressed to his, her heartbeat stuttering against his ribs. Andy stroked her back, drew lazy circles on her spine, and tried to remember what it had felt like to ever be alone.

Eventually, she rolled off and flopped onto her back, staring up at the ceiling while her chest heaved. Her hair was a mess, her lips kiss-bruised, and every inch of her glowed with the satisfaction of someone who had no regrets. Andy propped himself up on an elbow, watching her as she caught her breath. The sounds of the Suite—distant waves, rustling sheets, the faintest creak of the headboard—felt like the applause of an invisible audience.

When she finally spoke, her voice was raw. “I can’t believe you used to be a prude about this.”

Andy laughed, then reached over to pinch her side, teasing. “Says the woman who once made me turn off the lights to kiss her.”

Erin snorted, then batted his hand away. “People change,” she said, rolling her eyes, but there was real pride in her smile.

He followed her gaze to the painting. Katherine now looked positively ruined: her posture slumped, her hair stuck to her painted cheeks, her mouth open in what could only be called a gasp for air. She leaned against an imaginary wall, her chest bare and streaked with the suggestion of sweat, her eyes half-lidded and dreamy.

Erin studied the painting for a good long while, then elbowed Andy. “I think we broke her,” she whispered, a note of giddy triumph in her voice.

Andy pulled her in, tucking her under his arm, her massive breasts spilling against his ribs like twin anchors. “She’ll survive,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

A contented silence stretched between them. Erin’s hair was everywhere, wild and damp against his shoulder, and her thigh draped over his leg so heavy he wasn’t sure he’d ever move again. He traced gentle circles on her back, and she made a soft, almost catlike noise in response.

They lay together, Andy half on his back, Erin pressed into his side, their bodies cooling by inches as the sweat dried and the ache of sex receded into a comforting afterglow. Their breathing was in sync, the world shrinking to the width of the bedsheet. The Suite was silent except for the shuffle of their limbs and the distant hush of the ocean outside.

Erin was first to break the hush, her voice tentative but determined. “I’ve been holding something in. Can I say it, or is that too much feelings for one night?”

Andy smiled into her hair, which was fanned across his chest like a flag of surrender. “You can always say anything. I’m pretty sure I could listen to you read the back of a cereal box and find it fascinating.”

Erin snorted, then muffled her face into the hollow of his shoulder blade. “You say that now, but you haven’t heard me recite commercial jingles at three a.m. It’s a curse.”

“I accept the curse,” Andy said, and he meant it.

She pinched his side with the hand that was trapped between them, then went quiet. It was the kind of quiet that meant she was winding up for something big. He waited, letting the moment string itself out until she either snapped or relaxed.

“Okay,” Erin said, finally, “here it is.” She rolled onto her back, stared up at the ceiling, and composed herself. “When Arabella asked me what transformation I wanted, do you remember how I said Sheer Talent? That was a lie.”

Andy didn’t turn to look at her. He just let his hand idle on her hip, thumb tracing slow circles, the motion as patient as it was comforting. “Go on,” he said, not making it a question.

“I knew I was going to get this one. The Audience is a bunch of perverts, after all. Look at Claire. Did you really think a transformation to make her more fertile wasn’t going to win in a landslide? How many of us have gotten humungous boobs at this point? If anything, I’m surprised this one didn’t do better. But I knew exactly what would happen,” Erin said. “Not because Arabella told me, but because it was so obvious from the way the Audience was voting, the previous round. They’d have picked it for me anyway. And I was tempted to ask for it, just so I could own it. But I chickened out.”

She turned her head to the side and caught his gaze. Her eyes were bruised with exhaustion but vivid, like the wet skin of a plum. “I should have been braver, maybe. If I chose it, I could have made it mine more easily. Like, own it before anyone else did. And if I’m being even more honest, I didn’t want to spend the rest of this contest waiting for the hammer to drop. I wanted to get it over with and find out who I was on the other side. Lesson learned, I suppose.”

He considered this, then nodded. “So it was about control.”

“Kind of?” She bit her lip, thinking. “Less about controlling the show, and more about not letting everyone else decide my life for me. Not just here, but everywhere. I’ve spent so much time reacting to what people want me to be that I forgot how to just… want something for myself. Even if it’s stupid. Even if it’s scary.”

He slid his hand up her side, followed the curve of her ribs, and rested it beneath her breast. “So you wanted to stop hiding.” He hesitated. “Look, I know this is hard, whether you expected it or not. I can’t fix it, but maybe I can help you bear it better, if you want. I could use Coauthor to make you more comfortable with it, or less self-conscious, if you wanted me to.”

She gave a single, humorless laugh. “You always try to fix things, even when they can’t be fixed. I love you for that.” She hesitated, looking at him, nipples instantly hard when she glanced at his eyes. “It’s tempting, Andy. It really is. A wave of your hand and I don’t have to feel like a stranger in my own skin anymore.” She paused. “But you know what? You’d think nudity would make you feel ****. And it does. But honestly? It’s the first time in my life I haven’t been able to hide. From you, from everyone. I just don’t have the option anymore.” She hesitated. “Is it weird, Andy? Part of me is freaking out that this is going to be me, going forward. Tits to the wind, as it were. And part of me is… relieved? Like, I don’t have to pretend anymore?”

Andy thought about all the times he’d seen her withdraw, pull back from affection, or mask a real emotion with a joke. The memory made him ache. “You could have told me,” he said, quietly.

“I’m telling you now.” She half-sat up, propping herself on an elbow. “It’s going to be hard. I know it. Not so much here, where you’re the only guy on this rock and everyone knows what we’re going through. But going back to the real world? That will be scary. Less scary, though, if you’re with me.” She gave him a peck on the lips. “Don’t use Coauthor. Not yet, at least. I want to own this, and if I can’t, then I will ask you. But here in your arms, it feels a much less daunting task than it felt earlier today.”

Andy kissed her, slow and deliberate, hands cradling her face as if she might disappear. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, and meant it to the core of his bones.

She relaxed into him, the tension in her shoulders melting as if she’d just finished a marathon. “You’re not mad?”

He shook his head, smiling. “If I was, you’d have destroyed me at Mario Kart and walked out with your dignity. I’m just happy you’re here. With me.”

Erin smiled back, and for the first time in months, maybe years, she didn’t feel a single trace of old bitterness. Just a scary, thrilling lightness. “You mean it?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “I love you,” Andy said. “Doesn’t matter what you wear, or don’t wear. There’s only you.”

She covered her face, half-laughing, half-crying. “God, you’re such a dork, but it’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

He pulled her into a hug, burying his face in her neck, and they held each other with a desperation that was almost comical. Erin’s hair got in his mouth, and they both sputtered with laughter, wiping tears from each other’s cheeks.

“Why is it always so hard for us to just tell the truth?” Erin said, voice muffled against his skin.

He thought about it for a while, then answered honestly. “Because the truth is the only thing we can’t ever take back. Everything else… you can always lie about, or rewrite, or forget. But once you say it, it’s out there. Forever.”

She considered that, then nodded. “Yeah. That checks out.”

They drifted into a contemplative silence, bodies entwined, each of them recalibrating their internal maps now that the emotional earthquake had passed. Andy stroked her arm, the gesture soothing, and Erin let her breathing sync up with his.

Time stretched. The Suite was lit only by the glow from the bathroom, throwing gentle shadows across their bodies. Erin watched as the patterns flickered across Andy’s face, and she wondered how she’d ever thought she could live without seeing that face every day.

When she started to shiver, Andy tucked the blanket around her, hands careful not to cover too much, as if he understood that even now, hiding wasn’t what she needed.

“Hey,” he said, “can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” she replied, meaning it.

“Did you ever think about what would happen after? I mean… after the show?”

Erin turned this over, weighing her answer. “Sometimes, yeah. But not in a realistic way. More like, I’ll get through this round, then I’ll figure it out. Which is… pretty on-brand for me, honestly.”

He nodded, as if he’d expected nothing else.

She reached for his hand again, threading her fingers through his, and tilted her head so they were eye-to-eye. “What about you? What happens if you win, Andy? Like, win everything?”

He shrugged, but there was a heaviness to it. “I haven’t let myself think that far ahead. The last time I made real plans, they died with a girl I loved. I guess I’ve been scared to try again.”

That truth cut through her, sharp and clean. “We’re a matched set,” Erin said, voice thick.

He laughed, but it was a gentle, grateful sound. “Guess we are.”

They drifted into silence again, but now it was a comfort, not a void. In the distance, the ocean grumbled against the beach. Erin thought about the future, about the possibility of being stuck like this—bare, unguarded, **** to be seen—forever. It was a scary thought, but not as scary as the idea of never being seen at all.

She decided then that, win or lose, she’d try to hold onto this version of herself. The one that didn’t run from the truth, or from Andy. Even if it meant letting go of everything else.

Andy must have felt her resolve, because he squeezed her hand and whispered, “You know, I’d follow you anywhere. Even if it’s naked.”

She giggled, then immediately sobered. “Promise you’ll never leave me again?”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked at her, really looked. “Never again. I swear.” He paused. “But can I ask you a favor?”

Erin nodded. “Of course. Anything.”

He held her tightly, silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “What I told you about how Laura died… It’s not fair that I keep it from the others. Claire, Dawn, Sam, even Emi and Chloe herself… they know the same Cliff’s Notes version you heard with Claire and Sam last week, or something close to it. Marissa is the only one who ever heard the last part of the story. What happened on the footbridge. But they deserve to know the whole thing, like Marissa does.” He took another deep breath. “I will have to share it with Norah and Liesa, too. It’s not fair to them, either.” He looked at Erin. “I need a day or two. To… prepare myself. But I need to tell them the truth. When I ask you, would you help me gather all of them? Riley too, if she wants to come, though I imagine she won’t.”

Erin nuzzled him. “I will help. And, Andy…” She looked back at him, and he could see the pride in her eyes that he remembered from their dating days, the same pride he thought he would never see again in those dark eyes. “It’s the right thing to do, even if it hurts. I can see you still love Laura. But you won’t lose her if you share her with all of us.”

He nodded tightly. “I know that, now.”

She smiled and placed a hand on his chest. “I see that. And I’m proud of you.”

Erin looked at the ceiling, watching the shifting shadow of a palm frond sway in the hallway light and trace a line over their entwined bodies. “What if it’s like this in the real world?” she asked, voice small and uncertain. She traced a slow finger over Andy’s chest. “When the show ends, and we go back, and I’m… just like this? Naked forever. Not just in here, but in, you know, real reality. The world where people wear coats and have HR departments.”

Andy didn’t answer right away. He let the question float between them, as if it might drift harmlessly away if he just gave it a little space. When he finally spoke, his voice was warm and matter-of-fact. “Then we move somewhere sunny. Or weird, like Portland. Or one of those Scandinavian countries where people are cool about this sort of thing. I mean, did you hear about that community in Denmark where everyone swims naked in the ocean year-round? They even have a sauna right on the beach.”

Erin snorted. “Yeah, but it’s Denmark. I’d freeze my literal tits off.”

He grinned. “Fair point. Okay, then somewhere tropical. Actually, let’s be honest, we’d both melt in the tropics. Or maybe not. Maybe you’d adapt, like a desert cactus. Or a Florida retiree.”

She poked his side, the tip of her nail catching a sensitive spot. “You think this is funny?”

He met her gaze, steady and unflinching. “Not funny. I just know that whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. Together.” He squeezed her hand, and she could feel the promise in it, bone-deep and undeniable.

Erin fell quiet, running calculations in her head. “I just keep picturing the looks on people’s faces. My dad’s. My aunt Nancy’s. They’ll either die of shame, or get rich selling my story to the Daily Mail.” She paused, then added, “If I’m being honest, I’m less worried about the world seeing my tits and more about… losing who I am. I used to be smart, you know? I used to be good at things. Now I’m just… this.”

Andy propped himself on one elbow and looked down at her. “You’re still smart. You’re still good at things. The world doesn’t care about the stuff that matters to you, but I do. And I guarantee the people who love you will, too. I’ll remind them if I have to.” He grinned. “I’ll print pamphlets.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Your nerd,” he corrected, and kissed the tip of her nose. “But you know what Arabella said. You’ll all be bound to me. Maybe it’ll be like a support group. You can coach each other through it. Or turn it into a business. The world’s first all-harem, all-female tech consulting firm. Or a band. Like The Go-Go’s, but with slightly more nudity.”

Erin started to laugh, then stopped herself. “That’s not helping.”

“I’m just saying, you’re not alone,” Andy said. “And if people stare, let them. Honestly, they’re probably jealous they can’t pull it off.”

She nudged him again, this time more gently. The weight of her breasts shifted with the motion, and for a moment, she looked down at her body with something close to resignation—but not quite. There was something more defiant in her eyes now, a spark of the old Erin, the one who had once worn homecoming sashes and stood on auditorium stages without blinking. “It might not be that easy,” she said.

Andy’s expression softened. “It never is. But I’ll be there with you, even if it means getting weird looks at the grocery store. Or from your Aunt Nancy.”

She smirked. “She’ll probably have a stroke.”

He shrugged. “Then we’ll bring her a nice fruit basket and an apology card. Or just avoid Christmas entirely.”

Andy reached up and stroked her hair, the motion so gentle it was almost reverential. "You know, I can picture this sprawling Victorian house with a wraparound porch where everyone has their own space. Claire would have a garden. Dawn would set up a home gym in the basement. You'd have your office overlooking the backyard where Marissa and Liesa would be arguing about where to put the hammock." His voice softened. "But I can't actually believe it'll happen. Not yet. I don't want to jinx it."

She lifted her head, propping herself up on both elbows. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and she didn't even try to hide them. "You really want that? All of us, together? And me, like this?"

He cupped her cheek, careful and deliberate. "I want you—all of you—exactly as you are. However that looks. Does that make me selfish? Even if Chloe insists on painting the living room hot pink or Sam turns the garage into a mad scientist lab."

She found herself smiling again, the feeling strange and fragile. “Well, you have ****, right? We’re all bound to you. But God, you’re such a sap.”

He shrugged. “You keep me soft.”

She rolled her eyes, then let herself relax into him, breathing in the quiet again. After a while, she said, “I might buy a Reality Adjustment. So people don’t stare. Or maybe there’s an upgrade so I can wear something—once in a while. For special occasions.”

Andy grinned, a wicked edge to it. “Or we can just make every day a special occasion. You could be the patron saint of bralessness. Patron saint of the commando class. Or start a charity—Erin’s Angels: Clothes for People Who Actually Need Them.”

She laughed, genuinely, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You’re impossible.”

He squeezed her, careful and strong. “Don’t take it the wrong way, but I’m glad the Hotel did this to us.”

She looked up, eyes shining. “Me too. Even with all this.”

They lay there, letting exhaustion wrap them up, warm and spent and utterly unafraid. On the wall, Katherine watched over them, her painted smile tired but content, a sentinel for all the brave and broken things that found their way home.

Andy closed his eyes. “I love you,” he whispered.

Erin squeezed him, fiercely. “Me too. Always.”

And that was enough.