Words Unspoken, Part 1

You would know in words that which you have always known in thought.
You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.

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

Morning in the Master’s Suite was different from any other hour—gentler, as if the light filtered itself through a kindness unique to people who’d finally stopped fighting sleep. Andy woke to the soft friction of skin and hair, a warm inertia pinning his arm in place, and the faint scent of watercolors and, inexplicably, honey toast.

Emi was sprawled atop him like a luxurious blanket, all six arms draped in a haphazard choreography of affection. Her upper right hand, limp with sleep, covered his heart. Another cupped his bicep; a third was flung overhead, wrist hooked on his shoulder as if worried he might try to leave. Her cheek pressed to his chest, and her mouth made tiny, **** puffs of air each time she exhaled.

He lay still, afraid to break the spell, and watched the early sun pool on the polished floor. It was so quiet he could hear Emi’s heartbeat, regular and steady, a human metronome. He was sure he could’ve lain like that for hours, but his stomach betrayed him with a low, aquatic growl.

Emi blinked, first just one eye, then both, her lashes a black comma against the paleness of her skin. She didn’t speak right away, just looked at him, taking inventory. Then she smiled—a small, half-lidded thing—and tightened her grip.

“I dreamed about you again,” she said, voice creaky from sleep. “It was nice.”

He laughed, quiet. “Was I any different?”

She shook her head, but then changed her mind. “You were more glowy,” she said, as if it were a perfectly reasonable metric. “Like you were on the inside of a stained glass window. When I touched you, the color got everywhere.”

Andy liked that. He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead, and Emi purred—a sound closer to a cat than a girl.

After a long, perfect pause, she sat up, hair tumbling in a dark curtain to her shoulders. It had grown, since they had arrived. The six arms snapped to attention, each hand rubbing her face or stretching or adjusting the blanket so it barely covered the relevant geography. She noticed, grinned, and made no attempt to fix it.

“Can I get you breakfast?” Andy asked.

Emi perked up. “There’s breakfast?”

“There’s always breakfast,” Andy said, and then: “If you want it.”

She nodded, then burrowed into his side, trapping his arm as they swung their legs over the edge of the bed. The sensation was part hostage situation, part puppy pile, and Andy found himself absurdly happy to play along.

They drifted to the kitchen. Emi, perhaps because she’d already forgotten modesty, padded barefoot and wrapped in the blanket, her hands everywhere—exploring the granite countertop, picking at the fruit in the basket, toying with the buttons on Andy’s shirt. He busied himself with the fridge, pretending not to notice how Emi’s touch made every task a two-person job. She fished out a yogurt, then promptly put it back, as if embarrassed by her own cravings.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Yes,” Emi said. “But I like watching you make things more.”

He offered her the option of eggs, toast, or something from the bakery tray that appeared each morning without fail. Emi gravitated toward the sweets—croissant, raspberry muffin, a palmier she pinched to her lips with two hands at once. She sat at the kitchen island, swinging her feet, eyes never leaving him.

Andy made her tea and eggs, then took his own seat beside her. The food wasn’t important; it was the way Emi kept checking in, as if she couldn’t believe he was still there. At one point, she caught him staring, and her face colored.

“What is it?” she asked, suddenly shy.

He reached for her, taking one of her hands in his. “Nothing,” he said. “Just… you’re really here.”

She made a sound, half laugh, half squeak, and looked away. “I know. It’s weird for me, too.”

Andy pressed his lips to her palm, and Emi’s face bloomed pink all the way to her hairline. She tried to hide, but her lowest pair of hands crept across the island, then around his back, drawing him in. It was impossible not to follow her lead, so he rose, circled the bar, and wrapped his arms around her waist. Instantly, she surrounded him—six arms to two, her grip unbreakable.

They stood there, pressed together in a clumsy ballet of warmth, and Andy thought, not for the first time, that the world could do worse than freeze at this exact moment.

After a while, Emi’s head found his shoulder. Her cheek was hot. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this,” she said.

“To what?” Andy murmured.

She worked her jaw, clearly struggling to make her thoughts fit into English. “To being wanted,” she said, very soft. “Like, not as a trophy or a weird trick, but really wanted. The way you look at me, it’s…” She trailed off, helpless.

He wanted to tell her it was easy. That wanting her was as natural as wanting the next breath, but also as confusing and necessary as the need for forgiveness. Instead, he just kissed the spot behind her ear, and Emi melted.

Breakfast lasted a luxurious, indeterminate stretch, neither of them eager to return to the normal rules of the day. Emi’s appetite was shy but persistent; she pecked at the pastries, then devoured an entire orange in methodical segments, juice running down her fingers. Andy poured the tea and watched her, unable not to smile at the sight of her half-covered, bed-headed, six-armed chaos.

Emi must have felt his gaze, because she finally looked up, lips glistening with citrus. “What?” she asked, grinning.

“Nothing,” Andy said. “Just—this. I could get used to it.”

Her face brightened, then, and she reached out to link their fingers. “Me, too,” she said, and for once, didn’t retract her hand.

They ate in companionable quiet. After a while, Emi started talking—about her latest dream, which was a labyrinth made of glass and foxes, her voice catching slightly when she mentioned a room where the glass walls had turned to mirrors. "You were there too," she said, fingers fidgeting with her napkin, a blush creeping up her neck. "We got separated from the others and..." She trailed off, cleared her throat, then quickly pivoted to her plans to paint it later, and a childhood memory of visiting the glasshouses at the Chicago Botanic Gardens. Andy let her ramble, content just to listen. The words came out in bursts, sometimes overlapping, sometimes trailing off into silence. But there was never any pressure to fill the air; the comfort lived in the quiet, too.

At one point, Emi’s gaze turned distant. She twisted a ring of hair around one index finger and said, “I wonder if it ever gets less complicated. You know, loving people.”

Andy let the question land. He finished his tea, set the mug down, and said, “I’ve been wondering that myself.” He tried to keep his tone light, but Emi’s eyes sharpened, searching.

“Is it hard for you?” she asked. “Having to love so many at once?”

He hesitated, surprised by the directness. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I think it’s harder to admit I want to. I was always afraid that loving one meant taking away from another.”

Emi considered, then shook her head, hair flaring. “That’s not how it works,” she said. “Love isn’t a pizza. You don’t get less just because you slice it more ways.” She laughed at her own metaphor, then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “Sorry, that was dumb.”

“I like it,” Andy said. He reached across the counter and took her hand, drawing little circles with his thumb. “So you think it’s possible? To love everyone the right amount?”

Emi’s response was instant. “I think you already do. Maybe you can’t love each person the same, but you can love each the way they need. It’s all different, but it’s all love.”

She looked away, then down at their hands, as if searching for permission to go on.

“I think maybe,” she said, quieter now, “it’s not about measuring how much you love someone. It’s about whether you love them at all. Like, maybe there aren’t ‘amounts.’ Maybe you just do, or you don’t.” She blushed, then **** herself to meet his eyes. “And it’s okay if it’s different. The way you loved Laura might be different from how you feel about the others, but that doesn’t make it less.”

Andy felt something shift in his chest, a weight gone light. He hadn’t realized until this moment how much he needed to hear someone else say it out loud.

He squeezed her hand. “You’re right,” he said. “Thank you.”

She smiled, then frowned, confused. “Is that what you were worried about?”

He nodded. “I guess I wanted you to know that when I say I love you, I mean it. Even if it doesn’t look exactly like someone else’s.”

Emi’s reaction was so sudden and so full-body that Andy almost laughed. She went pale, then pink, then nearly crimson, the color rising all the way to her roots. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, but no sound came out. All six of her hands went rigid, fingers splayed as if she’d just touched a live wire.

Andy didn’t let her flounder. He leaned in, pressed his lips to her palm, and held the kiss until Emi shuddered, a soft moan escaping her.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—her breath caught, his lips on her skin, the silence full and electric.

Then, with a tremble, Emi yanked him forward, and wrapped all six arms around his torso. The hug was wild and ****, every hand searching for purchase. She buried her face in his neck, and when she finally spoke, her voice was muffled and wet:

“I love you, too,” she said. “I really, really do. I never thought I’d get to say it.”

Andy hugged her back, careful and strong, and just breathed her in.

They stayed fused together, Emi’s body vibrating with joy and nerves, until her embarrassment finally won out and she pulled away, blinking back tears and grinning so hard it hurt.

“I should go,” Emi said, and when Andy looked surprised, she laughed—a real, unguarded laugh, bright as sunrise. “If I stay, I’ll never leave, and you’ll be stuck with me forever. And you have things to do.”

Andy wanted to argue, but she pressed a quick, shy kiss to his cheek and scampered for the elevator, hands fluttering with the effort not to look back.

He watched her go, his heart aching in a good way.

He cleaned up the breakfast things, then stood for a long time, staring at the morning sunlight on the empty chair where Emi had been.

He was still smiling, an idiot grin that wouldn’t quit.

After Emi’s laughter faded down the hall, Andy found himself wandering the Suite, not quite ready to face the day. He wound up in the bedroom again, drawn by a silent gravity to the painting on the wall.

Katherine was already waiting for him.

She always was—Andy had the uncanny sense she knew when he was near, even if she couldn’t see or hear him, and always managed to arrange her pose accordingly. Today, she stood in her flowered meadow, bare as the day she’d been immortalized, her arms folded across her chest in an echo of modesty that couldn’t hide her G-cup breasts or the way her eyes locked on him with impish delight. Her long black hair streamed down her back, rippling around her thighs. She shifted, one leg bent slightly forward, the effect more come-hither than bashful.

Andy grinned, feeling seen. “Good morning,” he said, out of habit.

Katherine tilted her head, then raised her hands, pantomiming a yawn and a luxurious stretch. Then, with exquisite precision, she mimed a slow clap, followed by a one-handed golf clap that made him laugh out loud.

“I take it you enjoyed the show last night?” he said, lowering himself to the sectional beneath her frame.

Katherine’s response was instant: she cupped her own breasts, then pressed her fingers to her lips in a kiss, then splayed them wide with a flourish—pure burlesque. Next, she pantomimed a swoon, back of hand to brow, feigning collapse against the side of the frame.

Andy shook his head, half embarrassed. “Was it… was it me thinking about you, or just Emi being Emi?”

Katherine’s eyes crinkled, and she raised both index fingers, twirling them in tight circles. Then she mimed “little bit of both,” first pointing at him, then tracing an invisible heart over her own chest.

The blush that crept up Andy’s neck was almost as vivid as Emi’s. “I’m glad you got to, you know… enjoy it, too. I was thinking about you.” He paused. “A lot.”

Katherine softened, then, dropping the tease. She touched two fingers to her own cheek, then to the glass, her face growing solemn. She mimed a deep exhale, then a slow, trembling hug around her own body, head bowed.

Andy understood. He said, quietly, “Is it still lonely, after all this time?”

She nodded, then spread her arms, indicating the whole room, the world inside and outside the frame. She mimed counting on her fingers—one, two, three, until she got to fourteen—and shrugged, as if to say: what did you expect?

He sat forward, elbows on his knees. “Does it help? Having us here?”

Katherine nodded, emphatic, then mimed a huge, exaggerated smile, then tapped her chest with her fist—once, twice—before spreading her arms again, as if to gather him in.

She gestured at herself, then at him, then at herself again. A circle. A chain.

Andy’s throat tightened. “You know you’re not just a painting to me, right? You matter.”

Katherine smiled, but there was sadness there. She pressed her palm to the glass, fingers splayed, and held it until Andy rose and placed his own palm over hers, feeling the cool smoothness of the frame.

She closed her eyes, leaned in, and let her painted cheek rest against his hand.

When she looked back at him, she mimed blowing a kiss, then pointed to her mouth, then to his, then to her mouth again—insistent, as if demanding he understand.

Andy whispered, “I’m not going to let you go. I mean it.”

Katherine’s smile was slow and private, her gaze lingering on him a moment longer. Then she squared her shoulders and returned to her original pose, all business, but she couldn’t quite hide the warmth in her eyes or the subtle, stubborn tilt of her mouth.

Andy left the room feeling both lighter and heavier. Some days, it was hard to remember that the world was still full of impossibilities, and that sometimes, the best you could do was promise not to let them vanish.

He carried the promise with him as he went to find the rest of the harem.

The Inner Gardens were a world apart, even from the lush fictions of the rest of The HH. Andy paused just inside the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the slow, green-dappled light. For a minute, he pretended he was just a tourist in a botanic conservatory, and not the axis of a web of heartbreak and unfinished business.

The women had assembled themselves in a constellation of small groups. At the center, Emi sat behind a battered wooden easel, six arms moving in perfect asynchronous harmony: one held a brush, another daubed at the palette, a third turned the page of her sketchbook, a fourth clutched a mug of tea, and the last two gestured at Chloe, who was curled up on the bench beside her, giggling as she attempted to match Emi’s frantic pace.

Claire sat nearby, legs folded beneath her, her tail flicking in time with the brushstrokes. Her cat ears stood alert, and though she couldn’t speak, she managed to communicate entire paragraphs through the angle of her chin and the way her eyes darted from Emi’s painting to Chloe’s face and back again. She had, for the occasion, managed to find a cardigan that almost hid her tail, but the effect was almost comical. And adorable.

Andy passed through the axis of their orbit, pausing to let Emi show him her latest piece. It was another painting of the women themselves, all clustered in a garden not unlike this one, but every face bore a different emotion: joy, anger, sadness, hope. Emi had rendered Claire’s blue eyes with impossible delicacy, and Chloe’s hair glowed like a spill of honey.

“What do you think?” Emi asked, lowering all six hands at once, then catching herself and laughing.

“It’s beautiful,” Andy said, and meant it. “You got them all.”

Chloe blushed, her hands fidgeting with the sleeves of her cardigan. “She got me too happy,” she whispered. “I’m never that happy.”

Claire made a show of rolling her eyes, then scribbled a note and held it up: You are now. Let Emi prove it.

Andy grinned, rubbed Chloe’s back and kissed the top of her head, earning a startled but not unpleased squeal, and moved on.

Erin and Emily lounged under the shade of a drooping magnolia, the petals raining down around them in slow motion. Erin sat cross-legged on a yoga mat, her tanned skin and J-cup breasts catching the morning light, every inch of her a masterclass in athletic grace. Emily sat opposite, her long hair artfully draped to cover her breasts and the soft lines of her hips, but it was more a suggestion of modesty than an actual defense. The two of them spoke in low, confidential tones, heads bent close as they shared something between a secret and a joke.

When Andy drew near, Emily looked up first, her blue eyes bright with mischief. “We’re ranking comfort rituals,” she announced. “Did you know Erin does breathing exercises every morning?”

Erin shrugged. “Helps with the dreams,” she said, then arched a brow at Andy. “Do you have any rituals?”

Andy considered, then shook his head. “Not really. I used to fold origami. Now I just… wander.”

Emily perked up. “You should teach me. I’m bad with paper, but I’d love to learn.”

“Deal,” Andy said. “Next time I’ll bring paper cranes.”

Emily beamed. Erin just looked at him, her expression unreadable, then nodded in a way that felt like approval.

He kept walking, aware of a gravity building behind him.

Norah was off to the side, yoga mat spread on the grass, body in a deep stretch. Andy watched as she attempted a sun salutation, only to lose her balance due to her own breasts. She caught herself on one elbow, swore quietly, then looked up and saw Andy watching.

“Don’t say a word,” Norah warned, breathless.

Andy raised his hands in surrender. “Not a word.”

Marissa drifted between groups, never quite settling anywhere. She wore a silk blouse—barely buttoned over her significant cleavage, which her transformation now **** to be visible at all times—and slacks rolled at the ankle. She paused to greet Andy with a brush of fingers at his waist, a gesture so casual it might have been platonic, but lingered just long enough to promise otherwise. He felt her eyes on him as he moved on, and the sensation burned pleasantly between his shoulder blades.

He found a seat on the low stone wall at the garden’s edge, content to observe. The conversations braided and unbraided, sometimes drawing him in, sometimes flowing around him. Time in the Gardens was different; it didn’t matter if you spoke or just watched. You belonged either way.

The peace held until Liesa arrived.

She was late—on purpose, probably. Her hair was pinned up in an elaborate braid, and she wore a loose linen shirt painted with blue stripes, the color making her eyes seem impossibly bright. She moved with careful precision, like a woman rehearsing each step before taking it. The moment she set foot in the circle, Sam intercepted her.

Sam’s voice was low, but even at a distance, Andy could tell the exchange was serious. Liesa tried to step back, but Sam’s hand caught her wrist, gentle but immovable.

“Just talk to me,” Sam said, barely above a whisper.

Liesa shook her head. “Later,” she muttered, eyes darting to see if anyone was watching.

“Now,” Sam pressed. “You owe her the truth.”

Andy looked at Dawn, standing just behind Sam, hands balled at her sides. Her face was drawn tight with suspicion, lips pressed thin.

Liesa’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll fix it. I promise.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “That’s not good enough. You have to tell her.”

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered, then spun on her heel and strode away, fast.

Sam moved to follow, but Andy caught her by the wrist. “Let me,” he said, and there was a finality in his tone that stopped Sam cold.

“It’s her date night,” Andy said, softer. “I’ll handle it.”

Sam eyed him, suspicion and relief warring on her face. “If you don’t, I will,” she said. She hugged him, and whispered, “It’s bad, Andy.”

Andy nodded. “I know. I will end it, Sam.”

Sam let her arm go limp, the tension draining. For the first time all morning, Andy saw a flicker of trust in her eyes.

The sun had climbed higher, burning off the dew, but the hush remained—waiting, maybe, for whatever reckoning the day would bring.

By midday, the equilibrium in the Inner Gardens had shifted. The sun was ruthless now, blanching the treetops and drawing everyone inward, toward the shaded paths and the cool stone benches that ringed the lagoon. The women had drifted into smaller orbits—Chloe reading quietly beneath the willow, Emi dabbing at her watercolors in the partial sun, Claire stretched catlike across a length of balustrade, her notebook open but mostly ignored.

Andy lingered on the far edge of the patio, when Riley passed through.

She tried to move fast, head down, but even at a glance it was clear she hadn’t slept. Her eyes were puffy, her hands jammed in the pockets of her thrifted windbreaker. She cut across the grass, boots trampling a trail, and made for the far side of the lagoon—anywhere but near the others.

Chloe saw her first, then Claire, then Erin, who was sprawled with Emily on a pair of deck chairs. Erin nudged Emily, whispered something, and the two of them exchanged a look. It would’ve been nothing, a microsecond of social static, but Riley caught it in her periphery and stopped, statue-still.

For a moment, nobody moved. The air seemed to pulse, thick with potential and dread.

Erin was the first to speak, her voice low but perfectly audible. “Here we go,” she muttered. “Looking for another fight, Riley?”

Riley’s back stiffened. “Fuck off,” she said, not looking at Erin.

“Just saying,” Erin replied, not bothering to modulate her tone. “You don’t exactly blend in.”

Emily tried to shush her, but Erin shook her head, half-smiling, as if daring Riley to take the bait.

Riley turned, slow. Her face was carefully neutral, but Andy recognized the tremor at the corner of her mouth.

Norah, who’d been doing slow laps around the garden, drifted up beside Andy. She caught the tension and did what nobody expected.

“Can we all just relax?” Norah called, arms raised. “It’s hot, it’s early, and nobody needs to get hurt before lunch.”

Riley stared at her, then at Andy, then at the ground.

Then she said, “I’m not the one starting shit. I just want to be left alone.”

Chloe, who’d been hugging a pillow to her chest, spoke up, voice trembling. “It’s okay to sit with us, if you want.”

Riley ignored her, eyes fixed on Erin. “You got something to say to me, just say it.”

Erin sat up. “You don’t like it here, we get it. But you don’t have to make everyone else miserable just because you are.”

Riley let out a noise—half-laugh, half-cough. “Right. Because the rest of you are so fucking happy.” She looked around at the harem, her gaze settling on Andy last. “What’s it like, being the only man in a house full of women who’d do anything you ask? Does it ever get old?”

Andy put down his phone. “Riley—”

She cut him off, voice rising. “No, really. Tell me. Do you ever wake up and wonder if this is all a dream, or is it just a new level of hell?”

The others watched, some horrified, some fascinated, nobody quite sure whether to intervene.

Andy said, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. Arabella can arrange—”

Riley threw up her hands. “There it is. The exit clause.” She turned in a circle, addressing everyone. “You all hear that? If you don’t conform, you can fuck off. The harem will move on without you, just like it always does.”

Emily’s face darkened. “That’s not fair. Andy never—”

“Andy never what?” Riley snapped. “Never played along? Never got off on the idea of owning us?”

Andy took a step forward, but Riley flinched back. “Don’t,” she said, voice low. “Don’t play the hero now. You had your chance to fix this, years ago.”

Andy froze. “What do you mean?”

Riley’s eyes glittered, the whites almost blue in the sun. “You know exactly what I mean. Chloe does, too.” She shot Chloe a look so sharp, Chloe recoiled physically. “You think Laura’s dead because of fucking mistake, but it’s because you were both cowards. Because neither of you could say what you really wanted, and so she drowned. And now we’re here, on display for the whole fucking world, pretending we can just move on.”

Chloe looked like she’d been slapped. Her breath came short and shallow.

Claire, tail thrashing, scribbled furiously in her notebook, but didn’t hold up a sign.

Marissa materialized at Andy’s side, her voice calm but urgent. “Riley, let’s step inside. We can talk about this.”

Riley laughed, a sound so brittle it might shatter. “Oh, Dr. Holt. The voice of reason. Did Andy fuck you before or after your transformations?”

Marissa’s lips thinned, but she held her ground. “That’s not important right now.”

“Isn’t it?” Riley asked. “Because from where I stand, it’s the only thing that ever mattered. Who gets loved, who gets left behind, who gets turned into a story for someone else to learn from.”

She turned to Andy, finally. “You want to know what hell is? It’s being the only one who remembers what really happened, and knowing it doesn’t matter. They’ll still rewrite you as the villain.”

The silence stretched. Nobody seemed capable of movement.

Riley’s face twisted. “You want a real confession? I’d give anything to go back and tell Laura not to care. Not to waste her time on you. Or Chloe. Or me. And you can spend your fucking time with these…” She gestured angrily at the girls around her, “these fucking sluts you got to have fun with!”

Chloe was crying now, openly, her hands clutching her knees.

Erin looked away, jaw clenched.

Emi had stopped painting; all six hands trembled in her lap.

Andy looked at the other women, but realized that, much like him, they saw now through Riley's insults. The woman was lashing out, in pain. He made a subtle gesture with his hand, asking the others not to interject. He was grateful they noticed. Andy tried again, softer. “Riley. I know I can’t fix what happened. But—”

“I don’t want your pity, Cooper,” Riley spat. “Stay the fuck out of my life.”

She stormed off, boots gouging the soft grass, and disappeared down the lagoon path.

For a long time, nobody spoke.

The only sound was the cicadas, loud and ceaseless in the trees.

Andy stood there, unable to move.

Emily got up, crossed to him, and took his hand. Her palm was cool and dry. She didn’t say anything, just squeezed.

He looked at her, at Chloe, at the others, and realized that whatever came next, they were all in it together now. Not as a fantasy, but as a family—fractured, unfixable, but real.

He squeezed Emily’s hand back.

They watched the garden, waiting for something to change, but nothing did.

The sun just kept rising, indifferent to the drama below.

It was an hour before anyone left their seat. Chloe was the first, heading for the showers. Emi drifted after her, arms wrapped around her torso, still holding her brush. Erin and Emily went inside, talking quietly. Marissa lingered, eventually crossing to Andy.

“You handled that well,” she said, surprising him.

Andy let out a shaky breath. “It didn’t feel like it.”

Marissa smiled, sad but real. “That’s because you’re not used to being the one who can’t fix things.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes all you can do is let people hurt. It’s the only way they get through.”

He nodded. “Thanks.”

She kissed him, just once, hungrily, then went inside, leaving Andy alone on the patio.

He sat there a long time, watching the shadows move, wondering how much of Riley’s pain belonged to him, and how much was just the world being what it was.

He decided it didn’t matter.

He would take the blame, if that’s what it meant to keep everyone else afloat.

Inside, the noise of the house returned—soft, then louder. Life resumed, unbroken but forever altered.

Andy stood up, stretched, and headed inside.

Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would do better.