Lost and Found

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 79 VP - 800 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 63 VP - 7100 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 56 VP - 4100 BP - 1 Achiev
Liesa - 54 VP - 2900 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 48 VP - 3050 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 44 VP - 1750 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 43 VP - 4500 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 29 VP - 4550 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 8 VP - 2975 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 6 VP - 4300 BP

The Suite at dawn was silent, lit by the oblique line of sun that always found its way across the comforter and straight into Andy’s eyelids. He rolled, groaning, into the cold spot where Liesa should have been. The memory of her was still warm—her head pressed to his shoulder, a lock of strawberry-blonde hair tangling his chin, her arms wrapped around his torso like a warning rope—but the girl herself was gone.

Andy sat up, listening. At first, he thought she’d gone to the bathroom. But the Suite was too quiet for that, too empty. Then, from beyond the sliding glass doors, he heard the sound—bare feet slapping softly against tile, the hitch of breathing just out of sight.

He stood, padded to the door, and pushed it open a crack.

Liesa was in the lounge, exactly as naked as the day she was born.

The sight stopped him cold. The last time he’d seen her fully undressed, she’d been quaking with arousal, but this was something else. Her whole body trembled, skin flushed and dewed with sweat, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She’d kicked her pile of clothes halfway across the rug and stood with her back to the window, moon-pale and wild-eyed. There was no recognition on her face—just a glassy, animal need.

“Liesa?” Andy said, voice uncertain. “Are you okay?”

She whipped around, breathing hard, eyes huge and ****. She didn’t answer, just rushed toward him in a kind of stumbling, staccato march, arms out like a sleepwalker. The closer she got, the more Andy realized: she wasn’t here, not really. Not Liesa, not the girl who’d spent last night promising to do better.

She was the transformation.

She reached him, pressed her naked body into his chest, her mouth hot and open and searching. She pawed at his shirt, whimpering, and then dropped to her knees on the tile, clutching at his legs. Andy was so stunned he let her, and she buried her face against his stomach, then lower, mouthing through his pajama bottoms as if the rest of him didn’t exist.

“Liesa, slow down,” he said, but it was pointless. Her hands were everywhere at once—one sliding up under his shirt, another yanking the drawstring of his pants, already working him with frantic, uncoordinated strokes. When he reached to steady her, she seized his wrist, dragging his hand up to her hair and forcing his fingers into a grip.

She was making noises, now—helpless, mewling cries with every breath. The rhythm of it was almost frightening. She sucked him, not with skill or even intent, but with a kind of vacuum, letting his cock knock against her teeth. When Andy tried to guide her, she shivered so violently he feared she might break apart.

He looked down, met her eyes for a second. Nothing. Just glazed-over hunger.

He wanted to stop her. He tried. He pressed her shoulders, gently, and said her name. But she shook him off, clambered to her feet, and threw him down on the bed. He landed hard, and she followed, mounting his lap with single-minded urgency.

“Liesa,” he said, “wait—let’s talk first—”

But she was already lowering herself onto him, her pussy so wet it left streaks on his boxers as she pushed them down. She impaled herself, moaning so loud it echoed off the glass. The heat inside her was shocking—so tight it bordered on pain, but she didn’t slow down. She rode him, frantic and unrestrained, hips slamming down with bruising ****. Andy gripped her thighs, tried to set a gentler pace, but it only made her claw at him harder.

It wasn’t the sex that broke him. It was the way she sobbed, mid-fuck, as if the act itself was a kind of confession. “Please,” she gasped, nails raking his chest, “don’t let me stop. I can’t—I need—please—”

He pulled her down, arms tight around her back, and let her rut against him until her body seized in a shuddering climax. She screamed his name, then collapsed on his chest, trembling, her skin hot enough to burn.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

He thought maybe this was what she’d needed—a reset, some kind of chemical purge to clear her mind. He stroked her hair, whispered her name, waited for her to come back to herself.

But she didn’t.

After a minute, she climbed off, knees buckling. She crawled to the pile of her discarded clothes and pawed through them, then froze—her hands shaking so hard she couldn’t grip the fabric.

Andy knelt beside her, trying to help. “Liesa, hey—”

She shrank from his touch, then pressed her face into his neck and bit him, not gently. “Again,” she begged, “don’t let me stop, Andy, I can’t stop, please—”

He understood, then: the transformation wasn’t dimming. It wasn’t even close. She was lost in it, and no amount of pleasure would bring her back.

She thrashed against him, kissed and bit and begged, her hands unable to unclench. He laid her on the bed, but before he could even react, she pulled him down and she was on top of him, her heat searing, her eyes empty of anything but need.

The cycle repeated, again and again, until morning sunlight crept across the sheets and painted her body in gold. After the third time, Liesa’s voice had broken. After the fifth, her nails had left angry red marks across Andy’s back. By the seventh, they were both soaked in sweat, shaking, unable to do more than cling to each other and pant.

Still, she begged for more.

It was only when Andy **** her—held her wrists, pinned her to the bed, and said her name in a voice she could not ignore—that something flickered behind her eyes. Not recognition. Something else.

"Liesa," he said, ****, "stop. Please, just stop."

She fought him, wild, bucking beneath his grip, her hips still seeking his. Her pupils were blown wide, unseeing. She didn't even hear him.

He let go, a cold realization washing over him. This wasn't just transformation. This was escape. She'd surrendered to this frenzy deliberately, hadn't she? Buried herself so deep in arousal that she wouldn't have to face Dawn, wouldn't have to confess. Wouldn't have to be brave.

He could see the truth in her eyes, the real Liesa curled up behind them, hiding, fleeing the only way she had left. Preferring to become an animal in heat, as long as it meant she wouldn't have to face the conflict she dreaded.

Andy's heart nearly broke. This was the Liesa who had left without saying goodbye. This was the Liesa who never reached out to him afterwards. This was the Liesa who stood by that damn seven-eleven and watched him, but didn't dare approach him for fear of his judgment. So many years lost like that, and she still hid, still fled. Andy winced. He couldn't take this, and it wasn't fair to Sam, or even to Liesa herself.

He sat up, steadied his breath, and reached for the only tool he’d never wanted to use.

"Liesa," he said, and put every ounce of authority he had into the Command. "Get dressed."

The word dropped like a stone into the pit of her need. Liesa gasped, knees knocking, hands fluttering helplessly at her sides. For a second she resisted—not out of will, but out of reflex, as if her muscles couldn’t remember anything but want. But the Command was absolute. It cut through her frenzy and left her shivering, hollowed out.

Andy watched her as she staggered away from him, limbs jerky, the blush on her skin blooming into new territory. She fumbled for her clothes, fingertips missing the fabric by inches, finally catching a pair of pink cotton panties. She yanked them up, teeth gritted, and the instant they snapped to her hips the transformation dimmed, just enough that she could see herself—really see herself, and what she’d become.

She moaned, a sound so raw it hurt to hear. Still bent double, she snatched her blouse, pulling it on with trembling fingers. Each button she fastened seemed to leech the heat from her body, cooling her by increments. She found her socks, rolling them on one at a time, her breath hitching with every pass over her skin.

When the last band of elastic hugged her thigh, the fog broke.

She collapsed onto the floor, curled into a comma, sobbing.

Andy crouched next to her, unsure if he should reach for her or stay out of range. He settled for putting his hand on the rug, inches from her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice thick. “I had to.”

Liesa shook her head, face buried in her knees. “No. Was right. I—” She bit off the words, as if speech itself might unravel her.

Andy waited. Let her have the silence.

After a minute, she uncoiled enough to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, lashes clumped with tears, but the feverish glaze had faded. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a shiny streak across her knuckles.

"I know why you did it," Andy said quietly. "You thought if you just... lost yourself completely, you wouldn't have to face Dawn. Wouldn't have to apologize."

Liesa's face crumpled. She didn't deny it. Her shoulders curved inward as she hugged herself, knees drawn tight against her chest. The shame in her expression was naked, complete—a different kind of nakedness than before, but somehow more exposing.

"I can't—" Her voice caught, barely audible. "I don't know how to look at her."

He nodded, feeling the weight of her confession. "I'm going to help you. But I can't do it for you."

She pressed her forehead against the carpet, hair falling in tangled curtains around her face. "I know," she whispered.

Andy remembered Arabella's warnings about Commands and loopholes. The words formed in his mind, heavy as river stones, inevitable as gravity.

He reached out, touched her hand. “I have to do one more thing. Liesa, I promise it’s for your own good, but you’re not going to like it.”

Liesa closed her eyes. “Just do it.”

He took a breath, found the authority in his voice, and Commanded: “Do not take off any of your clothes until you tell the truth about the ribbon to Dawn and Norah, in person. I’m sorry.”

Liesa whimpered, but there was no resistance left in her. “Why do you hate me?” she whispered.

Andy recoiled, stung. “I don’t. I love you. That’s why I’m doing this.”

She shook her head, fists clenched at her sides. “You don’t love me. If you did, you’d tell them for me. You’d make it go away.”

He reached for her, this time touching her hair, stroking it back from her face. “That’s not love, Liesa. That’s just—making you smaller. I’m not going to do that.”

She sobbed again, face red and wet. “I can’t. I really can’t.”

Andy shook his head. “You can.” He paused. “Sam loves you, Liesa. I love you. But you are tearing yourself apart by keeping this buried within you. It was a small confession, but the longer you wait, the bigger it becomes.”

She looked up at him, eyes pleading. “Can you… order me to do it? Make it a Command?”

He shook his head, sadness in his smile. “If I do that, it doesn’t count. You have to choose it. The Command just stops you from hiding. The rest—you have to walk into.”

Liesa stared at him for a long time, her breath shuddering in and out. For a second he thought she might hit him, or run, or just start stripping on the spot to **** a contradiction. But instead, she slumped forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, and held on with **** strength.

He hugged her back, careful not to squeeze too tight.

They stayed like that until her shaking slowed, and the sweat on her skin dried, and the heat gave way to cold clarity.

Finally, she pushed away, arms still crossed over her chest. “I should go,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ll walk you out.”

They moved through the empty Suite, the hush broken only by the sound of their feet on the tile. At the elevator, Andy hesitated, hoping for one last word, but Liesa avoided his gaze.

“You’re not alone,” he said, voice soft.

She pressed the button, and the doors slid open with a sigh.

As she stepped in, she whispered: “That’s the problem. I wish I was.”

Andy watched her go, the echo of her words hanging in the air long after the doors sealed shut.

He stood there, alone, his hands clenched at his sides, wondering if he’d done the right thing, or just made it all worse.

But he knew, deep down, that there was no easy way out for any of them.

Not for him, and especially not for the girl who shook so hard she thought she’d fall apart if she ever stopped.

He closed his eyes, let the weight of it press down, then turned and made for the gardens, hoping he could find someone who needed him less than Liesa did.

He found Erin sitting by the koi pond, her legs stretched out on the warm stone, head tilted back to catch the rays. For once, she wasn’t doing yoga, or stretching, or scanning the horizon for threats—she was just being, bare as a newborn, skin flecked with sunlight and shadow. Her sneakers were the only thing she wore.

Andy hesitated, then approached, hands stuffed in his pockets. He expected her to comment on his mood, maybe tease him for looking like a man who’d just failed a final exam. Instead, Erin just patted the stone beside her.

He sat, not trusting himself to speak first. The air between them was loaded, but not with tension—more like the aftermath of a storm, when you know the worst has passed, but you can still feel the static in your hair.

She nudged his thigh with her knee. “You look like shit, Andy.”

He barked a laugh, surprised by it. “Thanks.”

They sat like that, quiet, the hum of the gardens filling in the gaps. Andy glanced sideways, trying not to ogle. It was impossible. Her body was even more spectacular in daylight—breasts massive, curves overwhelming, every inch of her radiating heat. The effect should have been cartoonish, but on Erin it just looked… right. She caught him looking, and her mouth twitched in a half-smile.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Not really. But I should.”

She nodded, then looked away, like she was letting him choose his own moment.

After a while, Andy found the words. “It’s Liesa,” he said, and explained—haltingly, then all at once—the events of the morning. The way she’d used her own transformation to hide from what she had to do, the Command, the collapse.

Erin didn’t interrupt. She just listened, her arms folded under her chest, head cocked. When he finished, she was silent for a few heartbeats, then exhaled.

“She always did hate conflict,” Erin said. “I think it’s what I liked about her. You know, before.”

Andy nodded. “She’s not the only one. Sam’s caught in the middle, and it’s tearing her up.”

“Of course it is,” Erin said. “That’s what happens when you care about people.”

They let that hang.

After a while, Erin asked, “Did it help? The Command?”

He thought about it. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

She leaned in, her shoulder bumping his. “She’ll come around. They always do. But you have to let her run out of ways to avoid it first. Otherwise, it never sticks.”

Andy turned to look at her, found her gazing at the koi. Her nipples were hard in the morning chill, and he knew it wasn’t the air that did it—she’d told him about her transformations, about the way his gaze alone could make her body light up like a switchboard.

He grinned, despite himself. “Are you always this wise?”

Erin snorted. “No. Just learned to act like I am.”

He bumped her back. “How are you doing? With… all this?”

She shrugged, hands open, palms skyward. “I won’t say I’m used to it, but I’m getting there.” She looked down at herself, then back at him. “You know, it’s funny. I thought I’d die if I ever had to go outside naked. But after a few days, and after meeting Emily and Katherine, it’s just background noise. The only time it matters is when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She met his eyes, unblinking. “Like I’m the only thing in the room.”

Andy blushed, a little. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said, then reached over and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. Her grip was strong, grounding. “It makes me feel alive. Like I still have some power over you.”

He squeezed back. “You have more than some.”

They watched the pond as if it might fill them up, the glassy ripples, the slow parachute of a koi’s fin, the pollen streaming lazy atop the water’s mirrored skin. It was a silence that didn’t demand anything: not comfort, not distraction, not even kindness. Just the cool stone beneath them and the early-morning warmth, and the knowledge that neither of them would push the other to say more than they were willing.

Andy felt the residue of the suite—the hurt and the guilt and the sense of responsibility, the endless hamster wheel of what if I’d done it better—begin to drain from his blood. Erin had a talent for this. He’d forgotten how, in a prior life, she’d always been the one to catch him before he spun out. In college, when the world got too loud, she’d drag him to Ward Park, press a beer into his hand, and **** him to watch sunsets while she finished her reading. They didn’t talk, not much. She just made space for him to fail at being okay, and then, by some subtle alchemy, he was.

He realized he was staring at her, again. Couldn’t not. The sunlight traced every curve of her, the impossible slopes and arcs, the way her strength and softness seemed to exist in perfect, mutual sabotage. It was mesmerizing—like an Escher print that only made sense if you stopped trying to make sense of it. His gaze lingered on the play of shadows, the slope of her thigh, then flicked up to catch her watching him with a raised eyebrow.

He looked away, sheepish, but she just laughed, low and private.

“Andy, you know you’re allowed to look, right?” she said.

He grinned. “Habit of a lifetime. Sorry.”

She nudged his knee again, but this time her foot stayed pressed against him, a steady, reassuring pressure. “Don’t be. If I didn’t like it, I’d tell you.”

They sat like that, and it was Erin who broke the silence—not with words, but with a soft, sudden kiss pressed to his shoulder. He blinked in surprise. She did it again, higher this time. Then she met his gaze, eyes steady, smile more sly than gentle.

“Do you want to fuck me, Andy?” she said.

He nearly snorted water out his nose. “Right here?”

She shrugged, but he could see the flush at the base of her throat. “No one’s around. There’s a four-foot wall, and the only ones watching are the fish. Plus, you’ve got that look.” She bit her lip, a mock-dramatic display, but he could tell she wanted this—her whole body vibrated with it. “You want to, don’t you?”

He did. He wanted the connection, the grounding, the feeling of being somebody’s answer instead of their problem, even if only for a few minutes.

So he let her climb onto his lap, the rough drag of her skin against his jeans, the warmth of her thighs sandwiching his own. She straddled him, breasts pressing into his chest, arms wrapped around his neck, and for a second all he could think about was how easy it was to fall back into her gravity. She ground against him, slow and deliberate, her breath already quickening.

He ran his hands up her sides, found the tender give of her waist, the lean muscle hidden beneath. He cupped her breast, thumbing the nipple, and she hissed—sharp, not in pain but in hunger. Her skin was hot beneath his hands, slicked with the barely-there sweat of anticipation.

“You have no idea what this does to me,” she whispered, mouth at his ear, fingers twisting in his hair.

“Tell me,” he said, and his voice was rough, needier than he meant .

She rolled her hips, the movement grabbing his whole attention. “Every time you look at me, I get wet and I want you inside me. Even before… this.” She gestured to her body with a small, fraught laugh. “Since coming here, since we reconciled, I… I feel like you see all of me, even the parts I was trying to hide. And now, there’s nowhere to hide. I like it.” She pressed herself down onto him, grinding harder, and guided his hand to her thigh, then up between her legs. She was already wet, slick and hot, and the feel of her under his fingers sent a spike of urgency through him.

He kissed her, hard, his tongue plunging deeper than he meant. Erin groaned into his mouth, bit his lower lip, then shoved him back so she could look him in the eyes.

“Don’t go easy on me,” she said. “Not today.”

He didn’t. He let her drive, let her set the pace and the angle, and lost himself in the ferocity of her want. Erin wasn’t delicate with it. She clamped his thighs with her own, used his shoulders as purchase, and ground against him like she was chasing her own destruction. Andy held her hips at first, but her hands knocked his away and found new levers—his neck, his hair, the edge of his jaw where she could torque his head for a kiss. His senses compressed: Erin’s body was heat and sweat and the scent of sun-warmed skin, her hands everywhere and nowhere, her knees pinning his hips so hard the stone bit through his jeans. Every thrust shivered her entire frame. She locked eyes with him when she wanted to, but most of the time she rode with her head thrown back, mouth open, the muscles in her throat standing out.

He had the out-of-body feeling of sex with someone you really knew—where every motion was familiar, but every shiver and jerk and whimper was brand new. She wasn’t the Erin he remembered from college. She was more—more herself, more unashamed, every inch of her calibrated to short-circuit him. He remembered her from study groups, from late-night walks, from the bruised and angry spaces of both their lives, but never like this. She had always been beautiful, sure, but she’d worn it as armor, wary of the ways it could betray her. Now, it was her ammunition. She used it nakedly, and he was helpless against it.

She took him in hand—literally, at one point, reaching between them to adjust his cock, not bothered by the crude reality of it. He felt himself jerk at her touch, and she smirked, grinding down harder, like she could wring out his soul through sheer friction. He tried to be gentle, to check in, but she met every attempt at restraint with a sharper, hungrier counter. When he slowed, she bit his lip. When he tried to keep his hands on her back, she **** them to her breast or between her legs. He gave up trying to keep up, and just gave her everything.

Erin was a genius at feedback. She needed no prompting to tell him exactly what to do: “Don’t stop.” “Harder.” “Right there.” She wasn’t loud, but every word came out like a dare. He felt the old insecurities start to spark—what if someone walked by, what if he wasn’t enough for her, what if this was a mistake—but she ripped those doubts out with every fresh grind, every gasping breath, every time she leaned into his ear and told him, “You feel so fucking good, Andy. Don’t you dare stop.”

He forgot where they were. The gardens vanished. The pond, the sky, the world itself—all of it collapsed to a single point, laser-focused on the way her body moved on his, her muscles flexing under his hands, the way she looked at him when she wanted to ruin him. He was aware, dimly, that he was being loud himself, that he was panting and swearing and probably digging his nails into her hips hard enough to bruise. He didn’t care. It wasn’t about performance, or even pleasure—though there was plenty of that. It was about the way need could be an anchor, the way two broken people could stake themselves to something real and vital and alive.

She fucked him like she was trying to erase the past three days—maybe the past six years. He let her. He pulled her down for a kiss, and she gave him tongue, fast and frantic, teeth clicking against his. He tasted blood from where she’d bit him. There was no choreography, no slow escalation or teasing, just the **** mathematics of friction and leverage and heat. He wasn’t going to last. He could feel it in the base of his spine, in the involuntary clenching of his hands on her ass, in the way her sweat and his mingled in the morning sun. He almost warned her, but she was already there, her face scrunched in concentration and hunger, her whole body shaking.

“Fuck—don’t stop, I’m close, I’m—”

She shuddered, her nails raking his neck, and let out a sharp, guttural sound. Her thighs squeezed him so tight he saw stars, and she jerked, once, twice, then let go with a long, low moan that seemed to vibrate in his own chest. The convulsions wracked her, a chain reaction of clenching and release that left her gasping. It was a full-body orgasm, and it set off his own—he came with a hiss, his whole self tensing, then relaxing as she collapsed onto him.

They were boneless, spent, a mess of limbs and sweat and the slow tremor of aftershocks. Erin clung to him, still rocking gently, her hair stuck to her face and neck. Neither of them moved for a long time. The world returned, in fragments: the far-off calls of tropical birds, the low hum of the pond filter, the tickle of pollen drifting on the breeze. Andy realized his jeans were soaked through at the crotch, but he didn’t care. He held Erin, one hand stroking her spine in lazy, half-conscious circles.

She was the first to speak, her voice muffled in his shoulder.

“I really, really needed that,” she said.

He let out a weak laugh. “Me too.”

She laughed with him, then kissed his cheek, feather-light. “Sorry if I was…” She searched for a word, but gave up and just shrugged, her chin still resting on his shoulder.

He squeezed her tighter. “Don’t be. I want you exactly like this.”

She leaned back, wiped the sweat from her brow, and met his gaze. There was a vulnerability there, a flash of embarrassment, but it passed quick as lightning. “You know, I think this might be the most honest I’ve ever been.”

He smiled, feeling the tired ache in his jaw. “We should make a habit of it.”

She snorted. “Don’t tempt me.” Then, with exaggerated care, she slipped off his lap and sprawled on the sun-warmed stone beside him, arms and legs flung wide. She looked up at the cloudless sky like she was basking in the aftermath of the world’s greatest workout.

Andy joined her, lying back, letting the rough surface dig into his shoulder blades. For a minute, neither made a sound.

Finally, Erin said, “You gonna tell me what’s eating you, or do I have to take you again?”

He stared up at the sky, the blue so deep it seemed almost liquid. “It’s the Liesa thing. I can’t stop thinking I did it wrong.”

She rolled her head to look at him. “Andy, you did it the only way you could. I know you. You hate hurting people, but sometimes you don’t get to choose. Sometimes you just have to rip off the Band-Aid and let it bleed.”

He turned his head, met her eyes. “You really think so?”

She nodded, serious now. “Yeah. I really do.”

He considered that. Let it settle. The guilt was still there, but it felt smaller, less malignant. Erin had always been good at this—at giving permission to be human, at reminding you that some wounds were supposed to hurt. He wondered why he’d stayed away from her so long, why he’d let life drift them apart. Maybe he’d been afraid she’d see through him. Maybe he’d been afraid she’d stop him from hiding.

He closed his eyes, felt the heat of the sun on his face, the fading tremor in his limbs. He wanted to say something important, but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he reached for her hand, and she took it without hesitation, her fingers locking in with his.

They lay there, breathing, their heartbeats slowly syncing.

After a while, Erin propped herself up on an elbow. “We should probably clean ourselves up before anyone comes by,” she said, glancing down at the mess on her thigh.

Andy grinned. “You want to race to the showers?”

She grinned back, wicked. “You’re on.”

They scrambled up, laughing, and Erin grabbed her sneakers, slapping them against her palm. She looked at him, naked and unashamed, and for a second he caught a glimpse of the girl she used to be, the one who stole his heart with a single dare in the back of a Chevy Cavalier. Then she was gone, sprinting down the path toward the main building, hair flying, holding her breasts from bouncing, and he chased after her, feeling the weight that had burdened him slide off his shoulders as he gave chase.

Later, Erin found Liesa by the lagoon, fully dressed now, every button and seam drawn tight as armor. She hunched on the edge of the stone, staring at the water, hands tucked between her knees. Erin watched her for a while before sitting beside her, legs folded in the dirt.

Liesa didn’t look up. She seemed smaller than before, shoulders hunched, hair hiding half her face.

Erin waited, then said: “You can stop pretending now. I know.”

Liesa flinched. “I don’t—”

Erin held up a hand. “Save it. I know what it’s like to get stuck. To want so bad for it to not be your fault.” She gestured at her own body, all of it. “Sometimes you don’t get a choice. Look at me. I didn’t ask for this. But I live it. I can choose to loathe myself, or I can own it. That’s all.”

Liesa said nothing, but her hands twisted together, knuckles white.

Erin continued, voice softer now. “I don’t hate you. Not even a little. But if you don’t come clean, you’ll end up hating yourself way more than you hate the idea of facing them.”

Liesa’s breath shuddered. “I don’t know how.”

Erin put a hand on her shoulder, the gesture gentle but solid. “One word at a time. That’s all it takes.”

She squeezed, then got up and left Liesa alone with her thoughts.

As she walked away, Erin realized she was still naked, shoes crunching over the gravel, sun warm on her back. For the first time, she felt no urge to cover up, no trace of shame.

She smiled, thinking of Andy, of the warmth of his hands and the way he looked at her.

She owned it now.

The rest would follow.

The gardens in the morning were always full of the same, repeatable stories. New buds on old stems. Water evaporating, condensing, cycling back to earth. Andy wandered the paths, watching the harem reassemble itself into orbits that had nothing to do with him.

On a driftwood bench near the succulent beds, Emi and Claire sat side by side. Emi had finished a painting—the final version of the one she’d been working on for days: a portrait of the harem, not as they looked now, but as Emi remembered their first selves. She had added Chloe and Riley in, too. In the painting, Chloe’s breasts were modest; Erin was dressed in that grounded style she used to like; Claire had only two ears, human ones. Riley smiled in a way she never did in real life.

Emi held the canvas, showing it to Claire, who studied the image with her head cocked. The cat’s tail flicked against the seat, tip twitching like a metronome. She tapped the canvas, then scribbled in her notebook:

How do you remember so much?

Emi blushed, tucking her six arms in a kind of self-hug. "I never forget faces. Even if I want to."

Claire's cat ears twitched forward with interest. She scribbled in her notebook and turned it toward Emi.

Do you remember everyone from before? From when you were kids?

"Everyone," Emi said softly. "The way Laura’s nose crinkled when she laughed. Andy's crooked front tooth before he got it fixed." She traced a finger over the painted faces. “Andy's the one with the eidetic memory, but for me... faces are easy.”

Claire's pen moved quickly across the page.

I wish I could have known Laura. Not just the stories. The real her. Would you tell me more about her?

Emi looked down, her lowest set of hands fidgeting with the hem of her dress. "She was... bright. Like someone turned up the color saturation whenever she walked into a room." A small smile formed. "I could tell you about the time she convinced us all to build a fort in the woods. Or when she stole her dad's camera to make a movie about aliens."

Claire nodded eagerly, her tail swishing against the bench.

Emi reached for Claire's hand, squeezing it with two of hers. "I'll tell you everything I remember."

Andy slowed as he passed, not wanting to disrupt the exchange, but Emi glanced up and met his gaze. Her smile was softer than he remembered, almost bashful.

“She thinks I remember too much,” Emi said, nodding at Claire. “But it’s not hard. You just look at people, and then you draw them.” She glanced at the painting. “Sometimes I draw the things I wish I could see again.”

Claire, tongue caught between her teeth, scribbled with urgency. She held up the notebook: I wish I could remember faces like that. It must be nice.

Emi read the note, looked at Andy for help, and then blurted: “I think she wishes she knew Laura for real, not just from stories.” Her voice trembled a little. “I could try to paint her for you, if you want.”

Claire nodded, then stared hard at the painting’s edge, as if hoping Laura might emerge from the brushstrokes by sheer **** of will.

Andy felt something tighten behind his ribs. He’d gotten used to missing Laura; it was the rawness of other people missing her, especially those who’d never known her, that left him defenseless.

“I’ll tell you all my memories,” Emi promised, squeezing Claire’s hand with three of her own.

Andy moved on, letting the memory fade like a watermark on his skin.

At the lagoon, Erin and Emily sat side by side, feet dangling into the cold, still water. Emily’s long hair, gold and pink, hung over her bare breasts and hips in a half-modest curtain, but she made no effort to arrange it or hide. It did that by itself. Instead, she played at braiding strands of Erin’s hair with her own, the two of them comparing the colors and laughing about nothing. It was a gentle scene, and Andy found himself smiling at the ordinary sweetness of it. There was a time, not long ago, when the thought of these two women naked together would’ve meant only one thing. Now it was just… peaceful. Quiet.

Andy left them to it, feeling a little lighter for the exchange.

He looked for Riley, expecting to see her pacing like a wolf at the far edge of the garden, but today she hovered in the liminal zone between shadow and sun, eyes locked on a point beyond the fence. She looked less like a storm and more like the pressure drop before one, the air around her empty of birds and noise. He considered approaching, but something in her posture—shoulders squared, arms tight, jaw set—warned him off.

He scanned for Sam, but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he found Chloe near the citrus arbor, half-hidden behind a low tangle of flowering vines. Chloe stood on the path with both hands knotted in her cardigan, staring hard at the ground. She wore a long blue skirt, flats on her feet, and her hair was down, the loose waves tumbling around her shoulders in a way that made her look younger than she was. The sight tugged at something in Andy, and for a moment he considered just standing there, watching her in the golden morning light, letting her have a few more seconds of peace before he imposed himself.

He didn’t have to. Chloe sensed him instantly, her head snapping up, wide hazel eyes locking onto him like she’d been caught stealing from the fridge. Her lips parted, then pressed together, as if she’d rehearsed this conversation but now couldn’t find the lines.

Andy offered a wave, low and unthreatening. “Hey,” he said, stopping a polite distance away. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Chloe hugged her cardigan tighter, even though it was already tugged close enough to strain the sleeves at her wrists. “No, it’s—” She bit off the end, forcing a smile. “You’re fine, I just… I was thinking.”

He waited, letting the silence go a little longer than comfortable.

After a beat, Chloe spoke again, voice soft. “You’re looking for Sam, right?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “You seen her?”

Chloe shook her head. “Not since breakfast. She left early.” Her gaze dropped to his feet, then to the path behind him, like she was double-checking for herself. “If she’s hiding, she’s better at it than me.”

Andy laughed, and the sound was genuine. “I’m glad I found you, though. I was hoping we could talk.”

Chloe’s mouth twisted—half hopeful, half afraid. “About what?”

He shrugged. “Anything. Or nothing. I just…” He trailed off, searching for the right way to say it. “I like being around you. You make things feel… easier.”

That flustered her. Chloe’s cheeks went rosy, and she looked away, hugging herself tighter. “That’s not really true,” she said, so quietly he almost missed it. “I feel like I make everything harder for you.”

Andy moved closer, slow so as not to startle. “No, you don’t.” He waited for her to meet his eyes again. “You’re one of the only people who doesn’t make me feel like I’m letting them down, all the time. That’s a gift, Chloe.”

She absorbed that, the blush deepening up her neck. “Thank you,” she whispered, and the sound of it made her shoulders relax a fraction.

He was going to say more, but Chloe cut him off, her words tumbling out in a rush. “Can we walk? I need to move.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just ducked around him and started down the path, her feet moving over stone and petal with practiced care.

He followed, letting the silence grow as they left the citrus behind and walked through the winding flower beds. The air was thick with bees and perfume and the sun was already strong enough to shimmer off the lagoon. Andy watched Chloe’s back, the way her hair bounced, the way she hugged herself even when nobody was looking. She stopped only when they reached the edge of the bluff, where the grass thinned and a narrow sandy path switchbacked down to the beach.

Chloe stood at the top, staring out over the water. “Do you ever feel like you’re watching your own life from far away?” she asked, her voice just above the hush of the wind.

Andy considered. “Sometimes. Less lately.”

She nodded, as if that answer was important. “Me too.” She looked down at her hands, flexed her fingers, then spoke again: “When I was a kid, I used to believe that if you said sorry enough times, you could undo anything. Like there was a cosmic scoreboard, and if you just kept apologizing, eventually it would go back to zero.”

Andy smiled, but there was no humor in it. “That would be nice.”

Chloe kept going, the words a steady trickle. “I said sorry to Laura, the day she died. Not to her face, but in my head, over and over. I thought maybe if I believed it enough, I could make it real. But she still ended up in the river, and I still got to keep living, and it felt like the universe was telling me I wasn’t sorry enough.”

Andy stepped up beside her, careful not to crowd her. “That’s not how it works,” he said. “It was never your fault.”

Chloe’s eyes glistened in the sun, but she didn’t cry. “I know. Everyone tells me that. But I was the one who started it—the kiss, the stupid middle-school drama. I know I didn’t tell anyone. I don’t know who started those rumors. I know I didn’t kill her, but I can’t stop feeling like I set the whole thing in motion.” She took a deep breath, shaky. “I don’t want to be defined by that forever. I don’t want my whole life to be a haunted house.”

He reached for her hand, found it cold and tense, but she didn’t pull away. “You’re not haunted, Chloe. You’re here. You’re good. You make everyone around you better.”

She looked at their linked hands, then back at the water. “I wish I believed that.”

He squeezed her fingers, hoping it would transmit some of his certainty. “You’re a good person, Chloe. That’s rare.”

She snorted, the laugh abrupt and bright, ignoring the panties that appeared on the ground nearby. “Not sure about that.”

“I am,” Andy said. “It’s not just your students who depend on you, Chloe. All of us do.”

She was quiet for a long time, eyes on the horizon. When she spoke again, her voice was rough with emotion. “It doesn’t feel fair,” she said. “You get to be the hero, and I’m just the girl who cried too much and got everyone else in trouble.”

Andy felt something break, soft and brittle. He stepped closer, pulling her gently until her head rested against his chest. She melted, her arms folding up between them, her face hidden in the crook of his shoulder. He could feel the tremble in her back, the way she held her breath like a shield.

“You’re not a villain,” he said. “Not even close.”

Chloe made a sound, something between a sigh and a sob. “Then why does it hurt so much?”

He stroked her hair, held her close. “Because you care,” he said, knowing it was a partial answer at best.

They stood like that, the ocean far below them, the sun climbing steadily higher.

After a long silence, Chloe pulled back, wiping her face on her sleeve. “Sorry,” she said, with a wan smile. “Old habits.”

He smiled back. “You don’t have to apologize for feeling things. I like that about you.”

She rolled her eyes, but the flush was back on her cheeks. “You’re just saying that because you like it when I get all red.”

He grinned, refusing to deny it. “It’s not the only reason.”

Chloe laughed, a real one this time. “I’m never going to get used to this,” she said, picking them up. “Every time someone says something nice about me, it’s like—” She mimed a flush around her face.

Andy caught her gaze, dead serious. “You are a good person. You deserve every kindness, Chloe.”

“Are you going to kiss me now?” she asked, and her voice was almost steady.

He did.

It was slow, at first—gentle, careful, as if the moment would shatter if either of them moved too fast. Chloe’s lips were soft, and her breath caught with every pass of his thumb across her jaw. She tasted like salt and sunlight and a little bit of sadness, but underneath was something new, something urgent. She leaned into him, her hands gripping the sides of his shirt, clutching like she was afraid he might disappear if she didn’t hold on tight.

The kiss deepened, and Chloe’s body responded with an eagerness that surprised even her. Her arms slid around his waist, pulling him close, and when his hands moved to her hips, she gasped, a tiny sound lost in the crash of distant waves.

Andy let the moment linger, let Chloe take what she needed. When they finally parted, she rested her forehead against his, eyes shut, her chest rising and falling with each slow breath.

Kissed the Master! +1 VP

“I’ve never done this before,” she whispered, the confession barely there. “I mean, I’ve kissed, but never… wanted to. Like this.”

He smiled, pressing another kiss to her temple. “It’s easy with you.”

Chloe laughed, the sound shaky but real. “You always say the right thing.”

He shook his head. “Not always. But I mean it. You deserve to be happy, Chloe.”

Her eyes opened, and for the first time he saw something like hope in them. “Maybe I will be,” she said, and the words trembled, but they didn’t break.

They stood together, the sun and the wind and the ache of old regrets wrapping around them like another layer of skin. Chloe let herself lean into him, not just for comfort but because she wanted to. Andy held her, letting the silence do its work.

Eventually, they walked back up the path, hand in hand. The cardigan hung from Chloe’s fingers, forgotten, and her hair was wild, whipped by the breeze. She looked, for a moment, like she could have belonged to any summer in any year—bright and new and full of possibility.

Andy hoped she would remember this. He hoped she would believe, even for a little while, that she was worthy of forgiveness.

As they disappeared into the gardens, the air behind them shimmered with heat and the scent of lemon and salt.

The Banquet Hall, in the evening, had a way of compressing space. The bright, endless light of the gardens was replaced by the soft glow of chandeliers and the constant chime of utensils against plates. The buffet spread steamed and sparkled, bowls refilled by Mildred’s hands, and the great picture windows were black mirrors, reflecting every face at the table back at itself. For once, every seat was full. Riley sat with her elbows on the table, eyes fixed on a spot between the salt and pepper shakers. Norah and Dawn had found a rhythm, trading jokes about the day’s training challenge. Claire perched at the end, tail curled neatly over her lap, hands folded around a mug of tea. Emily, as always, was bare-skinned and beaming, her hair falling just so to preserve the illusion of modesty.

Liesa sat in the middle, flanked by Sam on one side and Marissa on the other. Andy and Chloe filled out the head of the table.

The food looked beautiful, but nobody seemed to be eating.

The air was electric with anticipation. Andy could taste the tension, sharp as citrus. He tried to act normal, to play his part as the host, but every time he glanced down the table he caught Liesa’s eyes—wide, glassy, every blink slower than the last. She wore a high-collared blouse and a navy skirt, wrists buttoned, every inch of her done up to the edge of parody. Her hair was pinned into a bun so tight it looked like it might snap. She didn’t touch her plate.

Sam fidgeted beside her, stabbing at her salad with unnecessary ****. Her eyes kept darting to Liesa, then away. It was as if she was counting the seconds until something exploded.

Dawn and Norah seemed oblivious, their conversation bright, echoing in the hush. “I’m telling you, she did not look before she jumped in the pool,” Norah said, half-laughing, “and then she acted like it was my fault her bunny ears got soaked.” She shifted in her seat and accidentally knocked a glass over; water spread across the tablecloth, forming a small pool by her elbow.

Dawn reached for napkins, laughing. “They’re not waterproof, you know. That’s basic animal logic.”

Nobody at the table missed the spill—least of all Liesa, whose hands trembled at her sides, or Sam, who reached instinctively to help, only to pull back at the last second and let Dawn manage it.

Andy kept glancing from Sam to Liesa, trying to will the words into the space between them. He could see the effort it took for Liesa to even stay upright, the way her back was rigid, the knuckles of one hand white against the table’s edge. At one point she tried to speak, but the words never made it past her lips.

Chloe noticed, too. She kept sneaking worried glances at Liesa, then back at Andy, as if asking permission to intervene. Once, when Liesa tried to swallow a mouthful of wine and nearly gagged, Chloe reached over and squeezed her hand under the table. Liesa jerked like she’d been shocked, then stilled, blinking rapidly.

Emily sat silent and alert, her blue eyes flicking from face to face. She picked at her food, but her gaze never left the patchwork of tension growing down the line.

Only Riley looked truly detached. She sipped her wine, posture slouched, jaw clenched. Her left foot tapped a fast, nervous rhythm beneath the table. Every so often, she’d flick her eyes to Andy, then away, always with the smallest twist of her mouth—a smile, or maybe a dare.

Marissa, sensing the gathering storm, tried to redirect. “Anyone want to try the tiramisu?” she offered, voice low and coaxing. “It’s actually better than the last round.”

Nobody answered. The only sound was Norah’s chair scraping as she tried to mop up her spill.

Liesa closed her eyes. Her jaw moved, but for a second it looked like she might just lock up and leave the words unsaid. Instead, she pushed her chair back, hands flat on the table, and stood.

The legs of her chair screeched against the stone.

She looked at Sam, Andy, then at Dawn, then down at her own feet. When she spoke, her voice was so soft it barely reached the far end of the table.

“I stole your ribbon,” Liesa said.

The words dropped like a rock into the center of the meal. Andy saw Dawn’s eyes go huge, her mouth opening in a perfect circle. Norah’s brow furrowed. Sam put her hand over her mouth, but she was smiling—not out of pleasure, but out of pure, shaking relief.

Liesa’s hands fumbled at her skirt, knuckles digging into the fabric. “I stole it, and I lied, and then I couldn’t stop lying. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”

The tears came fast, wetting her cheeks before she could wipe them away. She tried to keep talking, but the next words collapsed under the weight of the last.

Dawn stared at her, unmoving.

Norah made a sound, low and shocked. “Why?”

Liesa tried to answer, but she was already sobbing, the words drowned by the **** of it. “I didn’t want to lose,” she managed, voice warped by tears. “Not again.”

For a moment, nobody breathed.

Then, in a chain reaction, every woman at the table moved at once. Chloe’s hand went to her mouth, then slid over to grip Andy’s. Emi curled in on herself, all six hands covering her face. Claire’s tail lashed once, violent, then wrapped around her waist, anchoring her to the moment. Marissa, eyes gone wide, reached under the table and found Andy’s thigh, fingers digging in. Riley turned away, her profile sharp as stone, the reflection in the window making her look twice as haunted.

Sam stood, circled the table, and wrapped both arms around Liesa. Liesa collapsed into her, clutching at Sam’s back, the two of them bent together by gravity.

Dawn was the last to move. She sat frozen, hands in her lap, eyes locked on Liesa and Sam. After a long moment, she said, “Okay,” very quietly, and pushed her chair back, too. She didn’t leave, but she didn’t come closer either. She just sat there, absorbing.

Liesa didn’t stop crying. Not for a long time.

Andy watched her, feeling every drop of the ache in her. He wanted to go to her, to make it better, to offer her the same forgiveness he’d given everyone else. But this wasn’t his pain to fix, not yet. This was the pain of telling the truth for the first time in too long, of finally running out of places to hide.

Chloe leaned into Andy, her warmth a small comfort against his side. Under the table, Marissa squeezed his hand, hard. Even Riley, at the far end, softened a little—he saw it in the slow unclenching of her jaw, in the way she finally looked up and really saw Liesa, not just the story of her.

The whole table was silent, a single organism holding its breath.

And through it all, Liesa sobbed, her tears soaking Sam’s shirt, her whole body shaking like it might break apart and float away.

Andy watched, and loved her, and knew it wasn’t enough to save her from herself.