Hub of the Wheel, Part 2

The resort looked like a postcard that morning: sun poured down with surgical precision, the sea was glass, and every leaf in the garden was clean and still from the overnight dew. It should have felt perfect, but the tension in the air was so thick it could have been buttered and served on toast.

In the Banquet Hall, the women assembled at the long, blond-wood table, crowding in twos and threes on benches and chairs. Platters of fruit, eggs, and those absurdly large pastries everyone loved but nobody ever finished were lined up down the center. There was too much of everything. At the head of the table, the pot of coffee steamed like a volcano. No one poured from it for a long time.

Sam sat at one end, hair still wet from a run, legs jiggling restlessly under the table. She had positioned herself beside Liesa, a detail that did not go unnoticed by anyone. Liesa wore a dark, high-collared shirt and a pair of slacks that looked like they’d been pressed in apology; she didn’t meet anyone’s gaze, not even Sam’s. Across from them, Norah was already halfway through her first grapefruit, methodically scoring the segments as if each was a separate grudge to be worked through.

Chloe and Emily drifted in late, the two of them moving as a unit—a little shy, a little sheepish, both holding their plates in front of them like shields. Chloe’s hair was in a loose braid. Emily’s gold-and-pink hair was loose, the ends trailing down to cover her hips, and she wore nothing but a pair of slip-on sandals.

At the far end, Claire sat perched on the edge of her seat, tail wound around one ankle, her attention fixed on Emi’s hands as Emi buttered a muffin with elaborate concentration. Emi’s extra arms—moving in choreographed, almost balletic sequence—tore the muffin into pieces, placing a perfect half-moon on Claire’s plate with a silent flourish. Claire responded with a small, grateful smile and a tilt of the head, ears pricking forward.

Marissa and Dawn arrived together, Marissa’s hand gentle at the small of Dawn’s back. Dawn’s bunny ears were fluffed out and alert, but her expression was soft, almost dreamy, as if she were savoring the peace before a storm. They took their seats in the only open space.

For a while, nobody said a word.

Finally, Chloe, always the volunteer for discomfort, broke the silence. “Does anyone want the pineapple?” She stabbed a cube with her fork, waving it in the general direction of the table.

Emily reached for it, but her hand stalled in the air, and she settled for a polite “Thank you,” before skewering the pineapple herself. She turned to Chloe, eyes bright, and whispered, “It’s so strange, being here. Like we’re all waiting for the next shoe to drop, but nobody knows if it’s going to be a sneaker or a stiletto.”

Chloe smiled, the corners of her mouth tight. “It’s not the worst breakfast I’ve ever had.”

Chloe stabbed at her eggs, listening to the sound of cutlery scraping ceramic and the occasional clink of glass. It was like a nervous tick for the table: everyone ate with the distracted intensity of people who expected to be interrupted at any moment. Across from her, Emily poked at a stack of pastries, breaking one apart into neat, bite-sized pieces before actually eating any of them. Her long hair drifted across her shoulder, and each time Chloe glanced over, Emily’s blue eyes darted away—then flicked right back.

It was impossible not to feel the borrowed time. The air in the room was thick with it, an awareness that tomorrow was another challenge, another chance to be broken, remade, or discarded. Even the food had the taste of “before”: nobody talked about it, but everyone knew this could be the last normal morning for any one of them.

Chloe **** herself to look around the table, taking inventory. On her right, Norah inhaled grapefruit with the deliberation of a prison warden, each wedge sectioned cleanly and eaten with almost mechanical precision. Across from her, Claire perched silent and alert, tail curled tight around her ankle, notebook open and pen poised. Every so often, Emi would slip a pastry onto Claire’s plate or nudge a glass of juice closer to her hand. Emi’s extra arms moved in hypnotic, always-coordinated patterns—one buttering a roll, another pulling apart grapes, yet another holding a napkin poised for cleanup. The rest of her attention, though, was on Claire: a constant, background hum of care and curiosity.

At the far end of the table, Marissa leaned into the conversation with Dawn, voice pitched low. The two of them looked like a pair of scientists analyzing a weather pattern, heads close together and eyes fixed on an invisible horizon. Marissa’s blouse was as always cut daringly low, but today she’d paired it with a blazer, as if the extra layer could serve as emotional insulation. Dawn’s ears tracked every word, rising and falling in subtle response, but her face remained neutral, almost reserved.

Then there was Sam, who kept glancing at Liesa as if checking to see if she was still there. Liesa, for her part, seemed determined to collapse into the smallest possible version of herself: hair pulled back so tight it might snap, shirt buttoned to the collar, hands folded neatly on the table in front of her. Her gaze never rose above her plate, but the muscle in her jaw kept working, as if she were chewing over something much tougher than toast.

Nobody spoke unless ****. After Chloe’s pineapple, the next words didn’t come until Claire’s pen tapped rapidly against her page. She held it up for Emi to see: What does this taste like? Never had it before. Emi giggled, then answered in a whisper loud enough for Chloe to catch: “It’s orange, but less happy. Like the color orange if it wanted to be lemon when it grew up.”

Claire nodded, then scribbled more notes, a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth.

Chloe grinned at the exchange, then turned back to her own food. She’d lost her appetite again, but pushed through anyway. You couldn’t afford to be weak, not here, not now.

Emily cleared her throat and leaned in. “Chloe?” Her voice was softer than usual, almost wary.

“Yeah?” Chloe set her fork down, matching Emily’s lowered voice.

“Can I ask you something personal?” Emily’s gaze flicked sideways, as if checking to see if anyone else was listening. Most of the table was wrapped up in their own low-buzz conversations, but Liesa and Sam were close enough to hear if they cared to.

“Of course,” Chloe said. She meant it.

Emily hesitated, then started, “You’ve known Andy a long time, right? Longer than anyone here?” The question wasn’t accusatory, but the implication was there—a sense of history that Chloe sometimes resented, sometimes clung to like a raft.

“Besides Emi, yes. Since I was ten,” Chloe said, and her voice sounded older than she felt. “He was my friend before he was… anything else.”

Emily picked at her pastry, eyes down. “Is he as good as he seems?”

Chloe let the question sit. She thought about the bridge, the echo of Laura’s voice, the way Andy had looked at her when she’d confessed to everything she’d done wrong. She thought about last night, about the feeling of being allowed to want something, to ask for comfort, and not have it taken as a debt.

“Yeah,” Chloe said finally. “He really is.” She looked up, met Emily’s gaze dead-on. “He’s not perfect. He messes up like everyone else. But he cares more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Emily smiled at that—small, but genuine. “Thank you,” she said, and Chloe got the sense it wasn’t just for the answer.

Emily took a deep breath, then continued, “Sorry if this is weird, but I want to understand him. The real him.” She paused, searching for the words. “Not the version I see with everyone. The one who wakes up early to make coffee, or who stays up all night when you’re sick, or who remembers your favorite ice cream flavor years after you told him once.” She shook her head, embarrassed. “That’s probably creepy.”

Chloe’s heart broke a little, hearing the hope and the fear in Emily’s voice. “It’s not creepy,” Chloe said. She reached across the table, resting her hand on Emily’s wrist. “Andy sees the best in people. Sometimes even when it hurts him. You don’t have to be anyone but yourself for him to care. I promise.”

Down the table, Norah set her grapefruit spoon down with a thud. “If we’re all going to be this awkward, can we at least get more coffee?” she asked, then flicked a glance at Liesa and Sam. The subtext was clear: Are you going to talk, or just sit there and wait for someone else to clear the air?

Sam glanced at Liesa, who shook her head minutely—no words, just a refusal to make the first move. The silence threatened to swallow the room again, but Dawn rescued it with a story about the world’s worst hotel guest (“He left a trail of raw chicken from the pool to the elevator. I still don’t know how.”). The laughter that followed was genuine, if thin, and for a moment the tension in the room eased.

Marissa watched the whole table with clinical detachment, eyes flitting from person to person as if cataloging symptoms. When she caught Chloe’s eye, she held the gaze for a second too long, then gave a single, approving nod.

Chloe felt herself blush, and looked away. She wondered, not for the first time, if she’d ever get used to the way her body had changed—her chest now a top-heavy imbalance, the weight of it an ever-present reminder of who she was supposed to be. At least, she thought, she wasn’t the only one struggling to adjust. Even with the transformations, everyone at the table looked like they were learning to walk again.

She stole a glance at Liesa, and saw that the other woman’s hands were shaking. Sam noticed too, and slid her own hand across the table, palm up. Liesa stared at it for a second, then slowly placed her hand in Sam’s. Their fingers twined together, neither looking at the other, both pretending it meant less than it did.

Emily’s voice, soft as before, brought Chloe back to the moment. “Do you think the others will ever forgive her?”

It took a second for Chloe to realize she meant Liesa. She thought about Norah’s glare, about the way Dawn and Emi had gone silent at Liesa’s name, about the circles of trauma that radiated out from a single, stupid mistake.

“Eventually,” Chloe said. “But it’ll take time. And she’ll have to earn it.”

Emily nodded, looking down at her plate. “I hope so,” she whispered.

Chloe reached for another piece of toast, determined to act normal even if nothing felt that way. She glanced down the table again, at the strange new family she’d found herself in. For all their damage, for all the ways they’d been hurt and remade, she realized she wanted to hold on to them. Even if it was just for a few more days.

The rest of breakfast passed in a haze of small talk and cautious glances. Nobody brought up the challenge, or the possibility of elimination, or what might happen if one of them didn’t come back from whatever tomorrow had planned. But the unspoken hovered at the edges of every laugh, every story, every forkful of food.

When the plates were empty and the coffee pot dry, the women drifted away from the table in pairs or alone, each heading toward their own private morning rituals. Norah stalked off toward the gym, Dawn and Marissa detoured for a walk around the lagoon, and Emi led Claire out into the gardens for a session of silent, notebook-driven debate.

Only Liesa and Sam lingered, their hands still joined on the table. For a long moment, they sat in silence, heads bent close, as if the rest of the world had faded away. Then, slowly, they stood, moving in careful sync, and disappeared down the hall.

Emily loved the way the gardens wound and doubled back on themselves, as if the place had been designed by someone who valued privacy more than geometry. Marissa led the way, shoes crunching on the flagstone path, hands tucked into the pockets of her navy slacks. Emily followed, skipping now and then to keep up, barefoot except for her slip-ons and the trailing spill of her hair. She carried a sketchbook and a couple of pencils.

The air was thick with the smell of lemon blossoms and old stone, and Emily found herself breathing deeper with each step. Sometimes she saw Mildreds in the distance, kneeling to deadhead a rosebush or pruning branches with shears that glinted in the sun. They never looked up, never spoke, but always seemed to know exactly when to vanish behind a hedge or slip away through a side path.

“I thought you’d want some fresh air,” Marissa said after a while, her voice so level it was hard to tell if it was invitation or expectation.

“I do,” Emily replied, and realized it was true. Her nerves, which had been a live wire at breakfast, felt strangely insulated here—like the garden was a buffer between her and everything sharp.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the clack of Marissa’s shoes and the distant drone of bees. Finally, Marissa glanced sideways, her gaze more gentle than Emily expected.

“You’re very calm, for someone new,” Marissa observed. “Most first-timers are still shaking by day three.”

Emily smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m not calm,” she said. “I’m choosing to believe I can be.”

Marissa laughed, a sound as warm and low as a cello. “That’s a good trick. I’ll have to remember it.”

They walked another loop, past a stretch of low stone wall and a pond rimmed with violets. Emily took it all in, the way each plant seemed to grow in perfect harmony with its neighbors, no single thing crowding or dominating. She wondered if someone had planned it, or if the plants just learned to get along.

After a while, Marissa spoke again, her tone more careful this time. “You had questions about Andy, didn’t you?”

Emily hesitated, then nodded. “I hope it’s okay to ask. I just… I want to know what he’s really like. Not just what he shows people.”

Marissa looked up at the sky, thinking. “Andy is…” She trailed off, as if searching for the right file in her head. “He’s a paradox. On the surface, he’s all calm and rational and controlled. Underneath, though, he’s a bundle of wires. Guilt, hope, fear, all knotted together. He wants to do the right thing, even when he doesn’t know what it is.”

Emily nodded, her bare toes curling into the gravel. “He seems… sad,” she ventured.

Marissa smiled, not unkind. “He is. But he’s also learning to be more than that. The Andy you see here isn’t the one from six months ago. Or even two weeks ago. He’s changing, even if he pretends not to be.”

They walked past a trellis hung with orange trumpet flowers. Emily reached up and brushed one with her fingers, then asked: “What does he want? Like, really want? If you know.”

Marissa’s lips curved, sly. “He wants to be needed,” she said, then softened. “He wants a family. A place to belong. For years, he never let himself have that—he thought it was too dangerous, or that he’d just mess it up. But now, I think he’s starting to hope again.”

Emily blushed, feeling suddenly shy. “Do you think he likes me?”

Marissa stopped, turned to face her. “He does,” she said, voice absolute. “I’ve seen him look at you. It’s different from how he looks at the rest of us. He’s curious, but also a little bit scared.”

“Of what?” Emily asked.

Marissa shrugged. “Maybe of you. Maybe of what it means to want something new. Maybe he’s scared you’ll be the one to leave.”

Emily let that sit. She was used to being a mystery, used to people keeping her at arm’s length. Andy’s attention felt different—less like being studied, more like being truly seen.

They resumed walking, a little slower now.

“I have to ask,” Emily said, “do you think he’s the kind of person who could forgive someone, even if they did something terrible?”

Marissa’s eyes softened. “He’s already forgiven more than anyone should have to. I think forgiveness is his superpower, actually. He uses it on everyone but himself.”

Emily was quiet for a while, then smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

Marissa nodded, then added, “If there’s one thing Andy does better than anyone, it’s fixing broken things. He won’t admit it, but it’s what he lives for.”

Emily looked down at her own hands, flexed them. “Do you think he can fix me?”

Marissa’s laughter was soft, almost sad. “I don’t think you need fixing, Emily. But I think he’ll help you remember that.”

They reached a small clearing, a circle of low benches and a table shaped like a slice of white marble. Marissa paused, then said, “If you want to talk more, I’m always here. I’m pretty good at listening.”

Emily smiled, genuine. “Thank you,” she said again, and watched as Marissa disappeared down another path, her steps measured and sure.

Emily sat on the nearest bench, and opened her sketchbook. She flipped to a clean page and started to draw.

She didn’t sketch Andy’s face. Instead, she drew his hands—steady and strong, fingers curled as if steadying someone else. She drew the line of his jaw, the gentle slope of his shoulders, the laugh lines at the corners of his mouth. She drew the way he sometimes slouched, as if carrying someone else’s weight, and the way his hands always seemed to be reaching, either to help or to hold.

When she was done, she looked at the page. It was him, but also not him—just the outlines, the potential. She wondered what it would take to fill the sketch with color, with life.

Maybe she’d find out. She leaned back, and let the sun warm her face.

Emily knew she wasn’t alone the moment the wind shifted. The fragrance in the garden changed—lemon blossom edged by something sharper, something like… velvet. She glanced up, and there was Arabella, standing on the grass with her hands folded neatly at her waist, as if she’d been there the whole time.

“Beautiful work,” Arabella said, not quite a compliment, not quite an observation. She stepped closer, her green eyes fixed on the sketchbook in Emily’s hands. “You capture people well, Emily. But you never show their faces.”

Emily felt the urge to cover her page, but instead she closed the book and pressed it to her chest. “Sometimes a face isn’t enough,” she said.

Arabella smiled, a small and knowing thing. “You’re very perceptive.” She looked past Emily, to the wide sweep of the garden. “How are you adjusting? Is there anything I can do for you, before tonight?”

Emily shook her head, then added, “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

“Are you really?” Arabella’s voice was gentle, but it made Emily’s heart thump. “You don’t have to be brave on my account, Emily. If this isn’t what you want, there are ways out. There always are.”

Emily knew what she meant: the Hollow Garden. She pictured the soft beds, the pools, the lullabies and caretakers. It was safety, but it was also a kind of ending.

“I want to stay,” Emily said, and it surprised her how certain she sounded. “I want to try.”

Arabella’s eyebrows rose, just slightly, and for a moment her Host mask slipped, replaced by something almost like pride. “Has Andy already gotten to you?” she teased, and Emily blushed, but didn’t look away.

Arabella’s smile widened, then softened. She crouched to sit beside Emily on the bench, folding her skirt beneath her. “He does that, you know. He makes people want to fight for him. Even when it scares them.”

Emily nodded, her hands tight around the sketchbook. “He’s… different from what I expected.”

Arabella glanced sidelong at her, the Host’s professional amusement tempered by a touch of something like envy. “He is,” she agreed. “And he’s drawn to you. I can see it.” Her eyes lingered on Emily’s hair, the way it draped over her shoulders and curled protectively around her arms. “You’re not afraid of your transformations, are you?”

Emily considered this. “Not anymore,” she said. “They’re part of me now.”

Arabella leaned closer, lowering her voice as if they shared a secret. “Then be honest with him,” she said. “Don’t pretend to be ordinary. It’s not why you’re here.” She tapped the sketchbook. “He’ll know if you’re lying. And so will I.”

Emily nodded, feeling the words settle into her bones.

Arabella stood, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. “One more thing,” she said, all Host again. “Your… transformation, the dream one, will activate as soon as you’re formally bound to Andy’s harem. That happens tonight. Are you prepared for that?”

Emily’s heart skipped, but she **** herself to meet Arabella’s gaze. “I’ll tell him tonight. I promise.”

Arabella smiled, this time a real one, warm and full. “Good,” she said. “You deserve to be wanted, Emily. Never let yourself forget that.”

She turned and vanished into the hedges, her steps so light she seemed to float. Emily let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then opened her sketchbook again. She stared at the page, at the hands she’d drawn, the lines so confident and sure.

She picked up her pencil and began to add more: the strength in the knuckles, the veins on the back of the hand, the way the fingers curled—always ready to help, always steady. By the time she finished, the drawing felt different. It looked like someone who would hold you up, not just catch you when you fell. Emily closed the book, a smile playing at the edge of her mouth. She was ready.

Liesa found solace in the furthest corner of the gardens, where the cypresses grew tall enough to filter out the sun and the world felt, if not safe, at least distant. She sat on a low stone bench, arms folded across her chest, back so straight it looked carved from wood. Her clothes—a crisp white blouse, a dark skirt, thick woolen tights—were as neat as the rows of boxwood that lined the path. She’d picked them for coverage, for decency, but also as a kind of armor. Every button fastened, every edge tucked in. The air here was damp and cold, and she let it bite at her face.

She kept her head down, watching the steady tap of her shoe against the dirt, and tried not to think. It was impossible. Thoughts flooded in, memories from last night—the looks, the silence, the way even the kindest voices turned soft and careful around her. Liesa had never hated herself more than she did now, and she’d spent years being good at it.

She sensed Sam before she saw her. There was something about Sam’s energy—a buzz that never quite left the air, even when she was trying to move quietly. Liesa heard her footsteps crunching gravel, the low scrape of her boot when she stopped at the end of the path.

“Mind if I sit?” Sam asked, her voice soft, uncertain.

Liesa shook her head. Sam sat next to her, leaving a careful hand’s-width between them. They stared ahead at the dark green of the cypresses, letting the silence sprawl.

Sam was the first to speak, as always. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said.

Liesa shrugged, unable to muster more than that. Her voice was so small she barely recognized it as her own. “I didn’t want to ruin anyone else’s day.”

Sam’s laugh was bitter. “You’re not that powerful, Liesa. You never were.”

That made Liesa flinch, but Sam’s tone softened. “What happened last night, it hurt. A lot. Not just for them, but for me.” She paused, as if working through her words carefully. “You lied to me. I get why you did it. But it still… broke something.”

Liesa nodded, feeling her face go hot, but she couldn’t look at Sam. She wanted to apologize, to beg for forgiveness, but the words stuck in her throat. “I know,” Liesa whispered, and finally looked up. Sam’s eyes were watery, but no tears fell.

They sat for a while, the only movement the slow swaying of cypress branches above. Finally, Sam spoke again, voice steady but soft.

“I need to know you won’t do it again. I need to know that, if we’re… whatever we are, you’ll trust me with the hard stuff. Even when it sucks.”

Liesa nodded, her voice shaky. “I want to. I’m just… scared.”

Sam let out a long, shaky breath. “Me too.”

For a while, neither of them moved. Then Sam reached out, slow and tentative, and placed her hand palm-up between them.

Liesa stared at it. Her own hand hovered in the air, trembling, before she finally lowered it, settling her fingers into Sam’s palm. They stayed like that, hands joined, as if it took both of them to keep the world from spinning out of control.

Sam squeezed gently. “It’s going to take time,” she said. “But I don’t want to give up on you.”

Liesa felt a sob bubble up, but she swallowed it down. “Why?” she asked, not out of self-pity, but genuine confusion.

Sam smiled, crooked and raw. “Because you’re worth it,” she said. “Even if you don’t believe it yet.”

Liesa blinked back tears. “I want to be worth it,” she said. “I want to be better. For you.”

Sam’s thumb traced lazy circles over the back of Liesa’s hand. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said, so quiet it was almost a secret.

Liesa’s breath caught. She looked up, saw the hope and the fear on Sam’s face, and felt her own heart stutter. “Me too,” she whispered. “I think I am, too.”

They leaned into each other, shoulders bumping, and the tension that had kept Liesa’s back ramrod-straight finally loosened. She let herself fall into Sam’s arms, let Sam hold her, let herself believe—even for a moment—that she was not irredeemable.

They hugged for a long time, neither wanting to let go.

When they finally pulled apart, Sam’s eyes were red, but she was smiling. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, “before we turn into garden statues.”

Liesa laughed—a small, shaky sound, but real. She stood, still gripping Sam’s hand, and together they walked out of the cypress shade and into the sun.

For the first time all day, Liesa felt a little less cold.

The dining hall at midday was a box of mirrors: every surface caught the sunlight, throwing it in different directions, dazzling and unforgiving. The women took their seats one by one, each pretending the arrangement was random, but everyone knew where not to sit. The bench at the head of the table stayed empty the longest. Chloe arrived first, her blanket now replaced by a loosely draped cardigan that looked more ornamental than functional; her eyes never left the door. Claire and Emi entered together, Claire’s tail swishing slowly, Emi’s six arms balancing two drinks, a salad, and a notepad all at once. Marissa and Dawn found their usual place at the far end, Marissa’s hand resting on Dawn’s shoulder like a reminder not to bolt if the mood turned. Liesa and Sam arrived last, hands joined, both moving carefully, like glassware on a vibrating shelf.

No one spoke. The only sounds were the wet click of ice in a glass and the low hum of air conditioning.

Then the doors opened, and Andy entered, Riley by his side.

The room went instantly still.

Andy looked exhausted. His shirt was wrinkled, his eyes ringed dark. His hand rested lightly on Riley’s shoulder, a touch more steadying than possessive. Riley looked worse: eyes rimmed scarlet, lips pressed so tight they might disappear. Her hair was a wild, red halo, and she moved as if she expected to be slapped by the air itself.

Andy led her to the front of the table, then let go, standing behind her. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t need to.

“Riley has something she wants to say,” Andy said, each word landing with more gravity than it deserved.

Riley stood, silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. Her voice came out ragged, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I’m sorry,” Riley said. “I’ve been—no, I was—a complete asshole. I said things that hurt all of you, and I can’t take them back.” She paused, swallowing. “But I want you to know, it wasn’t because I hated any of you. I just… couldn’t stand being the weakest person in the room. I lashed out because I was scared, and I thought if I acted mean enough, nobody would see how small I really was.”

She stared at the table, then continued, voice lower. “My husband John died last year. Six months ago, actually. He was blown up in a war I told myself would never touch me. When they brought what was left of him home, I thought nothing else could hurt me. But then I lost my son. He was born too soon. He lived for a day, and then he was gone.”

Riley’s hands gripped the back of her chair, knuckles white. “I came here angry at the whole fucking world, but mostly at myself. I needed someone to blame, and Andy was the easiest target. It was easier to hate him and Chloe than to admit that I’d never stop missing what I lost. And I threw that at you all, too.” Her voice broke then, and the last words came out barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough.”

For a long time, nobody moved.

Then, as if responding to a silent signal, Emi stood. She walked over to Riley, her six hands raised in a gesture so gentle it bordered on absurd. She wrapped all six arms around Riley and just held her.

Riley didn’t resist. She folded into Emi’s embrace, face pressed to her shoulder, her whole body shaking.

The dam broke. Dawn was the next to move, crossing the floor with tears streaming down her face. She took one of Riley’s hands, then reached up and stroked her hair, her own bunny ears trembling in solidarity. Chloe came next, setting aside her plate and hugging Riley from the other side, careful but unafraid. Liesa and Sam joined, Sam’s grip tight and warm, Liesa’s more tentative, but no less real.

Marissa watched all this with a strange, almost clinical detachment, then crossed the room and placed a hand at the small of Riley’s back. “Loss is never fair,” she said, voice clear and steady. “But it’s worse alone. You’re not alone anymore, Riley. None of us are.”

Riley pulled away from Emi, her face wet and raw, and tried to laugh. It came out as a wet gasp. “God, you’re all so fucking sappy.”

Emi grinned, dabbing at Riley’s cheeks with a napkin. “We’ll have you trained up in no time.”

At the end of the table, Claire watched, her notebook open and pen moving rapidly. She didn’t join the embrace, but her tail flicked in slow, contented arcs, and she offered Riley a small, shy wave. Riley saw it, and waved back, grinning through her tears.

Andy stood a little ways off, hands in his pockets, watching. There was a look on his face that none of the women had seen before—not relief, exactly, but a kind of bone-deep tiredness, the letdown after holding too much for too long.

Emily, sitting at the far end, watched all of it unfold. She saw the tension in Riley’s body slowly unwind, the way the others formed a physical wall around her. She looked at Andy, saw the way he seemed to grow lighter as the women absorbed some of the pain he’d carried all morning.

Emily understood, in that moment, exactly who Andy was: someone who let others hurt him if it meant they could heal a little faster. Someone who gathered broken things, not to fix them, but so they could break together, safely.

Lunch went on, but the mood had changed. There was laughter—real this time, and even the food tasted brighter. The women moved through the meal as a single organism, passing plates, trading stories, building something new from the ruins.

Afterward, as they drifted out into the sunshine, Riley caught Andy by the sleeve.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice steady now. “I don’t deserve this, but I’m going to try.”

Andy smiled, the first real smile she’d seen on him since arriving. “Me too,” he said.

Riley grinned, punched his shoulder. “Sappy bastard.”

He laughed, and for the first time, it didn’t sound like a cover.

Emily watched the two of them, then picked up her sketchbook and turned to a new page. She started drawing, not hands this time, but the outline of two people—close, but not quite touching. She thought maybe, if she kept drawing, one day they’d find a way to close the gap.

She hoped so.

She wanted it, more than anything.

Achievement Unlocked! (Riley Bennett) The Empty Cradle +5 VP