More than a Dream

Andy wandered the inner gardens at a measured drift, letting the stone paths take him wherever they liked. It was late afternoon and the light, filtered through a thousand layers of foliage, looked like it might never reach the ground. The air was humid but not heavy, that magical hour where the sun and the sea conspired to leave everything radiant. Here, the earth exhaled: salt, moss, gardenia, and that syrupy lilt of jasmine that made the inside of your nose feel lined with honey. He caught a whiff of hot bark and limes at every turn, and once he almost tripped over a tabby cat coiled on the warmest flagstone. The gardens were wild, but not disorderly. Andy recognized the illusion—every wildness was curated, every wind-bent tree exactly as twisted as the architects allowed. If he’d had a map, he would have traced it until the lines blurred, the way he used to memorize the power grids on the backs of old City of Chicago service blueprints. Instead, he followed the path, letting his mind clear one breath at a time.

Andy’s second lap around the gardens was interrupted by a voice. “You always walked too fast, you know.”

He stopped short, half expecting to see a ghost, half expecting nothing at all. But she was real—Laura, standing just where the path bent around a weathered sundial, arms folded, smirking, face lit with the gold of dying sunlight. She wore black joggers and a white t-shirt. She had always been small-framed, but now the smallness seemed intentional, like she was daring the world to overlook her.

Andy smiled. He hadn’t realized how a part of him still expected her to have vanished after she left the Suite this morning. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Didn’t have to,” she said. “On the other hand, I just had to follow the existential dread and the whiff of…” She sniffed the air. “Is that lime?”

He laughed, the tension in his chest easing. “Mostly jasmine, I think. But yeah. You found me.”

Laura shrugged. “I always do.”

She said it simply, as if no years had passed, no lifetimes unfolded in the space between one meeting and the next.

Laura stepped closer, testing the gravity. Andy remembered this move—how she always kept one extra pace of distance until she was sure of the world. He waited, letting her cross the gap.

"You could have asked Mildred," he said, gentle.

She wrinkled her nose. "She freaks me out. Besides, where's the fun in that?"

"That’s true," Andy allowed. He watched her, letting himself memorize every line, every new and old thing at once. There were the same small hands, the same quick eyes, but the way she held her shoulders was different: tighter, braced, as if she expected to be counted out at any moment.

They stood in the hush, neither in a hurry to fill it. The sundial was ancient, its shadow slicing the numbers clean in the gold hour. Laura kicked a pebble off the path.

"You gonna keep staring," she said, "or are you gonna give me a hug?"

Andy didn't hesitate. He reached for her, and she let herself come all at once—a collision, not a glide. She buried her face against his shirt. He felt her arms anchor behind his back, felt her inhale and then her whole body go slack as she exhaled, a year of tension wrung out in a single breath.

He held her tight, and for a second, it was just that: boy and girl, orbiting, letting the world blur.

After a long moment, Laura stepped back. Her hair was mussed, cheek red from his chest. She looked down, embarrassed. "Sorry," she said, almost inaudible. "I've become a very enthusiastic hugger."

Andy smiled. "It fits you."

She arched an eyebrow. "You think so?"

"I know so," he said, and meant it.

She seemed to consider that, eyes narrowed. Then she grinned. "Well, if the Master of the universe says so, who am I to argue?"

They started down the path together, Andy matching her stride. There was a bench up ahead, but they ignored it in favor of the winding green. Laura trailed her fingers over the hedge, snagging a flower here, a leaf there, the way she used to touch everything as a kid just to prove it was real.

"You still touch everything," Andy observed.

She shrugged. "Hard to believe any of this is real, otherwise."

They walked on. The path dipped into a tunnel of arching trees, and the sun flashed in their eyes before it vanished again.

"So," Laura said, the word lingering, "I kind of… spilled the beans to the others. About the bond thing. Hope that's okay."

Andy nodded. “Yeah, Sam mentioned it."

She looked sideways at him, half-defensive. "Yeah. At the breakfast thing. I guess I was nervous. Or maybe I just wanted them to know I could always find you if I needed to. Erin and Claire were looking for you and I told them where you were." She slowed, crushing a blade of grass between her fingers. "Is that weird?"

Andy laughed. "Compared to everything else that's happened here? It's barely in the top ten."

Laura laughed, the sound raw but brighter this time. "You say that, but you didn't hear how they took it. No one even blinked. They just said 'Cool, must be nice.' Like it's totally normal to have a psychic leash on your childhood best friend and love of your life." She shook her head. "I kept waiting for someone to call me out, you know? Accuse me of being crazy or obsessed or whatever."

Andy stopped walking, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Wait, go back. 'Love of your life'? Did I hear that right?"

Laura's cheeks flushed pink. "Shut up. You know what I meant."

"Do I though?" He tilted his head, enjoying her discomfort. "Because that sounded pretty definitive."

"I was speaking hypothetically," she muttered, kicking at a pebble. "From their perspective."

"Uh-huh." He couldn't help himself. "So I'm not the love of your life?"

"Andy!" She punched his arm, but there was no **** behind it. "You're impossible." She said, and he could tell she meant it as a compliment.

They walked for a while in silence. Andy tried to inventory the things that had changed about her: her gait was different, more measured, like each step came with a calculation. She didn't tilt her head to listen anymore—she looked straight at him when he talked, as if she was collecting proof that he existed in this world.

Finally he asked: "How are you doing?"

She made a face. "Like on a scale of one to ten, or on a scale of 'what the hell am I even doing here'?"

"Whichever is more honest," Andy said.

Laura's mouth twisted. "I thought I'd be more scared," she admitted. "But mostly, I'm just—trying not to mess it up. Like if I step wrong, the universe will realize I snuck in and throw me out again."

He nodded. "That’s not happening. I won’t allow it."

She arched an eyebrow. "If you're angling for me to say you make it better, just say it."

Andy grinned. "I wasn't, but thank you. I do hope it helps."

She rolled her eyes, but the color in her cheeks had softened. "You always make it better, Andy. That's the problem."

They kept walking. The path narrowed, skirting a pond where a family of koi moved like molten coins. Laura crouched at the edge, stretching her fingers toward the water. The fish surfaced, indifferent to her presence.

Andy leaned against the nearest tree. "What did you think of the others?" he asked, quietly. "After the breakfast. And the gazebo. I know you barely had a chance, but—"

Laura stayed crouched, but her attention snapped to him, the old sharpness back. "You mean, what do I think of the harem?" She tried the word out, lips curving around it as if it were a test she hadn't studied for.

Andy shrugged. "I guess I do."

She stood, brushing off her knees, and considered. “Ask me again in a week and you might get a different answer,” she said. Then: “But right now—”

Andy waited.

"Dawn is nice," she said, slowly. "Really nice. Like, so nice that I feel a little mean just standing next to her. It's like she knows how to make everyone feel at home, even if the house is made of glass."

He smiled. "She was always like that."

"I like her," Laura said, as if it needed saying. “Which honestly surprised me.” She nudged a pebble into the pond. “She was the first to talk to me like a person, not a miracle. I don’t know how long I can hold onto that feeling, but I don’t want to lose it.”

"What about Emi?"

Laura's face softened. "That one's easy." She looked up at him, uncertainty raw. "She was there, in my memories, you know? She hugged me, and she held me, and she made me feel better when I needed her to. How do you get angry at someone who already knows the worst parts of you?”

She paused, her voice going distant. ”It feels like the fight happened a thousand years ago, and now I just want to know she's okay. She looked happy. She hugged me so tight it almost hurt." Laura paused, her voice going distant. "She forgave me, I think. Even before I could say anything. I didn't deserve it."

Andy remembered Emi's face at the gazebo, the way she looked at Laura like she'd seen a ghost and a savior at the same time. “Doesn’t matter to Emi,” he said.

Laura didn't argue, but she didn't agree. Her fingers worried at the hem of her shirt instead.

"And Sam?"

Laura laughed, the first unguarded sound since they'd started walking. "Sam is exactly what I expected, only more. She tried to make me laugh right away, like it was her job to prove that nothing here could break her. She was the first to ask if I wanted to run for the hills,” Laura added. “Like she already knew I might.”

She paused. “She said I give hugs nearly as good as Emi." She looked at Andy, lips twitching. "I think you need her. Or—” she hesitated, correcting herself, “at least, I can see why you do."

Andy thought about Sam's blue hair, the way she could cut tension like a surgeon and then glue it back together with a joke.

"Yeah," he said. "You see why we’re friends."

They passed through a break in the hedges, stepping onto a hidden little lawn carpeted with violets. The light was slanting low now, and Andy watched as it caught in Laura's hair, turning it to copper.

She sat down on the grass, cross-legged, then gestured for him to join. He did.

She started to pick at the violets, braiding the stems into a chain. Her hands were steady, more sure than he remembered. She spoke without looking at him.

"I'm supposed to say I don't mind, right? That I want you to be happy, that I don't care who else is here as long as you are. That's the right answer."

Andy waited.

"But I do mind," Laura said. The words came out soft, but she didn't flinch. "It stings. Not because I think you love them more—" She stopped, searching for the words. "It's just—so many of them love you, and I keep wondering if I'm just another stone in your pocket.” She swallowed. “Like I finally made it back into your hands, and now I’m waiting to see if you decide I’m too heavy to keep.”

Andy felt the familiar urge rise — the need to anchor her, to say the one thing that would make her stop doubting. The words were already there, heavy and absolute, pressing against his teeth.Then he remembered his conversation with Sam, earlier today. It’s never easy. But pretending it is only makes it worse. He swallowed. Let the moment breathe.

“I never wanted to let you go,” he simply said instead.

Laura looked at him, eyes suddenly wet and unblinking. "I know," she said, and the confession was so naked it made him want to look away.

They let the silence have them. It was the kind of hush that, with the wrong people, would be awkward—a vacuum, screaming to be filled. But Andy and Laura had lived inside worse silences. This one, if anything, was a relief. They watched the fish for a while, the smooth churn of their bodies in the water, the way the light silvered the scales and turned even the ugliest carp into something luminous.

After a while, Andy said, “You left out a few.”

Laura didn’t pretend not to know what he meant. She pulled another violet, rolling it between her fingers until the pigment bled into her nailbed. “Yeah,” she said, voice light. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

Andy waited.

She lay back on the grass, hands folded behind her head. “Okay. Fine.” She exhaled sharply. “Erin makes my skin crawl.”

Andy almost laughed. “She’s not that bad.”

“You haven’t seen the way she looks at me,” Laura said. “It’s not—hostile. It’s measuring. Like she’s deciding whether I’m a problem she has to solve.”

She turned her head toward him. “She’s already decided you’re hers to protect. And I don’t like sharing territory.”

Andy stretched out beside her, one arm behind his own head, their elbows almost brushing. “She’s… protective. She's loyal. Not just of me. Of everyone. You’d probably like her once you got to know her.”

“I probably would,” Laura said. “In another universe where we weren’t standing on the same fault line.” She plucked at the grass. “I can tell how much she loves you. I hate that I can tell.” She winced. “That sounded worse than I meant.”

He squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to make it sound better.”

They let that settle. “What about Claire?” he asked, after a moment.

Laura hesitated, then: “She’s…” The word hung for a bit. “She’s really smart. And she knows it. And she doesn’t need to prove it. But she’s also so calm, it’s like she knows something the rest of us don’t.”

Andy barked a laugh. “She probably does.”

“Yeah,” Laura said. “That’s the part that makes my teeth itch.” She glanced at him, then away. “I keep waiting for her to look at me like I’m a complication. She hasn’t. Which somehow makes it worse. She doesn’t get rattled. Not even by me.” She chewed her lip, then said, “Is she mute for real, or is it a challenge thing?”

“She can’t talk,” Andy said. “But she communicates. Better than most people I know, honestly.”

“Yeah. She does.” Laura said. “She kept writing things to me. calm things. Like she already knew how this was going to end.” She snorted softly. “She does have nice handwriting.”

Andy laughed, and Laura smiled, pleased with herself. “You always did have terrible handwriting,” she said, “and you always made fun of mine.”

Andy shrugged. “You deserved it. I’ve never seen a cursive Q that looked like a duck.”

Laura flicked a violet at him, hitting him square in the neck.

“Norah?” he prompted, after he recovered.

Laura didn’t answer right away. She sat up, drawing her knees in, the posture defensive. “Norah is…” She hesitated. “Norah is trouble. I don’t know why, but I get this—” She circled her hand, searching for the word. “I get the feeling if she decided something about us—about me—it would already be true by the time I noticed.” Her jaw tightened. “I don’t like that.”

Andy nodded, slowly. “She’s very good at rearranging things.”

Laura pressed her palm to the ground. “She also looked lost.” She frowned. “Which is somehow worse. Like she hasn’t decided what to do with me yet.”

“Liesa?” he tried.

Laura’s mouth twitched. “She’s beautiful. Not just pretty—she’s got that thing where everyone in the room looks at her, and she doesn’t even care.” Her tone sharpened reflexively, then softened. “I noticed before I wanted to. She was the only one who just said hi, like nothing was weird. She told me I am ‘very real’.” She shook her head. “I think I like her. That might change when I’m less tired.”

“She’s impossible not to like,” Andy said.

“Marissa is…a lot,” Laura said. “She’s scary, but not in a bad way.” She watched the grass bend under her fingers. “When she talks, it’s like the world leans in.” She glanced at Andy. “I saw her hug Myra. It was intense. Like loyalty was a physical ****.”

“Loyal is right,” Andy agreed.

There was a pause. Laura was quiet, but Andy could feel the tension coil rather than dissipate.

He waited. She stared at the ground, then: “I saw Myra,” she said. “She was with Marissa, but I spoke with her when she was alone. She’s—” Laura stopped. “She’s broken,” She swallowed. “And I hate that part of me feels relieved I’m not the only ghost here.”

Andy turned to look at her, but Laura’s eyes were on her own hands, picking at her thumbnail until it bled. “I’m supposed to forgive her, right?” Laura said, but there was no accusation in it. “I know that’s what being ‘better’ would look like. That’s what you asked me to do.”

“I did ask you to try,” Andy said gently.

“I am trying,” Laura said quickly. “I just—” She stopped, frustrated. “Every time I think about it, I remember how she looked at me back then. And how much I wanted her to be wrong.” She wiped her finger on the grass. “I don’t want this to turn me into someone ugly.”

Andy reached for her hand, pulling it away from the grass. She let him, and he pressed his thumb over the tiny cut. “You don’t have to forgive her if you’re not ready,” he said. “I won’t push you into that.”

Laura looked up, eyes sharp, possessive. “I want to,” she said. “I just don’t want forgiving her to mean giving something up.” She let her hand stay in his, tension easing slightly. “She wants it more than I do. And that makes me resent her all over again.” She huffed. “Is that awful?”

“No,” Andy said. “It’s honest.”

She squeezed his hand, once. “You really don’t hate her?”

“No,” Andy said, honest. “I tried, but I couldn’t.”

“Not even a little?”

He thought about it. “I don’t have space for it anymore.”

That seemed to satisfy her. She let their hands rest between them, palms pressed together, fingers curled just enough to feel each other’s pulse. The grass around them whispered, and the scent of jasmine thickened as the breeze shifted.

Laura broke the silence. “You talked to Sam today, didn’t you.”

Andy smiled. “I did. She made me feel a little less crazy.”

Laura grinned. “That’s her job.”

He glanced at her, curious. “You sound like you’ve known her for years.”

Laura shook her head. “I know her type. She’s the glue. She keeps the rest from flying apart.”

“She does.” Andy rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “She told me something, and I think she was right. That I shouldn’t try to love everyone the same way. That it’s not a contest.” He hesitated. “I’m bad at that,” he admitted. “But I’m trying.”

Laura’s mouth quirked. “She’s right. You’d lose, anyway.”

Andy made a face. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“No, really,” Laura said, earnest. “I don’t want to be another notch on your list. I want to be… me. I want to be the one who’s different.” She drew a circle in the grass. “And I want the others to be different, too.”

Andy watched her, letting the words land. “You always were. Even when I tried to pretend otherwise.”

She smiled, shy this time. “So you’re saying you don’t have a favorite?”

He let the question hang, then: “I think you’re my soulmate,” he said, and didn’t look away.

Laura froze. For a second, she didn’t seem to breathe. Then she looked down, cheeks blooming red. “You can’t just say that,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Andy grinned. “You started it.”

“I did not!”

“You absolutely did,” Andy said, laughing. “You called me the love of your life like it was a math fact.”

Laura groaned, covering her face. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

She lowered her hands, and her eyes were shining. “No. I really don’t.”

Andy hesitated, his smile wavering. The word ‘soulmate’ hung between them, heavier than he’d intended. He remembered Sam’s voice from earlier: “Have you told them that? Not just the words. The ugly, inconvenient truth of it?” He’d shaken his head then, but only now did he feel the weight of it—how Laura might interpret what he'd just said, what she might be hearing underneath his words. “Hey—” he said instead, softer. “I just want to make sure you know what I mean when I say that.”

Laura peeked at him through her lashes. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. Then he slowed, searching for words that wouldn't hurt her but wouldn't mislead her either. “I just… I don’t mean it like a ranking. Or like it puts you above anyone else.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling clumsy but pushing forward. “It just means… you and I started somewhere different. Before any of this.” He gestured vaguely toward the hotel. “Before we even knew what choices were.”

Laura’s smile faltered—not hurt, but thoughtful. “So,” she said slowly, “you’re saying I don’t automatically win.”

Andy met her eyes. “I’m saying you don’t have to.”

She searched his face, sharp and quiet. Then something in her softened.

“Huh,” she said. “You would’ve let me think that before.”

“Yeah,” Andy said. “I probably would have.” He hesitated. “I don’t want to do that anymore.”

She nudged his knee with hers. “That’s… new.”

“Is that bad?”

Laura smiled, small but real. “No,” Laura said. “Just… an observation.” Her thumb traced the side of his finger, slow and deliberate. “You still want to hold on just as much. You just… don’t make it my problem anymore.”

That landed harder than anything else she’d said.

Andy swallowed. “I’m still afraid,” he admitted. “I’m just… trying not to let it do the talking.”

She studied him a moment longer, then leaned back, bracing herself on her hands. “You’ve changed, you know.”

Andy smiled, not looking at her. “I’d hope so. Sixteen years is a long time to stagnate.”

She shot him a look, but there was no heat behind it. “No, really. You carry yourself different. When you walked into the gazebo this morning, everyone stopped talking. Like the center of the world had shifted.”

He snorted. “They were probably waiting for me to screw up.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “You’re… steady. Like you’re always taking the measure of the room, even if you don’t want to. And they all look at you, Andy. Like you’re holding the place together with string and stubbornness.”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I’m not even sure I’m doing it right. Most days, I feel like I’m just improvising and hoping nobody notices.”

“You’re not,” Laura said. “You know what you’re doing. Or if you don’t, you make it look like you do.” She watched him for a second, eyes soft. “It’s weird to see.”

He thought about that, then reached over and brushed a fallen leaf from her hair. “You’ve changed, too,” he said.

Laura smiled, but it was small. “I don’t feel changed. Not really.” She looked down at herself, picking at the sleeve of her shirt. “It’s like I went to sleep in one body and woke up in another. It’s mine, but it isn’t.”

Andy nodded. “I know the feeling.”

She glanced up, startled. “You do?”

He nodded again. “There were months after you left where nothing fit. Like I was borrowing my own life and waiting for the real owner to come back.” He looked away. “I’m still waiting, sometimes.”

Laura let the words hang, then hooked her pinky through his. “I’m here now,” she said, voice rough around the edges.

“Yeah,” Andy said. “You really are.”

They drifted in the direction of the sea, letting the salt air guide them. The last stretch of path was lined with wild rosemary and mint, the scents mingling with the promise of brine and warmth. When they reached the top of the bluff, Andy sat first, cross-legged on the springy grass. Laura hesitated, then lowered herself beside him, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around her shins.

For a few minutes, neither spoke. The wind was picking up, and the surf below crashed in steady, hollow booms. Andy kept glancing sideways, half afraid that if he looked away too long she’d vanish again, or worse, that he’d wake up and find himself alone at the edge of his bed, counting the hours until morning.

Laura seemed to sense it. She leaned, tentatively at first, until her shoulder touched his. The contact was delicate but deliberate, a test of whether the world would hold. When it did, she let herself lean a little harder, the way she might have at the end of a long school day, back when they were kids and she still believed in gravity.

Andy felt his own breathing slow. The sun was behind them now, throwing the ocean into silver shadow. He closed his eyes and let the moment crystallize: the heat of her body, the smell of her hair, the way she fit against him, exactly the way he remembered and not at all the way he remembered.

They stayed like that, perfectly still, for what could have been five minutes or five years. The world was shrinking, and for the first time in forever, Andy was okay with that.

He looked over. “I don’t want to go back in yet,” he said, quiet.

Laura nodded, her head still against his shoulder. “Me neither.”

And they didn’t.

Twilight caught up with them on the bluff. The grass cooled beneath their legs, and a soft gray spread over the ocean, the sun now little more than a memory somewhere west. Andy listened to the hush: the hiss of waves, the pulse of wind through the shrubs, the minute shifts of Laura’s body as she leaned against him.

He wondered if it was possible to memorize this feeling. To save it, somehow, for the next time the world tried to pull her away.

Laura shifted, her head just grazing his shoulder as she sat up. Her hair tumbled down her back in a heavy dark line. She picked at a blade of grass and wrapped it around her finger, over and over, until her fingertip turned white.

The world went silver as twilight deepened. The air in the garden grew thin and lambent. Laura sat beside him on the bluff, arms wrapped around her knees, but every so often she’d lean back and let her head rest against his shoulder, weight so slight he might have dreamed it.

Neither of them spoke. They let the hush collect around them like fog, watching the last scraps of daylight paint themselves on the curve of the sea.

When Laura finally looked at Andy, it was with a focus that nearly undid him. Her gaze was stripped of anything ornamental; it was just raw, unblinking attention, like she could inventory his entire soul if she wanted to. He held it, the way he always did, but it took more now. The years had made him easier to read, maybe.

He saw her hesitation. Saw her almost lean in, then catch herself—every impulse to close the gap checked by the kind of caution that only comes from having been ripped away once already. For a moment, Andy wanted to just take her face in his hands and draw her in, let all that history collapse into a single, atomic point.

But he waited. It felt important to do so.

She drew a slow breath, then let it out in a shudder. "What if this is all a trick?" she asked, voice almost a whisper.

Andy didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached for her hand—slow, letting her see every move—and took it in his. Her fingers were cold and shaking, but she didn't pull away. He turned her palm up, and then, with deliberate care, pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

It was an old-fashioned thing to do, a move he hadn't even realized he'd learned from his own father. But it worked. Laura made a noise, half-sob, half-laugh, and her body went soft.

"You don't have to rush anything," Andy said, still holding her hand.

She nodded, grateful, blinking fast. "I know. I just—" Her voice caught. "It never stops feeling like I could vanish any second."

"You won't," he said. "Not as long as you want to be here."

She hesitated, then placed her free hand flat against his chest, above his heart. The contact was small, almost clinical, like she needed to verify he was still alive. Andy let her. His heart thumped, slow and heavy under her palm—a tangible, relentless thing. She kept her hand there, not moving, and he let her memorize the shape of it.

They watched the sky turn from gray to deep blue, then black. The first stars came out, scattered and bright, and the ocean turned to a sound instead of a surface. Laura let go of her knees and curled against his side, her hand still over his heart. Andy slid his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in.

It was not the closeness of old lovers; it was something quieter, more urgent, the kind of union you only get when both halves of it know what it is to be missing.

They stayed like that for a long, silent interval. It could have been minutes or an hour. At some point, Andy realized Laura's breathing had synced to his, slow and even. He felt the heat of her cheek through his t-shirt. Her hair spilled over his arm, tickling in the wind.

He almost didn't notice when she started crying. The tears weren't loud; there was just a hitch in her shoulders, a sharp intake, then a slow exhale.

Andy didn't say anything. He just held her closer, the way he used to when they were twelve, back when the world was allowed to end and restart a dozen times a day. He waited for her to be ready.

After a while, Laura spoke, voice hoarse. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up, and all of this—" She gestured, vague, encompassing the world—"will be gone. That you'll be gone. I know it's stupid. But it doesn't feel real."

She went quiet, then added, softer, almost to herself: “I miss my Mom.” Her fingers curled faintly in his shirt. “I keep thinking she should have gotten to see me like this.” She swallowed. “Alive. Free.”

Andy let the silence stretch, giving Laura time to gather herself. She stared at the horizon, shoulders squared against the wind, but her hand stayed tight in his, fingers linked in a way that told him she was fighting not to float away.

He thought about her mother, and squeezed her hand. “She would have been so proud of you,” he said quietly.

Laura let out a brittle sound, not quite a laugh. “I don’t know about that. She always said I was too stubborn for my own good.”

“Yeah,” Andy agreed gently. “She was right. It’s why you’re here now.”

She looked at him, searching for a catch. When she didn’t find one, she nodded, once, the line of her jaw softening as if she’d let go of something that had been anchored there for years.

Twilight deepened. The garden below shimmered with dew and the mirrored hush of dusk. Andy watched the sky trade gold for a thickening blue, then slate, then velvet, until every leaf and branch took on the colorless glow that only happened in the first hour of darkness. The sea beyond seemed closer now, the wind off the water sharper, filling the garden with a ghostly hush.

Laura’s voice had lost its edge. “Do you think we’re cheating?” she asked.

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

She hunched her knees in, hugging them. “Like, we’re here, together, and it’s perfect, but—” She stared at the grass, her eyes wide and bright. “But it’s only happening because the world glitched out, or the universe got tired of punishing us.” She hesitated, then: “Like we stole this.”

Andy considered. He remembered the years of wishing and wanting, the slow grinding ache of time that never healed, only ossified. “Maybe we did steal it,” he said. “But I’m not giving it back.”

She smiled, a flicker of mischief in the shadows. “You always were the bad influence.”

He snorted. “That’s one of the things you love about me.”

She went quiet, but the smile stayed. “Yeah,” she admitted. “It is.”

They sat in the hush, listening to the first calls of night birds, the shift of leaves. The breeze died down for a moment, replaced by a silvery stillness. Laura picked at the grass with her toes, drawing small patterns in the dirt, then stopped. She glanced up, and their eyes met in the half-light.

The pull between them was like an electric thread—old, but unbreakable. Andy felt the urge to reach for her, to draw her close and just breathe the same air, but he waited. She’d been taken from him once before, and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t rush her ever again.

So when Laura finally moved, it was on her terms. She twisted so she faced him, bare knees pressed to his thigh, and just looked at him. Her hands were in her lap, knuckles tight, and her hair swung forward to curtain her face. In the twilight, she was a study in contrasts: still the same girl, but with a gravity that made Andy’s heart stutter in his chest.

She reached for his hand, the one not supporting him, and he let her take it. She turned it palm up, studying the lines from every year they’d been apart, and then, gently, she pressed her lips to his knuckles.

Andy blinked, surprised at the old-fashionedness of it, but it hit him like a pulse of heat. Laura held his hand there, her lips lingering just long enough to make the world tilt, and then she rested their joined hands on her knee.

“You don’t have to rush anything,” he said again, softly.

Laura nodded, hair spilling forward. “I know.”

He nodded, understanding more than he wanted to admit.

She glanced up, and the look was so direct, so open, that Andy felt it in his chest. “Can I…” she started, then stopped, embarrassed.

“Anything,” he said. “Always.”

She shifted closer. Not much—just enough that when she reached up to touch his face, her fingers trembled only a little. She traced his jaw with the backs of her fingers, then cupped his cheek, thumb ghosting over the corner of his mouth.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

Andy swallowed. “I missed you too.”

He felt her thumb, cool and dry, press lightly into the hollow under his cheekbone, grounding him. “You feel real,” she said. “I keep thinking you won’t.”

He covered her hand with his own, holding it to his face. “You’re here. I’m here.”

She nodded, a flick of motion, and then she rested her forehead against his. They stayed that way, breathing each other’s air, until the world narrowed to the shape of their two bodies and the hush between them.

Night fell. The garden was nothing but silver and black, a negative print of the world they’d grown up in. Andy pulled Laura closer, her body fitting into the crook of his arm like it always had—like there was no other version of her that could exist. She curled in, tucking her knees to her chest, her head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, pressing her into his side, and just held her.

They fell quiet again. The garden below them was a dark tangle, but the air was alive with scent: jasmine and mint, the ghost of citrus, the faint salt of the ocean. The world felt suspended, like the island itself was holding its breath just for them.

Laura rolled onto her side, pressing her face to Andy's chest. He ran a hand through her hair, slow and gentle, letting the strands slip through his fingers. He remembered how she used to hate that, how she said it made her scalp itch. Now she hummed, a low sound, and he could feel it in his bones.

When she finally looked up, her eyes were wet but steady. "I don't want to go back inside," she said.

Andy smiled, a soft thing. "We have a little time, yet."

She grinned, small and a little wicked. "What if it gets cold?"

"I'll keep you warm."

Laura’s face went serious. "You always do," she said, and the words landed with the weight of something eternal.

They watched the stars for a while, saying nothing. Andy felt himself relax, deeper than he thought possible, every muscle unspooling. He felt Laura’s weight against him, real and undeniable, and let himself believe it might last this time.

At some point, Laura tilted her head, catching his eye. "Do you remember," she said, "the time I convinced you to sneak onto your roof to watch the meteor shower? It got so cold I thought we'd die up there, but you just lay next to me and counted every star you could see."

He laughed, surprised. "I think I blocked out how cold it was. We almost got caught."

"You said it was worth it," she said, smiling. "You said you'd do it again a hundred times, even if we froze."

He nodded. "I meant it."

"I did, too," she said. "And I still do."

They kissed, finally—no buildup, no hesitation. It was not a first kiss, but it had all the tremor and shock of one. Laura’s lips were cold from the night air, but her hands were hot on his face, drawing him in. Andy felt himself let go of every plan, every defense. He just let her take from him what she needed.

When they broke apart, Laura rested her forehead on his. "I like this," she said, breathless.

Andy closed his eyes. "Me too."

They didn't need more than that. They just sat, wrapped in each other, while the world spun its silent revolutions.