Liesa's Night (V)

They made their way back through the garden, Liesa’s hand never once slipping from Andy’s. She didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to—the softness in her eyes, the relaxed curve of her mouth said everything that words might have cheapened. By the time they reached the Suite, the sun was gone behind the ridge, and the lanterns overhead were already dusting gold over the walk.

Andy opened the door for her, out of habit, and let her step inside first. The Suite had that deep, evening quiet that always made him feel like he was intruding on someone else’s life—a hush full of all the things left unsaid, or unbroken, or unfinished. He flicked the light on, half expecting to see a Mildred standing sentinel by the fridge, but the kitchen was empty.

Instead, the prank was waiting for him on the coffee table.

It took a second for his brain to process what he was seeing. The low table in the sitting area had been cleared of its usual detritus—no empty cups, no scattered books or game pieces. In their place sat a wide glass bowl, neatly arranged, and in the bowl: eggs. More than two dozens, all upright, each shell decorated with faces in black ink. Some were simple—two dots and a smile, a circle for a mouth. But others showed real care: one with a curled mustache, another with angry eyebrows, a third wearing what looked suspiciously like a tiny, jagged crown. Andy stepped closer, half-grinning already, and saw that the details only improved up close. One had a monocle, complete with a tiny chain painted down the curve of the shell. Another had vampire fangs, red marker for the blood.

Propped against the bowl was a torn scrap of hotel notepaper, the edges meticulously frayed. Andy picked it up and read: Egg-gotcha.

He let out a bark of laughter, one that bounced off the ceiling and made Liesa jump a little before she followed his gaze to the table. At first, she just stared, head tilted. Then she covered her mouth with her palm, trying to stifle her own laugh, but it escaped anyway—a tiny, warbling giggle that reminded him of the first time they’d heard a karaoke version of “Africa” sung by one of their college friends with absolutely zero shame.

“Who did this?” Liesa asked, still in disbelief.

Andy tapped the note. “It’s Laura. She’s on a hot streak.” He lifted one of the eggs, careful not to smudge the ink. The face was familiar—a wide, sideways smirk, just like the one Laura used to pull in the old photo booth at Navy Pier. “This is a callback. She used to do this in middle school. Every Easter, she’d draw on all the eggs before her mom could even start the dye bath.”

Liesa nodded, still smiling, but there was a glint of curiosity behind it. “Why eggs?”

He shrugged, setting the smirk-egg back in its nest. “She always said it was the perfect prank. You can’t yell at someone for drawing a face on something you’re about to smash anyway.”

Liesa laughed harder this time. “And the note?” She pointed at the message.

Andy handed it to her, and as she read, her face softened further, the self-consciousness dropping away. “She missed you, didn’t she?” she asked, not unkind.

“Yeah,” Andy said, the word heavier than he expected. “We were always pulling dumb stunts like this. It’s like she’s… I don’t know. Finding her feet again.”

They stared at the eggs in silence for a few heartbeats, the absurdity of it settling in. Andy was the first to break, picking up the vampire-egg and holding it at arm’s length. “This one is definitely for me,” he said. “Look, it even has the stubble.”

Liesa reached in and lifted the monocle-egg. “And this is you when you try to read the wine menu,” she teased.

He snorted, conceding the point. “Alright. Which one is you?”

She scanned the faces, then reached for the one with the crooked crown. “This one,” she said, setting it at the front of the bowl like a chess piece. “It looks nervous but also proud. Like it just won a contest, but it has no idea how.”

Andy grinned. “It’s perfect.”

They lined up their favorites along the edge of the table, a tiny, ridiculous parade. Liesa sat cross-legged on the floor, her skirt fanned out like a painter’s rag, while Andy perched on the edge of the couch, watching her catalog the faces. Every so often, she’d glance up at him, and the look in her eyes was the same as in the atelier: focused, a little hungry, and unafraid.

After a while, the laughter faded, replaced by something softer and easier. Andy let the silence fill the room, the gentle tick of the wall clock marking time neither of them wanted to reclaim. He watched Liesa cradle the eggs, setting each back in the bowl with a delicacy that made him ache.

It was a silly prank, but there was nothing childish about it. He could see Laura’s wit in every line, the careful attention to detail, the sense of humor that had survived everything else the world threw at her. The eggs weren’t just a joke—they were a message. Still here.

Andy let himself smile, broad and genuine. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel fragile.

He looked up at Liesa, who was already watching him, her lips pressed together in a secret, knowing smile. She tipped the crown-egg toward him, as if in salute, and for a second he wondered if any other place in the world could have given him this.

The answer, he knew, was no.

The kitchen gleamed with Mildred's signature lemon polish, every surface scrubbed to a mirror finish. Andy opened the refrigerator, unsurprised to find exactly what he needed: artisanal sourdough from that bakery in San Francisco he'd mentioned once in passing, cave-aged Gruyère still in its wax paper, Black Forest ham sliced paper-thin, and a bundle of fresh chives that looked like they'd been cut moments ago. The pantry yielded European butter with a fat content that would make a cardiologist wince. Of course it would all be here—it always was.

He arranged his bounty on the marble countertop, then selected a cast-iron skillet from the rack. Liesa lingered at the threshold, shoulders drawn in, hands clasped behind her back like a schoolgirl awaiting permission to speak.

“You can come in,” Andy said, voice gentle. “It’s not a forbidden zone.”

She stepped over the threshold, arms folded tight now, and eyed the ingredients. “What are you making?”

“Grilled cheese,” Andy said. “But, you know, with ham and chives. If that’s okay.”

She shrugged, which he took as assent. “I haven’t had one of those since Chicago,” she said, almost to herself.

He started on the bread, slicing it thick and laying out the pieces in perfect symmetry. Liesa drifted closer, close enough that he could feel the tremor of her presence, but not so close as to crowd him. She watched his hands as he chopped the chives, her eyes tracking the knife with laser precision. After a minute, she said, “Can I help?”

Andy smiled. “Sure.” He nudged the knife toward her. “You want to slice the cheese?”

She hesitated, then picked up the block and the blade. The first cut was cautious, the knife slow as a heartbeat, but the slice was clean. She made another, then another, each a little more confident than the last. By the fourth, she was grinning, just a little, as if she’d unlocked some lost childhood achievement.

“See? You’re a natural,” Andy said, loading the bread with layers of cheese and ham.

She snorted. “You say that, but I just remembered I used to get yelled at for cutting it too thick.” She held up a slab, more doorstop than deli slice, and wiggled it for emphasis.

He laughed, then reached over, covering her hand with his. “It’s better this way,” he said, guiding her wrist. The touch was brief but electric, the pressure of his palm grounding her in the motion. “Just keep your fingers away from the edge, or you’ll lose a knuckle.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed bright enough to match the pink of the ham.

Andy assembled the sandwiches with care, layering the cheese and meat, then dusting each with chives before pressing the halves together. He set the pan on the stove, melting butter until it hissed, then laid the sandwiches in, pressing them down with a spatula. The kitchen filled with the scent of toasting bread and browning cheese, a smell that never failed to lower his pulse.

Liesa leaned against the counter, watching the sandwiches sear. “You do this a lot,” she said. “Cook, I mean.”

“When I get the chance,” Andy replied. “There’s something about it—like, if you screw up, nobody dies. Worst case, you just start over.”

She nodded, thinking. “I always liked watching you cook. Is romantic.”

“It isn’t,” he said, and she smiled, because she knew it was a lie.

He flipped the sandwiches, then glanced over his shoulder at her. “You hungry?”

She nodded. “Starved.”

He slid the finished sandwiches onto plates, cut them on the diagonal, and handed one to her. Liesa took it with both hands, eyes on the golden crust, then bit in. The cheese pulled away in a perfect string, and she slurped it up, lips shining with butter.

“Oh, wow,” she said, around a mouthful. “Je meen je dat niet.”

Andy watched her eat, the way she chewed slow and deliberate, as if cataloguing the taste and texture for later analysis. She was always like this, even when they were students: slow to start, but once she got going, impossible to stop.

He bit into his own, savoring the hot, sharp cheese and the salty meat, the faint grassiness of chive. For a while, they ate in silence, the only sound the faint crunch of crust and the low hum of the fridge.

Liesa broke first, licking a crumb from her thumb. “Do you ever miss it?” she asked, eyes darting up to his, then away. “The city, I mean.”

He swallowed, considering. “Sometimes,” he said. “But mostly I miss the people. The noise, the mess, the way you could get lost for an hour and still find your way back by smell alone.”

She laughed, a real one this time, the kind that curled her nose and made her eyes crease at the corners. “I miss the street carts. And the galleries.” She glanced around the kitchen, the ceiling, as if she might see a painting hidden in the light fixture. “This place has given me so much, is strange,” she mused, “I found myself again. I found you again. I found Sam. And I get to make things again, not just survive.”

Andy set down his sandwich, his gaze softening. “You’re doing more than surviving,” he said. “You’re killing it.”

She looked at him, holding his eyes for a long moment. “I want to believe that,” she said, voice small.

He smiled, gentle. “You can. I promise.”

They finished dinner in that hush, the tension slowly draining out of Liesa’s shoulders. By the last bite, she was leaning back in her chair, one hand cradling her empty plate, the other drumming a happy little rhythm on the tabletop.

Andy stood, gathering the plates. “You want coffee?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, please.”

He moved to the machine, filling the reservoir and measuring grounds. Liesa drifted to his side, arms crossed, and watched him work. When the coffee started to drip, she asked, “You remember the time you tried to make Belgian waffles and set off the smoke alarm?”

He grinned. “You told me it was impossible to screw up a waffle.”

She smirked, the memory warm on her face. “It was your fault for not reading the instructions.”

He poured two mugs, handing one to her. “You could have helped.”

“I did,” she said. “I opened all the windows so the fire department wouldn’t show up.”

They laughed, the ease between them restored. Liesa sipped her coffee, then leaned her hip against the counter, staring at the row of egg-faces on the coffee table.

“Are you happy here?” she asked, the question sudden and bare.

Andy considered, then nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

She smiled, a real one.

They cleaned up together, moving in silent tandem, the domestic choreography so natural it felt like muscle memory from another life. When the last plate was set to dry and the coffee pot emptied, they just stood for a moment, not sure where to go next, or if they wanted to.

Liesa was the first to break the silence, stepping close enough that Andy could smell the paint still clinging to her skin beneath the soap. She reached up, touched his jaw, her thumb tracing the shadow of stubble. “Thank you,” she said, voice low.

“For what?” Andy asked.

She searched for the words, then settled for, “For making me feel safe.”

He covered her hand with his, anchoring her there. “Anytime,” he said.

The moment hovered between them, bright and perfect, before dissolving into a comfortable hush. Liesa let her hand fall, but not all the way—she caught Andy’s fingers in hers, held on, and together they walked toward the bedroom, the row of grinning eggs watching them from the coffee table, like a cheering section of tiny, ridiculous ghosts.

The walk to the bedroom was short, but Andy took it slow, feeling the gravity of each step as if he were approaching the edge of some high place. Liesa walked at his side, not behind—never behind—but she kept glancing at him, eyes flicking to the door, to the floor, to his face, then away again. The light was warm and dim, set by whoever programmed the Suite’s mood, or maybe just by some algorithm that could sense when the world had shrunk to the size of two people and a bed.

He paused at the threshold, letting her go in first. The bedroom was still as they’d left it: sheets neatly made, a glass of water on the nightstand, the faintest ghost of lavender in the air. Katherine’s painting hung in front of the bed, as always. She retained her frozen pose, but he could swear he could see a sparkle in her painted eyes. Liesa glanced at it, then at him, then back to the door as if considering retreat.

Andy smiled, hoping to coax her back to comfort. “Still want this?” he asked, his voice pitched low and careful.

She nodded, but didn’t move. Instead, she pulled the edges of her cardigan tight, burying her hands in the sleeves. “Yes,” she said, but the word caught on something. She let out a shaky breath, and for a second he thought she might break. Instead, she took a step closer, pressing her forehead to his chin, her arms sliding around his waist. The hug was fierce and fragile at once, her hands fisted tight in his shirt. He held her, just breathing, letting the moment settle. After a while, she pulled back, and the resolve in her face was new, raw and shiny as a fresh brushstroke.

“Will you help me?” she asked, the question smaller than it needed to be.

He nodded. “Of course.”

She reached for the hem of her cardigan, but her hands trembled. Andy covered her fingers with his, guiding them slow. Together, they pulled the fabric up, off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, her t-shirt was paint-stained, worn soft as tissue. She hesitated, then hooked her thumbs under the hem, pausing. Her breath came faster now, shallow and nervous.

Andy caught her chin, turning her face to his. “You’re safe,” he said, meaning it.

She nodded, and with a small, fierce jerk, yanked the shirt over her head. The skin underneath was pale and freckled, the lines of her collarbone sharp in the lamp light. She was beautiful, not in the way of models but in the way of something made by hand: imperfect, alive, unique.

She wore a simple cotton bra, the kind Andy remembered from long ago—practical, nothing fancy, but somehow more intimate for its plainness. She reached behind, struggling with the clasp for a moment before giving up and looking at him with a silent plea for help.

Andy stepped behind her, fingers deft, and unhooked the band. The bra fell away, and Liesa’s arms went instinctively to cover herself, but he caught her wrists, holding them gently at her sides.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Let me see you.”

She blushed, but obeyed. Her breasts were perfect, high and full, tipped with rose-pink. Andy brushed his lips along her shoulder, down the curve of her neck, and she shivered. The tranformation was working—he could feel the heat in her skin, see the way her nipples stiffened, the way her breathing turned ragged.

She tugged her skirt down next, hesitating only a moment before letting it fall to her ankles. Her underwear was a matching blue, and she kicked off her shoes before stepping out of the skirt. She stood there, bare but for the panties, and met his eyes—brave, unflinching.

Andy wanted to go slow, but the hunger in her was a living thing, a heat that rose off her skin in visible waves. She reached for him, pulling him in, her lips finding his, her hands tangling in his hair, down his back, clutching at him as if he might disappear if she let go.

He pressed her to the bed, gentle but insistent, letting her feel the weight of him above her. She arched up, meeting him halfway, her legs winding around his hips, drawing him close. He kissed her, slow at first, then deeper, letting her taste the wanting on his tongue.

She moaned, the sound low and guttural, and Andy felt it vibrate through her ribs, into his own bones. He trailed kisses down her throat, along her chest, circling each nipple with his tongue until she was panting, writhing. She clawed at his shirt, **** to pull it off, and he let her, pausing only long enough to shed the rest of his clothes.

Now, skin to skin, the effect was immediate and overwhelming. Liesa’s entire body was electric, every touch sending a jolt straight to the center of her. Her panties were soaked through, the fabric clinging wetly to her, and she bucked her hips against him, **** for friction.

Andy slid the last barrier away, and her whole body shook as the transformation fully took hold. She reached down, guiding him inside her, and the sensation made her cry out, her fingers digging into his arms hard enough to bruise.

He entered her slow, careful, but she wanted none of it—she thrust up, taking him in deep, clinging with her legs until there was no space left between them. The feeling was instant, a white-hot spiral that left her gasping, eyes wide and wild.

“Andy,” she sobbed, and he kissed her hard, swallowing the sound.

They moved together, **** and rough, the rhythm driven by Liesa’s relentless need. She came fast, her body clamping down around him, nails raking his back, her breath shattering in his ear. Andy held on, letting her ride the wave, only moving when she begged for it, begged him not to stop.

When he finally let himself go, the release was violent, all the pent-up hunger of weeks exploding in a crash that left them both shaking. Liesa collapsed under him, trembling, sweat slick on her skin, her arms clamped around his shoulders like a lifeline.

She sobbed, once, the sound more relief than anything else, and Andy stroked her hair, murmuring comfort. “It’s okay,” he said. “You did perfect.”

She laughed, then cried again, then laughed once more, the tears and the joy tangled together. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s always so much.”

Andy kissed her cheek, then her eyelids, then her lips. “I want all of it,” he said.

She nodded, pressing her face to his neck, holding on like he was the only real thing in the world.

For a time, they just lay there, breathing, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat and something sweeter underneath—acceptance, maybe, or just the relief of finally being seen.

But the reprieve didn’t last.

Liesa jerked up less than five minutes later, her body stiff, sweat-damp, still tangled in the sheets and in Andy’s arms. For a second, she just blinked at the ceiling, confusion written plain on her face. Then the awareness hit—the heat between her legs, the pulse in her core, the ache that no amount of sleep or satisfaction could erase. She looked at Andy, then away, shame creeping in with the blush that followed.

He just lay there, feeling her heartbeat through the skin of her back, memorizing the way her body fit against his. He felt the change in her immediately, the way her breathing shifted, the way her thighs squeezed together, seeking friction.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentle, “you okay?”

She hesitated, not wanting to name it, but she didn’t lie. “It’s worse now,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “Like… even more than before. I can’t think straight.”

Andy slid his hand down her hip, slow and soothing. “You want to stop?”

She shook her head, small and stubborn. “No. I just—I thought it would be enough. But I can’t get rid of it. It just comes back.” She pressed the heel of her palm between her legs, trying to ground herself. “It’s like I’m starving.”

He kissed her shoulder, then nuzzled behind her ear. “So let’s feed it.”

She turned to face him, her expression ****, raw. “It’s not fair to you.”

Andy smiled. “I’ll keep up. I promise.”

She tried to laugh, but the need twisted it into something closer to a sob. She leaned into him, burying her face in his neck, then trailed her lips down his chest, lower, hands everywhere at once. She didn’t bother with slow—she wanted him, needed him, and all the inhibitions had burned away in the first round.

She climbed onto him, guiding him inside with no hesitation, grinding down until she was full, eyes wide and wild. The friction sparked through her like a live wire, and she shuddered, gasping. Andy matched her, hands on her hips, letting her set the pace. She rode him hard, every movement a demand, every gasp a plea for more.

She came quick, the orgasm rolling through her in hot, electric waves, but it only made her hunger worse. She didn’t stop, not even to breathe—she just changed rhythm, picking up speed, riding through the aftershocks and straight into the next. Her hair stuck to her face, sweat beading down her spine, her nails clawing at Andy’s chest and shoulders.

Andy tried to slow her, but she pushed his hands away, grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head, using all her leverage. He let her, more than a little turned on by her strength, the wildness of it. She used him, shameless, until she came again, this time screaming his name loud enough to make the headboard rattle.

After that, she collapsed, breathing hard, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. Andy stroked her hair, whispering soft, nonsense comfort.

It wasn’t enough.

She started moving again before the sweat had even dried. She kissed down his neck, biting and licking, her hands everywhere at once, demanding, insatiable. Andy was already hard, the urgency in her feeding his own need. He rolled her onto her back, pinning her wrists to the mattress, and she grinned, her eyes shining with pure animal glee.

They fucked like that—hard and rough, every movement a contest, every kiss a dare. Andy drove into her until her body shook, until she begged him not to stop, until she was coming again, and again, and again. Her voice broke, the sounds turning from moans to whimpers to helpless, **** gasps.

She clawed at his back, leaving red tracks, her legs locked around his waist, holding him in deep. The world narrowed to the heat of their bodies, the rhythm of skin on skin, the sweat pooling in the hollow of her collarbone. There was no room for thought, only the need to take and be taken.

When Andy came, finally, the release was blinding—so strong it felt like his body would turn inside out. Liesa clenched around him, sobbing out her own release, the two of them locked together, shaking and breathless.

For a moment, the hunger abated.

They lay together in the ruined sheets, panting, not speaking. The air in the room was thick, humid, the windows fogged, the bed a mess of tangled linen and limbs.

After a few minutes, Andy propped himself up on one elbow, brushing the hair from Liesa's face. She looked up at him, eyes soft now, the sharpness dulled by exhaustion and something close to wonder.

"You okay?" he asked, softer this time.

She nodded, then shook her head, then laughed, breathless and a little hysterical. "It's still there," she said, half in awe. "Just… less. For now." Her hand slid down his chest, fingers trailing over the ridges of his abdomen until they wrapped around him. He was still sensitive, but her touch sparked something immediate. She held his gaze as she moved down his body, her lips following the path her fingers had taken. When her mouth finally closed around him, warm and wet, Andy's head fell back against the pillow, a groan escaping his throat. She worked him slowly at first, her tongue tracing patterns that made his thighs tense, her hunger returning with each passing second.

Her rhythm quickened, one hand gripping his base while the other pressed against his hip. Andy's breathing grew ragged as she took him deeper, her eyes never leaving his face, watching his every reaction. His fingers tangled in her hair, not guiding, just connecting. When she hollowed her cheeks and swirled her tongue just right, he felt the pressure building, unstoppable. "Liesa, I'm—" he managed, but she only intensified her efforts, moaning around him. The vibration sent him over the edge, his release pulsing into her mouth as his vision blurred. She didn't pull away, swallowing everything, her eyes fluttering closed in satisfaction.

Handjob! +3 VP
Touched Master’s penis! +2 VP
Swallowed! +2 VP

He kissed her after, slow and sweet, tasting himself on her lips. "We've got all night."

She smiled, the edge of hunger returning already, her body twitching in anticipation. "I don't know how you do it," she said. "How you're not scared off."

Andy shrugged, pressing his forehead to hers. “You ever try to eat a whole box of cookies when you were a kid?” he asked, grinning. “That’s how I feel right now. Too much, but I don’t want to stop.”

She laughed, really laughed, and the sound was music, bright and clean. “You’re insane.”

He held her tighter, feeling the bones of her ribcage, the flutter of her heart. “Probably.”

It was a marathon, not a sprint.

Sometime after midnight, Liesa’s hunger cycled back with a vengeance, the intervals between cravings shorter each time. She tried to fight it, biting her fist, curling up tight, but the ache just grew, filling every cell until she was grinding against Andy in her sleep, murmuring his name over and over. He woke to her slick and ready, hips canting up to meet him before he was even fully hard. The sight of her—flushed, wild, sweat-damp and trembling—was enough to set him off all over again.

They fucked in every way Andy could remember, and then some: slow, frantic, sideways, standing, once with Liesa bent over the edge of the bed, holding on for dear life as he pounded her so hard she couldn’t remember what year it was. Each time, the climax washed over her, shaking her down to the bones, but the relief was only ever fleeting—a minute, maybe two, before the curse wound her up again, shivering with **** need.

15-time combo! +7 VP
First! x2

Andy lost track of time, of himself, of everything but the heat of her skin and the music of her voice. By the third or fourth round, she was hoarse from moaning, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t hold onto the sheets. She sobbed once, out of nowhere, the sound raw and broken, and Andy panicked for a second, thinking he’d hurt her.

“Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, slowing, cradling her face in his hands.

Liesa shook her head, hair stuck to her cheeks, eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t stop,” she gasped. “I can’t—I want it, but it’s too much. I can’t make it go away.” The words tumbled out in a rush, shame curling her into a ball even as her hips bucked, needing more.

Andy pulled her close, holding her while her body trembled and her voice broke. “Do you want me to stop?" He asked. She bit her lip and shook her head. "Then you don’t have to,” he said, over and over, rocking her gently as if she were a child with a nightmare. “You don’t have to stop. It’s okay. I want you, all of you.”

She broke then, clinging to him, sobbing into his neck, her whole body rigid with both need and relief. Andy held her through it, his hand stroking her hair, his other arm locked tight around her waist.

Eventually the tears slowed, replaced by shaky laughter, then by the hunger, soft and insistent, curling back through her core. Liesa kissed him, ****, her mouth wet and salty from crying. “Don’t let go,” she whispered, and Andy promised, “Never,” even as he slid into her again, the cycle starting all over.

The world outside the Suite ceased to exist. There was only the bed, the endless tangle of bodies, the sweat and stick and heat. The smell of sex was everywhere, soaked into the sheets, the mattress, the air itself. The faces of the egg army in the living room seemed to leer at them in solidarity, as if they’d always known it would come to this. Katherine was shaking, spent, leaning against the frame of her canvas, disheveled and exhausted, unable to stop herself from continuing to come as Andy and Liesa kept up their own part.

Sometime before dawn, Liesa collapsed, spent, her limbs limp and her hair plastered to her face. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving, skin still glowing faintly with a sheen of need.

Andy curled up beside her, his own muscles jelly, his vision flickering at the edges. He touched her cheek, thumb tracing the freckles he’d missed so much.

She turned to him, her eyes soft and wet. “Are you okay?” she asked, voice raw but steady.

He grinned. “Never better.”

She laughed, weak but genuine, and rolled into his arms, burying her face in his chest. “I’m a disaster,” she mumbled, the words muffled.

“You’re perfect,” Andy replied, meaning every syllable.

Before the heat could return, she grabbed her underwear shakily and put it on, finally finding some relief. They fell asleep at last, entwined, the sun just barely rising through the slit in the curtains. The Suite was silent, but inside the bed, their hearts thumped together, steady and wild.

He woke to the press of Liesa’s body, every inch of her flush against him, sweat cooling on their skin. For a moment, he thought she was still asleep—the slow, even breath, the way her head fit perfectly under his chin—but then he felt the tension in her muscles, the coiled energy in her thighs.

She was awake, fighting it.

He stroked her back, tracing the bumps of her spine. “You good?” he whispered, voice thick.

She nodded, but didn’t move. After a few minutes, she curled up against Andy’s side, her arms wrapped so tight around his middle he could barely breathe. Her body too physically exhausted to obey the relentless heat, she shivered once, then stilled, her muscles going loose in sleep.

The lamps were down to their lowest setting, soft gold in the gloom. From the bedroom door, the coffee table was visible in the wash of light, the row of egg-faces still lined up like sentinels. Andy stared at them, the ridiculousness of it making him smile, even as fatigue dragged at his eyelids.

He thought about Liesa’s grip, the way she clung to him even in sleep. About how **** she’d been to be touched, to be seen, to be wanted. He thought about the years she’d spent denying herself everything—joy, safety, even the right to exist. Now, with the curse burning through her veins, she couldn’t hide any of it. She wanted, and that wanting was finally allowed to be visible, undeniable, hungry and proud.

He brushed a kiss against her hair and let his mind wander.

He thought of the odd little miracles from the last few days: the broken egg that had reconstituted itself in Laura’s hand, the way Erin’s presence caused blossoms to sprout, the way Dawn seemed to glow with literal light when she laughed.

Too many strange things to be coincidence. Too many pockets of magic and power, each one tailored to its owner’s secret needs.

He wondered if it was a side effect of the contest—if every round, the island loosened its rules just a little, until the women who survived could carve out their own worlds, their own logic. He pictured the atelier, filled with Liesa’s paintings, each canvas a stake in the heart of her old life. He pictured Dawn’s kitchen, Emi’s moonlit forests, even the shadowy quiet of Marissa’s Conservatory.

They were building their own sanctuaries, one by one. And Andy, whether he wanted to or not, was the anchor tying them all together.

He squeezed Liesa, feeling the slow thump of her heart through the thin cotton of her shirt. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, unsure if she could hear, or if it mattered.

He stared at the ceiling, letting the pattern of light and shadow burn itself into his memory. He wondered how long it would last—this peace, this sense of belonging, this fragile, beautiful magic. He wondered what Arabella would say if he asked her. Probably something cryptic and unhelpful, couched in riddles about transformation and trust.

But for now, he didn’t want answers. Not yet. He wanted only this: the quiet, the girl in his arms, and the knowledge that for once, the future could wait until morning.

He closed his eyes, sleep pulling him under.

On the table, the egg-army grinned in the dark, as if they knew what was coming next.

Recurring Author's Note: Check out the sister season at HH: Athanor. Likes and comments are welcome! And remember to check out the wiki at: https://hhnetwork.miraheze.org/wiki/Harem_Hotel:_The_HH

Aside from info on the contestants, the locations, and so on, a new section - the Marginalia - highlights Easter Eggs, deep cuts, foreshadowings and hidden elements in previous chapters. The same section is also present as a thread on the Discord channel (the Marginalia Discord thread is usually updated more often).

BEWARE! There are no spoiler tags in the wiki, so the Marginalia chapter includes spoilers up to the last published chapter!

Also, don't forget: you're welcome to propose TF ideas for Contestants via the anonymous link here: https://forms.gle/NY5MbGrvv2ZkUknn9

While I can't guarantee they'll all be used, or that they'll be used at the next available TF vote, I look at all suggestions and will try to fit them in where necessary.

Thank you for reading!