Hub of the Wheel, Part 3

Andy found Mildred in the corridor outside the Banquet Hall, waiting as if she'd been conjured by the faint scent of coffee and memory. She held an envelope between two fingers, the name "Andy" written in neat, sharp script on the front.

"How are you doing today, Mildred?" Andy asked, surprising himself with the question.

Mildred's posture shifted subtly—a momentary stillness that seemed to extend beyond the corridor, as if some vast machinery had paused. Her smile widened a fraction too far, revealing teeth that appeared simultaneously too numerous and too perfect.

"No one has ever asked," she said, her voice harmonizing with itself. "I am... well." The air around her briefly shimmered with what might have been gratitude or ancient hunger. Her skin shivered, as if something underneath shifted slightly, uncomfortable. It was an eerie sight, and Andy wondered if he had asked the wrong question. Mildred seemed to regain her composure quickly.

"Special delivery, Master Andrew," she continued, blinking with eyelids that moved sideways. "From the Bamboo Garden." She winked, then pivoted on her heel and scampered away before Andy could even blink.

Inside the envelope, he found a card that was heavy, textured; the kind you kept for important announcements or doomed wedding invitations. The note inside was brief:

Lunch. Bamboo garden, noon. Don’t keep me waiting, or I’ll tell everyone you cried at the end of Marley & Me.
—N

Andy let out a low, incredulous laugh. Of course it was Norah.

He’d only walked through the bamboo grove a handful of times, usually as a shortcut or escape route from the main lawn. The path curved sharply, stone slabs cut into the earth at angles so random it felt almost natural. The air inside the grove was cooler, scented with green sap and a trace of loamy damp, and the sunlight overhead broke into moving tiles of gold and shadow as the wind ran its hands through the stalks.

Norah was waiting for him at the curve of the path, exactly where the density of the bamboo was thickest, as if she’d chosen the spot for maximum privacy. She’d spread a woolen blanket over the grass—a traditional picnic blanket, white with red crossing stripes. On the blanket was a low, rectangular tray lined with bowls and plates: fat green olives, ribbons of roasted pepper, cubes of pale cheese stacked like building blocks. Pita cut into small triangles, fanned out like cards. A few dishes were sitting on the blanket itself, primarily what seemed like little chunks of baklava or other Middle Eastern delicacies.

Norah herself looked different from the last time Andy had seen her. Her hair was down, curls looser than usual, and she wore a simple white linen blouse, paired with black denim jeans. No jewelry. No power blazer. Her heels were to the side of the blanket, and she was barefoot. She sat cross-legged, hands on her ankles, her chin slightly lifted as if daring the world to interrupt. Her breasts were bigger than the last time he had seen her. He realized with a somewhat guilty start that he couldn’t really get it out of his mind, how she had looked that last night, before he had duplicated them. But she seemed remarkably at ease.

Andy stepped onto the blanket, feeling the subtle give of the earth beneath him. “Should I be worried?”

Norah shook her head, smirked. “If I wanted you dead, I’d never use olives. Too slow. You’d have to eat the whole bowl first.”

He sat, folding himself beside her, careful to keep his shoes off the edge of the blanket. “You know, this is the first time you’ve asked me to lunch without promising to ruin my life at the end.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Norah said, but her voice was softer than he’d ever heard it. She picked up an olive, bit off half, then pointed the remaining half at him like a tiny grenade. “Try one. They’re good.”

He did. They were briny, with a subtle, smoky aftertaste that lingered even after he reached for water. “They’re amazing,” he admitted.

Norah nodded, satisfied. “I thought so. Mildred has a source, somewhere. She never tells me where.”

They ate in silence for a while, the only noise the breeze and the hollow click of bamboo knocking together high above. The picnic food was better than anything Andy remembered from his childhood—the cheese sharp but not biting, the peppers sweet and charred. It was almost enough to distract him from the fact that Norah had arranged all this with a single note.

After a few minutes, Norah set her bowl aside and leaned back on her elbows. “I wanted to see if I could have lunch with a man and not turn it into a power struggle,” she said. “You’re my test case.”

“Glad to be of service,” Andy said. He let himself mirror her posture, stretching out until his legs touched hers under the blanket. It was an unspoken challenge, but also a peace offering.

Norah didn’t pull away. She rested her head against the rolled edge of the blanket, looking up at the sky. “You’re different lately,” she said. “Not just reactive. Intentional. Like you’re not waiting for things to explode anymore.”

Andy looked at her, then at the sunlight striping her arms and face. “They made me a leader,” he said, and felt how true it was the moment he said it. “I’m just trying not to let them down.”

Norah’s lips curved, just a fraction. “You’re not,” she said. “But you are allowed to lean back sometimes too.” She glanced sideways, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “If you keep carrying everyone, you’ll throw your back out.”

He snorted, then let his eyes close for a moment, listening to the wind in the bamboo. It was like being inside an instrument: every stem a string, every leaf a note. He let the music of it wash over him, relaxing more than he’d thought possible.

He didn’t open his eyes until he felt Norah shift beside him, her weight coming to rest against his shoulder.

“Riley told me,” he said, not sure where the words were coming from, “about what she lost. Husband, baby. I never knew.” He swallowed. “She’s angry, but it’s not at us. Not even at me.”

Norah was silent, then nodded. “No one could endure all that without breaking.” She reached for another olive, rolling it between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. “You did good, yesterday. With Liesa. And with the others. You kept it together, even when no one else could.”

Andy let the compliment sink in, surprised at how much it mattered. “Thank you,” he said. “Means a lot, coming from you.”

Norah laughed, low and unguarded. “You’re allowed to take the win, Andy. It doesn’t mean you’re slacking.”

He turned to look at her, taking in the way her hair curled at her temples. She met his gaze without flinching, her eyes warmer than he’d ever seen them.

“But…” Norah hesitated, “You have to know we cannot rely on you forever. We need tighter bonds.” She glanced away. “Liesa’s admission hurt, yes. But maybe I let it get out of hand. So did Dawn. So did Marissa. I think we’re all tense, Andy, with the challenge coming up tomorrow.” She looked at him, her eyes as black as onyx. “But we need to be better at helping each other. Or this game will eat us alive the next time drama comes knocking. And you know it will, don’t you? Who knows who Arabella found as the next contestant. Probably some axe murderer or something.” She chuckled at her own joke, then grew more serious. “Not to mention the possibility of elimination.”

Andy nodded slowly. “Yeah, I know. Arabella once told me I’m the axis, but… I’m not always around. You’re right. I just hope the next challenge isn’t another competition. Past that… we’ll figure out some team-building project.” He grinned at Norah. “I’m sure you have ideas.”

They sat in the hush, the slow shifting of sun and wind, until Andy finally broke the silence. “How are you handling… everything?” He gestured vaguely at her torso. “The, uh, new equipment?”

Norah made a face, then glanced down. She placed both hands flat on her chest, fingers splayed like she was squaring off a chess board. “It’s a lot,” she said, and there was a half-laugh in her voice. “Sometimes I forget and walk into a doorway and almost concuss myself. Other times, I think about all the people in the world who’d kill for a rack like this, and it makes me want to write an angry letter to the FDA.”

Andy grinned, enjoying her candor. “Sorry about that.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Nah. It’s fine. Your mind is in the gutter, and all that. A positive side effect of all this is that because you don’t find it sexy that I walk like a hunchback, my muscles are strong enough to support… all this.” She looked at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Plus, I like the way you look at me.”

Andy nodded, then smirked. “You ever think about, I don’t know, banding them together for aerodynamic efficiency?”

Norah rolled her eyes, but there was real amusement there. “They don’t make sports bras in my size, Andy. And if they did, I’d have to special order from NASA.” She scooted closer, dropping her voice. “You want to see?”

He choked a little, surprised by how quickly the conversation had shifted. “Is that—are you asking, or warning?”

“Both,” Norah said. Then, before Andy could respond, she smirked and pulled open her blouse; her huge breasts bounced out, sitting proudly on her chest. She cupped them, She tugged at the neckline of her dress, pulling it down just enough to show the top curve of her breasts. The skin was flawless, the color warm. She let the fabric drop, then shot Andy a look. “Impressed?”

He was, and said so. “They’re beautiful,” he said.

Norah’s cheeks darkened, but she didn’t look away. “You can touch, if you want. Just don’t get carried away.”

Andy reached out, tentative at first, then bolder as Norah guided his hand to the soft rise of her left breast. It was heavy, warm, the skin velvet-smooth. He traced the curve, then moved to the next, feeling the way they pressed together, seamless and natural.

Norah watched him, her breath coming just a little faster. “They’re sensitive,” she said. "If you touch one, the other one gets jealous."

Andy tried this, running his hand lightly across two at once, then squeezing gently. Norah closed her eyes, head tilted back, a soft sound escaping her lips. He kept going, exploring the way her body responded, mapping out the pressure points and the spots that made her twitch or gasp.

When he finally stopped, she opened her eyes, breathless. “You’re a quick study,” she said.

He shrugged, modest. “I pay attention.”

They sat together, close, the air heavy with the scent of crushed grass and brine. For a while, neither spoke. Then Norah leaned in, her mouth brushing his ear. “If you ever want a rematch,” she whispered, “I’ll bring a bigger blanket.”

Andy laughed, genuine and easy, and let himself rest his head on her shoulder. They lay on the blanket, tangled and content, the remains of the picnic scattered around them like evidence of a minor crime. Norah had one leg draped over his, and her fingers traced lazy circles on his forearm. Every now and then, she would squeeze his hand, just to remind him she was still there.

Andy closed his eyes, listening to the world: the wind, the distant slap of water from the ornamental pool, the soft pulse of Norah’s breathing next to his own.

For a while, there was nothing else.

After the picnic, he walked back to the resort, and sought the solitude of the Inner Gardens. He was tired: the morning with Riley had drained him. He had never expected to see that moment again.

He never heard Erin approach; she had a habit of appearing like a correction, just at the moment he needed one. She cornered him on the threshold of the main hall, her body angled to block the hallway, eyes narrowed in assessment.

Erin didn't wait for Andy to say anything. She stepped into his path, her feet planted wide, her hand on his chest like a roadblock. "You need a break," she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes telegraphed worry. "Come with me."

Andy tried to protest, but Erin's grip was unyielding—more the tug of a lifeguard than a lover. She pulled him into the library, past the stacks of forbidden history and annotated filth, all the way to the corner reading nook he always forgot existed. The alcove was walled in by floor-to-ceiling shelves, the air fragrant with old paper and lemon oil, and the window seat was deep enough to lose a person in. Someone (probably Mildred, or maybe one of the girls) had left a blanket folded over the cushions, and a battered chess set sat abandoned on the side table.

Erin parked him on the window seat, then slid in beside, tucking her legs up. She was still entirely naked except for a pair of battered Sauconys, her huge breasts crowding the space between them, her nipples hard and flushed with the temperature shift. She didn't seem to notice, or maybe she just didn't care. She folded herself in, arms winding around Andy's torso, her head finding the hollow under his chin.

"You've been running since breakfast," she said, her voice almost a purr. "You need to let someone else carry you for once."

Andy started to laugh, but it caught in his throat. He realized she was right. Even the act of exhaling into the silence of the library felt like a small defiance against the day.

"You're right," he admitted, letting his hands rest on Erin's bare shoulders. He could feel her heart beating—a rapid, insistent thing. "I'm just not used to the pace."

She snorted, and the sound was so perfectly Erin he felt his chest loosen. "I've watched you go through two or three existential crises before lunch," she said. "If you don't chill out, your hair is going to turn white before the next challenge."

He relaxed into her. They sat like that for a long minute, neither moving nor talking, just letting the quiet wrap around them. The world felt far away.

A soft footstep warned him, and Marissa glided into the nook with a proprietary ease that said she knew this was her space, too. She wore a white silk blouse (unbuttoned to the sternum, exposing the pale, impossible swell of her cleavage) and black cigarette pants. She wore white sneakers. Marissa didn't ask; she just slid onto the bench beside Andy, curling her long legs under herself, and pressed her thigh to his.

"Can I join the huddle?" she asked, voice pitched just above a whisper. A shiver ran through both Andy and Erin.

Erin didn't answer, but her grip on Andy's arm loosened just enough to allow Marissa to slot herself in. For a moment, Andy felt like the center of some slow-moving gravity well: two women pressed close, each radiating a different heat.

They sat in companionable silence. Marissa laid her head on Andy's other shoulder, her hair a gold spill against his neck. She exhaled, and the scent of her shampoo (bergamot and something sweet, maybe apricot) mixed with the library's musty vanilla. Her hand crept up to rest on his chest, fingers splaying under the lapel of his shirt.

It was only after Andy felt himself begin to truly relax—his heartbeat slowing, his breath deepening—that he realized Claire was standing just inside the alcove, watching.

She wore a pale pink blouse (crisp and clean, collar buttoned to the throat) and a navy skirt that hit just above the knee. Her tail curled behind her, agitated but controlled, and her hands were clasped in front of her with studied calm. She made no move to approach, but her eyes were fixed on Andy, her cat ears twitching at the edges.

Andy met her gaze, and Claire tilted her head in that birdlike way she had, reading him with a precision that would have been unsettling from anyone else. She held up her notebook, already open to a fresh page.

You feel tired, the note read. May I help?

He smiled, nodded. "Of course, Claire."

She entered the nook, sat cross-legged at Andy's feet, and leaned against his legs. She didn't need to touch him directly—just being near seemed to ground her. Her hands rested on the blanket, fingers twitching in rhythm to some silent metronome.

The four of them formed a kind of human knot: Andy at the center, women folded around him like petals. They stayed that way for a long while, saying nothing. Andy let the stillness work on him, unwinding the tightness in his shoulders, the ache behind his eyes. Each of them brought their own comfort: Erin's warmth and stubbornness, Marissa's quiet strength, Claire's uncanny empathy. He felt himself recalibrate, piece by piece.

Marissa was the first to break the silence. "It's nice," she murmured, "having the whole library to ourselves."

Erin hummed agreement, her lips brushing Andy's collarbone. "It's nice having you to ourselves," she said, voice dropping a note lower.

Andy felt the change before he could put it into words: the temperature of the air, the pulse of the moment, that slow, rising sense of gravity that always seemed to precede the harem’s true confessions. It wasn’t just the literal warmth of bodies pressed close in the library alcove, or the way Erin’s hand drifted lower on his thigh, fingers tapping out a code of intent. It was more elemental than that—a collective, silent consent, a surrender to the reality that however much they all masked behind jokes or routines or the next challenge looming, what they actually needed was each other.

He looked for confirmation: Marissa’s posture had shifted, her shoulders squared but her back arched toward him, as if she was ready to lay down the mask and let vulnerability in. Claire’s eyes, always wide, watched him now with a feline focus so intense it bordered on supernatural. Even Erin, who rarely waited for anyone’s cue, froze for a moment, caught in the hush, her lips parted and eyes darting between the others.

Andy recognized it then, the thing he’d always fumbled to describe in every past relationship but never quite found the language for: a kind of pack instinct, not just about sex but the way a group fit together, the relief in shared presence, the unspoken promise that no one would be left outside of the circle. He could have written it off as just the hormonal side effect of cohabitation or the particular magic of Harem Hotel, but it felt older and truer than that, like it came from a place that predated even the rules of the game.

He leaned back and let his arms fall open, a wordless invitation. Erin grinned like a wolf. She was the first to break the tableau, swinging her leg over his lap and settling in with the measured confidence of someone who knew exactly where she belonged. Her breasts brushed his chest, obscenely soft and alive against his skin, and she kissed him. Not a careless or greedy kiss, but something slower, almost reverent, as if she was tasting not just him but the possibility of safety that came from being held.

His hands found the small of her back, and she pressed closer. Marissa, on his right, didn’t wait for a signal either—she reached under his shirt, her fingers cool and precise on the hot skin of his ribs, nails trailing lines that made him shudder. She found the hollow of his jaw and marked it with her own mouth, then nipped at his ear, her breath a command and a comfort at once. “Let go,” she coaxed, barely louder than the rustle of pages on the shelves behind them. “We’ll take care of you.”

Claire sat at his knees, cross-legged on the blanket, but as the others converged she seemed to grow restless, glancing from face to face with an urgency that bordered on frantic. Andy reached down and touched her shoulder—a reassurance, a Yes—and she melted, her whole posture slackening as if she’d been waiting for that permission.

He realized then that what was about to happen was not just a group cuddle, or even sex for the sake of it. It was ritual: a resetting of their small, fragile universe. The day had taken so much from each of them—pain, secrets, guilt—and the only way to claim it back was through this act, this deliberate building of something new from the pieces.

Erin shifted, straddling Andy fully now, her thighs tight around his hips. Her nipples peaked, flushed and begging for attention, but she kept her face close to his, lips brushing cheek and chin and ear as if to memorize the stubble, the heat, the taste of his skin. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling gently, anchoring herself to him. When she spoke, it was less a whisper than a vibration against his neck: “You don’t have to do anything but be here.”

Marissa, never one to cede center stage, pressed herself along Andy’s right side, using her knees to crowd up against him until their bodies fit together like tessellated shapes. Her hand slipped lower along his torso, unbuttoning as she went, but she was slow with it, savoring the exposure. She traced every inch: the scar beneath his ribcage, the knob of bone at his shoulder, the line of hair that led down from his navel. Her left hand found Erin’s back and stroked it with lazy circles, a silent acknowledgment that they were all participating in the same give and take.

Claire, for her part, didn’t ask permission again. She climbed into Andy’s lap from below, her head resting first on his thigh, then working upward until her cheek pressed against his stomach. She seemed to be mapping him in her own way—cataloging the shape of his muscles, the shifting of his breath, the pulse that beat beneath his skin. Her hands kneaded his legs, her tail wrapping around his calf in a gesture so instinctive that Andy felt it as a physical reassurance.

They stayed like that for a long moment, the four of them forming a small, complete world. Andy let his mind drift, letting the outside fade away. The only things that mattered were the warmth, the contact, the awareness of each other’s breath and heartbeat.

It was Marissa who finally tipped them into motion, her composure breaking just enough to let need slip through. She leaned in, capturing Erin’s mouth with her own, and the kiss was greedy, tangled, full of all the words neither of them would say out loud. Erin responded with a low moan, pressing herself back into Andy, grinding her hips against him in a way that left nothing to the imagination.

Andy’s hands found the space between them, stroking first Erin’s waist, then Marissa’s breast over her silk blouse. The fabric was cool, but her skin beneath was fire. He felt each of them react to the touch: Erin shivered; Marissa’s breath hitched; Claire, sensing the shift, burrowed in closer and began to kiss the inside of his knee, then higher, inch by inch.

Every time Andy touched Erin, she seemed to come alive, her body hyperreactive, her skin amplifying every sensation. He remembered, with a jolt of affection, that her current transformation made her “erotically synergetic”—any pleasure she received from Andy, she felt twofold. He took advantage, running his thumbs along her spine, then cupping her ass to pull her tight against him. Erin gasped, her hands digging into his shoulders, and for a second he thought she might actually sob with relief.

Marissa, never satisfied to be a bystander, reached between Erin and Andy and undid his pants with a deftness that suggested practice, then pulled Erin back just enough to give herself access. She freed him, then stroked him with deliberate slowness, her thumb teasing the head with the gentleness of a scientist testing a new hypothesis. Andy groaned—there was no **** on earth like the combined mischief of Marissa and Erin—and Marissa grinned, triumphant.

Claire, emboldened by the sounds above, traced her way up Andy’s thigh and reached, with surprising precision, for his hand. She guided it to her cheek, then to her hair, then to her lips, where she kissed each finger in turn. Andy felt the pulse through her, a tidal wave of approval and gratitude and something like awe. She was absolutely in command of her own needs, and absolutely unashamed in wanting to share them.

The heat in the alcove was now palpable. Erin, **** for friction, rocked against Andy, her core slick and needy, grinding until she was panting. Each time he looked down at her—really looked—her whole body trembled, and it didn’t take him long to realize that for Erin, the simple act of being seen was enough to push her over the edge. He held her gaze, locked in, and watched as she came for him, shuddering and silent but all the more intense for it.

Marissa’s hand tightened on him, and she shifted positions, lowering herself to kneel beside the window seat, her golden hair falling over her face. She took him into her mouth, slow at first, her tongue swirling around the tip with a delicacy that bordered on ceremonial. The sensation was electric, and Andy cursed softly, his hand finding the back of her head, not to control but to anchor himself to the moment. Marissa responded with enthusiasm, her lips forming a seal, her tongue working in perfect time with Erin’s movements above.

Blowjob! (Marissa) +4 VP
Foursome! (Erin) (Instigator) +5 VP
First! x2
Foursome! (Marissa, Claire) (Participant) +3 VP
First! x2

Claire watched, eyes wide and dark, her own arousal evident in the flush of her cheeks, the way her tail quivered. She reached up and traced the line of Andy’s abdomen, her nails light and teasing. When she finally slid onto the bench beside him, her back pressed to the shelves, she guided his hand to her thigh, then higher, until his fingers found the warmth between her legs. She didn’t speak a word, but the flood of sensation through their shared bond was overwhelming: a cocktail of hope, longing, and the **** need to belong. Andy stroked her, soft at first, then firmer, and Claire’s whole body seemed to vibrate with pleasure.

They moved as a unit, cycling through permutations: Erin straddling Andy, her hips moving in a lazy, hungry rhythm; Marissa kneeling, her mouth and hands alternating between Andy and the other women, always seeking to give and receive in equal measure; Claire, quiet but never passive, threading herself in wherever there was space.

When Andy finally came, it was with Erin straddling him, Marissa's hands on his shoulders, Claire's arms around his waist. The sensation was less explosion than release—an outpouring that left him empty and then immediately full again, as if the women had poured themselves back into him.

Afterward, they lay tangled on the window seat, the blanket twisted beneath them, sweat cooling in the hush of the library. Erin was sprawled across his chest, eyes half-lidded, her breath slowing to a lazy rhythm. Marissa curled against his side, her hand tracing slow, idle patterns on his stomach. Claire perched at his feet, her notebook in her lap, scribbling something with a contented smile.

For the first time in days, Andy felt good. Not just okay, but truly, deeply at peace.

He looked around at the women, at their soft, satisfied smiles, at the way they fit together without friction or ****. He realized this was what he'd been missing: not just the sex, but the connection, the sense of family he'd been afraid to want.

He let the moment last, let it stretch out as long as it could. He wanted to remember this, for when things got bad again. He wanted to be able to come back to it, even if only in memory.

Marissa spoke first, her voice a low purr. "You should rest more often," she said. "You make us all crazy when you don't."

Erin grinned, running her tongue over her teeth. "I make you crazy anyway."

Claire flashed a thumbs-up, then scribbled a note and handed it to Andy.

You are loved, it said. Please don't forget.

He smiled, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket.

For a while, they stayed like that—tangled, silent, basking in the simple miracle of being together.

When Andy finally stood, the women gathered their clothes and their composure, each moving with a soft, post-coital languor. Erin took his hand and placed it on one breast, smirking and then gasping when he squeezed. Marissa stole a kiss, slow and lingering. Claire took his hand, just for a moment, then let go, her face flushed but happy.

They left the nook as a group, their arms brushing as they navigated the shelves. The library felt different now—less a sanctuary, more a home.

Andy stepped into the corridor, exhaling. He felt centered, more than he had all week. The burdens he'd been carrying were lighter, less sharp-edged.

He looked back at the three women, walking ahead of him, and felt something stir in his chest.

The sun was sinking low when Andy made his way to the southern cliffs. He followed the scent of hibiscus and sea spray, the hush of the wind as it ran parallel to the tide. The path turned to soft sand, then opened up onto the overlook: a circle of weathered wood decking, two hammocks swaying side by side, and a vista of nothing but blue, blue water all the way to the horizon.

He stopped to take it in. The sky had gone pink at the edges, the sun a gold coin dissolving into the ocean. The world felt silent, the only sound the persistent, distant hiss of waves against rock.

Emi was already there, her body curled in one hammock, six arms folded around a sketchbook, her sneakers kicking gently with the sway. She wore a white sundress that was cinched at the waist with a ribbon. When she spotted Andy, her whole face lit up.

“Andy!” Emi called, waving with two hands while the others clutched her drawing. “Come sit?”

He couldn’t say no. He crossed the deck, and as soon as he got close enough, Emi reached out and pulled him down, folding him into her lap as if he were made of pillows. She wrapped all six arms around his torso, hugging tight, then relaxed, letting him lean back against her with his head on her breasts.

“Comfy?” she asked, resting her cheek against his hair.

Andy nodded. The sensation of her arms—some around his waist, some draped over his chest, one threading fingers through his—was overwhelming in the best possible way. He felt himself start to unwind, a tiredness creeping up that was gentle, not crushing.

“I like when you’re here,” Emi said, voice muffled but happy. “It’s quiet. Like nothing bad could happen.”

Dawn appeared a moment later, emerging from the shadows with a smile and a plate of pineapple and banana slices balanced on her forearm. She wore a pale sundress, thin enough to show the outline of her curves beneath, her bunny ears black velvet against the setting sun. She kicked off her sandals and climbed into the second hammock, laying on her side so she faced Andy and Emi.

“Long day?” Dawn asked, her tone a whisper, almost reverent.

Andy didn’t have the energy to answer, so he just nodded.

Dawn reached out, took his hand, and squeezed. Her touch was soft but confident, grounding him. She let her thumb trace idle circles across his knuckles.

“You always take care of us before the challenge,” Dawn said, her smile tender. “Let us take care of you tonight.”

Andy let himself sink into the hammocks’ gentle sway. He listened to the sea, the creak of wood, the soft rustle of Emi’s dress as she shifted behind him. He felt Dawn’s hand in his, and Emi’s arms around him, and for the first time in what felt like years, he let himself just exist. No plans. No speeches. No burden to carry.

Emi nuzzled the side of his face with her nose. “You can close your eyes, if you want. I’ll hold you up.”

He did. He let the world blur, the colors of sunset smearing together behind his eyelids. He felt Emi’s hands stroke his hair, his chest, his arms, each touch feather-light and unhurried. She started to hum—a soft, aimless melody that rose and fell with the rise and fall of her breathing.

Dawn stayed close, cradling Andy’s hand in both of hers. Her thumb never stopped moving, and every so often she would lean in to press her lips to his knuckles, or brush her cheek against his palm. She was so gentle, so present, that it hurt a little.

They rocked together in the fading light, three bodies connected by nothing but affection and the need to keep each other whole.

It didn’t take long before Andy felt Dawn’s other hand tracing the line of his jaw, her fingers slow and careful. She brought his face to hers, kissed him, and the taste of her was bright and sweet—like the fruit she’d brought, but more alive. The kiss was slow, exploratory, and when they parted she held his face between her hands, as if he might slip away if she let go.

Emi giggled, and in one synchronized motion, all her arms squeezed Andy at once, compressing him in a cocoon of warmth. Then, with the confidence of someone who knew she belonged, Emi planted kisses up the side of his neck and across his jaw, her lips as soft as moth wings.

“Can I…?” Emi asked, her voice small but hopeful. She didn’t finish the question, but Andy knew what she meant.

He answered by turning toward her, letting her lips find his. The kiss was a little messy, a little uncoordinated, but real. Emi’s hands fanned out behind his head, cradling him; her chest pressed into his back, and he could feel her heart beating, rapid and fluttery.

Dawn smiled, propped her chin on the hammock’s edge, and watched them for a moment before snuggling closer, so that their legs overlapped. She drew slow circles on Andy’s calf with her toes, her body as relaxed as he’d ever seen it.

For a long time, nothing happened but touch and breath. Emi ran her fingers through Andy’s hair, alternating between soft tugs and soothing sweeps; Dawn massaged his hand, sometimes lacing their fingers, sometimes just holding on. The sunset faded to a violet dusk, and the world went cold, but Andy didn’t feel it. The women radiated enough warmth to keep the chill at bay.

After a while, Emi rested her head on Andy’s shoulder and yawned, the motion contagious. “Sorry,” she said, smiling sheepish. “I always get sleepy before the challenges. Like my brain wants to save up energy.”

“That’s smart,” Andy said. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”

Dawn squeezed his hand, then whispered, “I like this. Just being. Can we stay a little longer?”

Andy nodded. “We can stay as long as you want.”

They lay there in the darkness, Emi’s arms slowly unwinding as she drifted toward sleep, Dawn humming a lullaby under her breath. Andy’s own mind quieted, thoughts slowing until they were nothing but background noise. He felt safe, in a way he couldn’t remember ever feeling. He belonged.

As twilight deepened around them, Andy realized something: the more he gave to these women, the more they gave back—not out of obligation or need, but out of a kind of stubborn, wild love. They cared for him, not just as a master or a leader, but as a person. As family.

He closed his eyes, listened to the waves, and let himself rest. Emi’s breathing grew shallow, her head heavy against his; Dawn’s grip softened, but never let go.

Emily took her time returning to Room 69. The hallways were empty, washed in a blue darkness that made the stone floors feel like deep water under her bare feet. She could hear laughter from somewhere in the gardens, the distant whir of the kitchen, but her wing of the resort was silent.

Inside, the room glowed softly with candlelight. The air was sweet with the scent of plumeria and fresh linen. She padded to her desk, and opened the sketchbook she’d left there in the morning.

The drawing was nearly done: the shape of Andy’s hands, the strong lines of his knuckles, the careful geometry of his wrist. She’d put hours into this one, each stroke deliberate, each shadow a small act of faith. She’d never shown it to anyone; she wasn’t sure she ever would.

Emily sat, took a sharp pencil from the mug, and held it above the page for a long moment. Her heart thumped, as loud as it had the first time she’d met him, and the memory brought a smile to her lips.

She remembered Marissa’s words: “He wants to be needed.” She remembered Chloe, and Norah, and the rest of the strange, fierce family gathering around the table. She thought about the way Andy had looked at her, as if he already knew every unfinished line inside her.

She lowered the pencil, and with a single, unbroken movement, drew a hand holding another—hers and his, palms pressed together, fingers laced. She added a line for the slight curve of his thumb, the gentle way it covered hers. The gesture was simple, but everything she felt was in it: safety, hope, the promise of belonging.

When she finished, Emily sat back and let herself stare at the drawing. It wasn’t perfect—her hands were always too small, her lines too hesitant—but she loved it anyway. It was honest. It was hers.

She closed the sketchbook, the motion gentle, as if tucking the image in for sleep.

Then she stood, brushed the hair from her shoulders, and looked at herself in the mirror. She was nervous, but not afraid. The old Emily would have run; the new Emily was ready to walk forward, even if her legs shook a little.

She checked her hair, smoothed it behind her ears, and took a deep breath.

Then she opened the door and walked toward the Suite and whatever waited for her there.

She left the drawing on the desk, open to that last, quiet page. Just in case he wanted to see it, someday.