Threads in Motion, Part 1

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 88 VP - 2800 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 75 VP - 6050 BP - 2 Achievs
Claire - 69 VP - 9100 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 62 VP - 5700 BP - 1 Achiev
Norah - 60 VP - 5050 BP - 2 Achievs
Liesa - 56 VP - 4400 BP - 2 Achievs
Dawn - 54 VP - 6500 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 46 VP - 3750 - 1 Achiev
Emily - 34 VP - 6300 BP - 1 Achiev (used)
Riley - 17 VP - 5800 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 14 VP - 4475 BP - 1 Achiev
Myra - 13 VP - 5000 BP

Andy woke to the warm press of a fox tail on his thigh and the barest hush of a woman’s breath beside him. For a few seconds he had no idea where he was. Then the morning’s hazy light caught the curve of the glass window, the blue sheets, and the brown tumble of Myra’s hair, and it all came rushing back: the story, the confession, the terrible clarity of the night before. His eyes itched, gritty from the salt of old tears he barely remembered shedding.

He lay flat, arms above his head, and listened to the silent Suite. Beside him, Myra was a series of small details: a hand curled near her chin, the faintest line of drool at the corner of her mouth, the tail tucked so tightly around her knees it looked like it was holding her in place. She was asleep, or close to it, and for a moment Andy let himself just watch the way her shoulders rose and fell. She looked younger in sleep, the harsh lines around her eyes smoothing out, the perpetual edge of alertness gone.

He wondered if, when she woke, she would remember the truth as clearly as he did. He wondered what it would feel like to carry that burden now that it was finally shared.

He turned his head on the pillow, careful not to disturb her. The ocean outside was gray and still, the sun just a thin smudge over the clouds. He flexed his toes, then blinked at the ceiling, the weight of sixteen years settling across his ribs.

Myra made a small noise in her throat, then shifted. Her hand drifted across the mattress, fingers searching until they found his. She squeezed, once, then let go, as if confirming he was still there.

Andy swallowed, the memory of the night before playing out in brutal, unedited detail. He didn’t know if there were words left to say. But he knew he couldn’t pretend it hadn’t happened.

He said, “You awake?”

There was a pause, then a soft, “Yeah.” Her voice was rough, half-mashed by the pillow and the weight of sleep.

He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, he said, “Did you sleep at all?”

She startled, her face turning in his general direction, ears swiveling on her head. A micro-shrug. “Some.” Then, after a pause: “Less than you, I think.”

He rolled onto his side, propping himself on an elbow. “How do you feel?”

Myra took a long time to answer. “Like I drank a bottle of wine and told my worst secret to the only person I ever wanted to impress.” She sounded as if she wanted to laugh at herself, but it caught in her throat. “Also, my head hurts.”

Andy almost smiled. He reached for the bedside table, found a glass of water, and set it in her hand. She took it, sipped, then set it back. Her fingers lingered on his for a second longer than necessary.

They lay that way, not quite touching, the blue sheets between them. Outside, the sound of the ocean drifted through the crack in the window.

Finally, Myra said, “Do you regret telling me?”

He thought about it, the urge to self-protect still twitching in his gut. But he shook his head. “No. I think… I think you needed to know. You needed to understand. I’m sorry if that sounds arrogant.”

She nodded, slow and careful. “It doesn’t, and I did,” she said, and he could tell she meant it.

He watched her face, the way her jaw worked, the tension in her brow. She was still the same Myra, but there was something different now—a kind of rawness, maybe, or just the exhaustion of a person who’d finally reached the end of their own story. Andy had to admit he was awed by her resilience. Had he been in her shoes, he would have probably curled up in the fetal position and not moved ever again.

She asked, “Do you think it’ll ever stop hurting?”

He hesitated. “No,” he said, “but maybe it’ll stop being the only thing.”

She considered that, then let out a long breath. “That would be nice.”

He closed his eyes, letting the quiet stretch. It wasn’t the brittle, loaded silence of before; it felt lighter, almost like a relief.

After a while, Myra spoke again. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded, then realized. “Of course.”

She ran her hand over the fox tail, the fur bright in the early sun. “I know it’s weird to ask, and I know you don’t owe me anything, but… what was she like? Laura, I mean. I remember her in school, but didn’t really see her much outside of it. She was always with you or with Riley. What was she like, when nobody else was around?”

Andy blinked, surprised by the question. For a second, he didn’t know how to answer. He’d spent so long avoiding the memory, so many years compressing it down to the day of the river, the bridge, the blame, that he’d almost forgotten there was a person behind it.

He said, “She was funny. Not like, stand-up funny, but she had this way of making every dumb thing I said sound like the best joke in the world. She’d get these ideas—like, wake up at three a.m. to bake cookies, or build a time capsule in the backyard, or drag me onto the roof to watch meteor showers. She used to play pranks on anyone she cared about. My mother used to joke that pranks were Laura’s love language. She made everything an adventure, even if it was just walking to the store.” He smiled, the memory landing softer than he’d expected. “She was brave, too. She’d stand up to anyone, even if it meant getting in trouble.”

He looked away, unsure if he should keep going. But Myra’s hand found his again, and she squeezed, silent encouragement.

“She used to leave me notes,” he said. “Little messages, everywhere. In my backpack, my locker, sometimes in the leaves of the books she thought I should read. Always in code, or with a riddle I had to solve. It drove me nuts, but I loved it. I still have one in my desk drawer back home. I never figured out what the last one meant.” He blinked at the memory, a sharp, bittersweet pang. “I guess I never will.”

He looked at Myra, but she didn’t react—just nodded, once, like a doctor taking a history.

“She was stubborn,” Andy added. “Even when she was wrong. And she was jealous. Her life had been hard, and she felt she had to fight for what she loved. But she was loyal. You couldn’t shake her, not for anything.”

They sat in the quiet, the air between them charged with all the things that couldn't be said.

Myra traced a finger along the seam of the bedsheet, then said, "Thank you. For telling me."

He shrugged. "You asked."

She gave a small, real smile. "I think I wanted to know who I took away from the world." Her blind eyes searched for his face. "I can hear it, you know. How much you loved her. It's in your voice when you say her name."

Andy's throat tightened. He looked away, toward the window, where morning light spilled across the ocean. It was like having a secret room in his heart suddenly exposed.

"I did," he said finally, the words barely audible. "I still do."

She nodded, accepting it. “Did you tell her?”

He shook his head, then remembered she couldn’t see it. “No. Not before she died.” His voice was still bitter, and the words hung, naked and brutal. "But you didn't take her. None of us did. It was just… the world, I guess."

She didn't answer, but he saw the way her lips pressed together, the way her hand trembled. For the first time, he realized how heavy her own guilt must have been, how she'd carried it alone for all these years, without even knowing for what.

He let the silence do its work. A hush filled the space between them. Andy wasn’t sure whether she was working up to another question, or just sorting through the answer she’d been given. After a long minute, Myra flexed her hands on her knees and said, “What do you want from me?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She leaned forward, jaw set, as if bracing for impact. “I mean, now that I know what I did. What do you want me to do with that? How am I supposed to be here, knowing… all this?”

Andy closed his eyes. The anger from last night had dissolved, replaced with a dull, persistent ache—one he couldn’t tell if it was more for himself or for her. He turned the question over in his head, searching for something honest.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he said, finally. “Not ****, not an apology. You were a kid. I was a kid. We all fucked up in some way or another.” He turned to look at her, watched the way the muscles in her jaw tightened. “If you want to be here, be here. If you don’t, I get it.”

She rolled onto her back, the fox tail draping over her legs like a living blanket. “You’re a terrible comforter, you know.”

He grinned. “I told you that.”

But she squeezed his hand again, a little tighter this time, and didn’t let go.

“Myra,” he said, the name foreign but familiar on his tongue, “what made you want to be a doctor?”

She exhaled, the breath slow and shaky. “It was after Laura died. I didn’t want to be that person anymore—the one who hurt people. I thought if I could fix enough, help enough, maybe I could start over.”

Andy let the words settle. “You did. You started over. You’re here.”

She nodded, but he could tell she didn’t quite believe it.

He added, “You know, Laura wanted to be a doctor too. Maybe you picked up where she left off.”

The words hit harder than he’d meant them to. Myra’s eyes went wide, and she rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. For a moment, Andy thought she might be crying. He waited, not sure whether to reach for her or let her have the space.

When she surfaced again, her cheeks were wet. “That’s not fair,” she said, voice thick. “That’s not fair at all.”

He didn’t know what to say, so he just held her hand, thumb tracing slow circles along her knuckles.

They lay like that for a long time, the light outside growing brighter by inches, the world inching forward whether they were ready or not.

Finally, Myra let out a shaky breath. “Do you think it’s possible? To start over again?”

He thought about the last sixteen years, about the time lost, the people left behind, the stories unfinished. He looked at her, at the way her hair spilled across the sheets, at the fox ears twitching in her sleep-mussed hair, at the tail curled tight against her legs.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think it’s all anyone gets.”

She smiled, a small, broken thing, but it was a start. “Do you ever dream about her?”

Andy hesitated, caught between the instinct to protect himself and the pressure to answer honestly. “Always,” he said. “Mostly it’s just… the river. That day. But not always.”

“What’s the worst one?” Her voice was flat, almost clinical.

He thought about it. “The one where I wake up and she’s still alive. I go through the whole day like nothing ever happened. And then I remember.” He flexed his fingers on the bedspread. “The remembering is the worst part.”

Myra nodded, absorbing the data. She flexed her own hands, picking at the seam of the dress, feeling for threads. “For me, it’s the opposite. I never remember what I lost. Just that I lost something.” She worked the thread free, then pinched it between thumb and forefinger, worrying it back and forth like a diagnostic tool. “I think that’s why I always kept moving. I didn’t want to be the one left behind, again.”

Andy wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t form. Instead, he listened to the way her tail flicked in time with her fidgeting, like some part of her still responded to the world even if her eyes no longer could.

Myra’s head tilted, listening for something he couldn’t hear. “Is it light out yet?”

He checked. “Barely.”

A humorless smile. “Can you describe it?”

He opened his mouth, then stopped, remembering what she’d said about missing the color blue. He stood, walked up to the blackout curtains and opened them. “The sky is gray at the edges, but in the middle it’s a little pink. There’s a cloud that looks like… I don’t know. A fox, maybe. Curled up.”

She laughed, the sound small but real. “Very funny.”

He grinned. “It’s true.”

She rolled her eyes. “I suppose I deserve it.” Then, softer: “Thank you.”

By seven, Andy’s body remembered its own routines. The sunlight through the glass had grown sharper, less forgiving; the world outside the Suite was waking up. Myra had fallen asleep again, curled in the sheets, her tail a crescent of warm fur behind her knees. Andy tried not to disturb her as he rolled quietly from the bed and stretched, feeling the tightness in his shoulders, the old aches creeping back in.

He padded to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water, and stood for a while, watching his own reflection in the huge, slightly fogged mirror. He looked older than he remembered—sleep-creased, eyes bloodshot, the beginnings of a beard shading his jaw. He stuck out his tongue at himself, then wiped his face and debated whether to shower now or after breakfast.

When he returned to the bedroom, Myra was sitting up. The sheet had slipped to her waist, the thin straps of her crumpled dress twisted around her arms. She yawned, then rubbed at her face, her fingers missing her eyes by a good half-inch. “You make noise like an elephant,” she grumbled.

He grinned. “Sorry. I can try for stealth mode, but it’s not really my thing.”

She laughed, the sound still hoarse. “I’ll live. Are you going to shower?”

“Yeah. Want me to leave the door open so you can find things?”

She hesitated. For a moment, the mask slid back on—guarded, wary, unsure. Then she said, “Actually, could I… would it be weird if I just sat in there? I hate the quiet now.” Her lips twisted, self-mocking. “It’s like I vanish when nobody’s talking.”

Andy blinked, surprised, but covered it quickly. “Not weird,” he said. “I’ll even narrate the shampoo options for you.”

She snorted, but there was relief in the sound. “Thanks.”

He led her to the bathroom, guiding her with a hand on the small of her back. She found the edge of the tub and perched there, knees drawn up, tail draped around her ankles. The bathroom was large and mostly marble—typical Arabella, expensive but sterile—and the sunlight through the frosted windows painted everything in hazy gold.

Andy stepped into the shower stall, turned on the water, and let the heat build up before stripping off his shorts. He was halfway through lathering his hair when he heard Myra’s voice, tentative but real:

“Do you do this every morning?” she asked.

“Not always. Sometimes I just swim. But I thought, you know, first impression and all.”

She snorted. “Please. I’ve seen worse.”

“Yeah?” he called from behind the glass as he reached for the soap. “You worked in hospitals, right? You probably saw everything.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she said, warming to the topic as she stood. “The worst are the old men. They think you’re blind, deaf, and dumb. I once had a patient who—” She caught herself, then laughed softly. “Wait. You’re naked in there, aren’t you?”

He grinned at the frosted panel, suddenly self-conscious. “Very naked. Want me to describe it for you?”

She laughed, a genuine, light sound. “Pass. I’m blind, not ****.”

Inside, as the water hammered his shoulders, Myra closed her eyes and found herself imagining each rivulet tracing the planes of his body—how the spray might curve around his collarbone, bead along his ribs, gather at the small of his back. A flutter of warmth rose in her—not just the steam—and she brushed a hand over her fox-fur tail in self-conscious denial.

Through the glass, Andy watched her silhouette and gasped inwardly at a faint, emerald glow dancing across her pale arms and throat. Fuzzy, flickering, almost like firelight. He recognized it at once: the foxfire lust transformation in bloom, painting her blind skin with desire she couldn’t see or feel. He said nothing, unwilling to embarrass her.

He stepped fully under the spray, letting the scalding water blur the edges of his thoughts. When he finally turned off the tap, he called, “Do you want a towel?”

Myra laughed. “I can find one. I’m blind, not helpless.”

He slipped one through the gap anyway. She caught it with a mock glare and pressed it to her face, fumbling before she found a corner. She inhaled. “It smells like you,” she admitted, then winced. “Sorry. That sounded weird.”

He shrugged, toweling off without a care. “Not weird. Everything smells stronger in here.”

Her fingers clutched the towel to her chest. “Yeah. You have a good smell, by the way.” She flushed. “That was weirder.”

He just smiled. “I’ll take the compliment.”

He glimpsed his own reflection in the steamed-over mirror and wiped a hazy circle clear. His face looked foreign beneath the droplets. He checked the stubble on his jaw, then turned to her. Myra sat with the towel draped over her knees, her fox tail curling neatly around her ankles, the green shimmer still faintly flicking at her edges.

“Are you done?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Want to use the shower yourself?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I just… didn’t want to be alone. Is that pathetic?”

He remembered something Marissa once told him about need versus weakness. “No. It’s not.”

They settled into a comfortable silence—no awkwardness, just the soft drip of cooling pipes and the distant hum of the city. Andy pulled on boxers and a t-shirt, then leaned against the marble counter, arms folded. He watched her tail, still glowing in ghostly green patches he vowed not to mention.

After a moment, Myra traced the lip of the tub with her toes and asked, “Did you ever do this with Laura? Sit in the bathroom and just… talk?”

He considered. “Not exactly. We were kids. But she used to make me sit on the floor when she cut my hair. Said I squirmed too much in a chair.”

Myra’s lips curved. “Did you?”

“Oh, definitely. She was terrible at it.”

They listened to the slow drip from the showerhead. Myra seemed lighter, as though sharing the room with someone else had pulled her back from some edge she hadn’t known she was teetering on.

“I think I could get used to this,” she murmured. “Not the blindness, but… the company. It’s easier to be lost if someone’s with you.”

He nodded, though she couldn’t see it.

After a while she stood, stretching so that her fox tail flared behind her like a plume of mist. He glanced again at the green flicker playing on her skin, committed it to memory, and fell into step behind her.

“You coming?” she asked, fingers brushing the door.

“Yeah,” he said, and followed her into the main room.

Breakfast was a study in improvisation. The Suite’s kitchen was stocked with everything, and Myra had to navigate the world by memory and smell. But they found a rhythm: he narrated the contents of the fridge while she suggested what to make, then she listened for the click of the stove and the sound of eggs breaking to keep track of what was happening.

She perched at the island, tail wrapped around one leg, hands flat on the counter. “You cook a lot?” she asked, head tilted to the sound of him moving.

“Not really,” Andy admitted. “But I like it when I have the time.” He whisked eggs in a bowl, then poured them into a pan. The sizzle filled the kitchen, and Myra seemed to relax, shoulders dropping a notch.

She said, “I used to live off vending machines. At the hospital, I mean. There’s this trick, where if you punch in the code for coffee and then cancel it, the machine gives you an extra shot of syrup.” She smiled, half-proud. “It’s the only thing that made night shifts bearable.”

Andy plated the scrambled eggs and set the plate in front of her. She sniffed, then picked up a fork and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “You didn’t oversalt it,” she said, as if surprised.

He grinned. “Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment,” she said, deadpan. “Hospital food taught me to lower my standards.”

They ate in silence, but it was a companionable kind. Myra ate slowly, savoring each bite, and Andy realized that for all her competence, she was still relearning the world every second.

He cleared the dishes, rinsed them, then leaned against the sink. Myra stayed at the island, fingers drumming quietly on the stone.

He asked, “What do you want to do today?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Anything. Nothing. I just… don’t want to be left behind.” She said it lightly, but he heard the old ache underneath.

He nodded. “You won’t be.”

She smiled, and he saw the effort it took to believe him.

A minute passed, then Myra said, “Can I ask a weird favor?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure.”

She blushed, color rising high in her cheeks. “Can I… touch your face? I know that sounds creepy, but I realized I have no idea what you look like now.”

He froze, then shrugged. “Okay.”

She stood and walked to him, guided by the sound of his breath. She reached out, hands hovering until they found his jaw. Her fingers were light at first, tracing the line from chin to ear, then following the shape of his cheekbones, his brow, his mouth. She worked slowly, mapping the territory of his features with the care of a cartographer drawing the first accurate map.

“You have a scar,” she said, voice soft.

“Soccer, in high school,” he said. “I took a cleat to the face.”

She grinned, still tracing. “It suits you.”

He laughed, feeling the warmth of her hands more acutely than he’d expected. She moved to his hair, felt the length, then the texture. “It’s shorter than I remember,” she said, as if she’d ever remembered at all.

“Easier that way,” he said.

She cupped his face, thumbs resting on his cheeks. The gesture was intimate, not sexual but not not sexual, either. He felt the heat rise to his own face, and when she drew her hands away, he almost missed the weight of them.

She stepped back, smiling. “Thank you. I know it was weird.”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t.”

She stood there, arms folded, tail swishing side to side. “I think I get it, now,” she said.

He frowned. “Get what?”

She shrugged. “Why Laura liked you. You’re… steady.”

He didn’t know how to answer, so he just stood there, letting the sunlight through the window warm his back.

Sam always did her best thinking in the five minutes after a group meal, when the blood sugar spike made everyone a little more pliant and the risk of chaos was at its lowest. She clapped her hands, making a sharp snap that ricocheted off the domed ceiling of the Banquet Hall.

“All right, listen up!” she said, her voice cutting through the lingering hum of small talk and pastry consumption. “I know it’s early, but we’ve got a lot of ground to cover and not much time.”

Chairs squeaked. Riley, who had already started edging away from the table, slumped back into her seat with exaggerated resignation. Dawn, perched on the lip of the table as if it were a diving board, swung her legs and grinned. Even Chloe, always the last to finish her tea, set down her cup and gave Sam a wary, ready-to-be-convinced look.

Sam let the pause hang, then plowed on. “We have a mission,” she declared. “Andy’s birthday is coming up. The actual, for-real one. Not some random event Arabella cooked up. Eight days from now. I say we surprise him, big-time. No half-measures.”

Norah raised an eyebrow. “You’re organizing a surprise birthday party for Andy?”

Sam grinned. “You got a problem with that, Rahman?”

Norah shrugged, but the corners of her mouth twitched up. “No. Just making sure I heard right.”

Sam planted her hands on the table, scanning the faces around her. “Here’s the deal. We’re not just talking cake and presents. I want to blow the man’s mind. And for that, we’re gonna need all hands on deck. We’ll pool our Bonus Points, unlock the Dance Hall that’s on the list of facilities, everyone gets pretty, I get somewhat presentable, and we make this an event he never forgets.”

There was a collective intake of breath. Sam let the anticipation build, then whipped out her phone, thumbs flying. “I’ve already checked. 210 BP from each of us, and we unlock the Hall. If we all chip in, we can do it. But if we do this, that means everyone, and I mean everyone, has to take a job.”

Emi, her six arms folded neatly, was the first to break the silence. “I want decorations,” she said, eyes shining. “All the decorations. Like, flower walls, photo booths, big stuff.”

Sam nodded. “Perfect. You’re on decor. But you’ll need backup. Claire?”

Claire, who had been doodling with a bread crumb on her plate, blinked owlishly behind her glasses. She held up a finger, then scribbled something in her notebook and slid it to Sam.

“‘Logistics,’” Sam read aloud. “‘And supply chain. Also, I have thoughts on the color palette.’” She grinned at Claire. “You’re in.”

Dawn’s hand shot up. “I want food. All the food. I’ll make a million appetizers if I have to.”

Sam winked. “Knew I could count on you, Chef Bunny.” She paused, looking at the rest. “Liesa? You strike me as a party vibe kind of girl. Can you handle the… let’s call it ambiance? Lighting, guest flow, whatever needs to look cool.”

Liesa, who was technically only a party girl on the weekends (and this, by definition, was a weekend), gave Sam a slow, deliberate smile. “I will make it unforgettable,” she said, her voice a velvet promise. “But I’ll need an assistant. Maybe Riley?”

Riley groaned but didn’t object. “Fine,” she said. “But only if you don’t make me wear a tutu.”

“Deal,” Liesa replied, and that was that.

Sam scanned the table for the next victim. “Chloe, I want you on gifts. Not just any gifts—personalized ones. Something he’ll actually keep.”

Chloe looked terrified, but rallied. “Um. I can… do that? Maybe some of you can hand-make something?”

Sam nodded. “That’s the spirit. You’ve got taste, and you know what makes people happy. You come up with ideas, and we execute.”

Norah drummed her fingers on the table. “Let me guess. You want me to DJ or something.”

Sam’s grin went feral. “Not just DJ. You’re in charge of sound, which includes playlist, speakers, and making sure the mics don’t feedback. Think you can handle that, or should I ask Marissa?”

Norah glared at her. “Please. Like Marissa even knows what a subwoofer is.”

Marissa, sitting two seats down, smiled the tight, knowing smile of someone who had just been underestimated and was filing it away for later. “Actually,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I once DJed a university dance marathon for charity. I used to mix for hours straight.”

The table went silent.

Sam fist-pumped. “You’re both on sound. Tag team it. Let’s see who lasts longer.”

Norah rolled her eyes but didn’t look unhappy. Marissa only inclined her head in a gesture of gentle, silent victory.

Sam looked at the rest. “Emily, you’re my wild card. You help wherever needed, but I also want you to do a video for Andy. Maybe get everyone to record something, or make a montage of all the best moments since we got here. I’m sure you can get the tapes from Arabella. Can you edit?”

Emily’s blue eyes went wide, but then she grinned. “I can totally do that! I’ll make it cute as hell.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Erin?” All eyes shifted. Erin sat up, curious.

“Erin, I want you on invitations and RSVPs. Design them, send them out, and keep track of who’s coming. Think you can handle it?”

Erin smiled. “Love it. I’ll make them pop and keep you posted.”

“Good,” Sam said. “Everyone, when you have nothing to do, help whoever needs help. That leaves me for… whatever the hell else needs doing.”

“Like organizing the party,” Riley said, deadpan.

“Exactly,” Sam replied, and then looked around the table. “So, is everyone in? Or do I have to start bribing you?”

The harem glanced around, small smiles and sidelong glances flicking between them. Even Norah looked, for a brief second, like she’d been waiting for this—an excuse to work together instead of at cross-purposes.

“Fine,” Norah said, but her voice was lighter. “But if I have to listen to one second of EDM, I’m taking the whole place down with me.”

Emi giggled, her arms hugging herself in excitement. “I’ll make a mood board!”

Dawn had already pulled out her phone and was scrolling through recipe ideas. “I’ll need at least two helpers,” she said, “and maybe some volunteers for taste-testing.”

“Done,” said Chloe, raising her hand.

“Me too,” added Emily. “I’ll bring my own fork.”

Even Claire, usually the odd woman out in social settings, looked up from her notebook (where she had already jotted down an initial list of necessary supplies) and nodded.

Sam leaned back, crossing her arms behind her head. “This is going to be amazing. I want him to remember it for the rest of his life.”

Marissa raised her glass of orange juice, as if toasting the future. “To teamwork,” she said.

Everyone clinked whatever they had in hand—coffee, tea, juice, water bottles—and the energy in the room changed. There was purpose now, a shared goal, a reason to build something that wasn’t just for Arabella’s entertainment.

Sam stood, pushing her chair back with a scrape. “Let’s meet tomorrow, same time, to check in. Until then, get to work.”

The table exploded into movement. Dawn dragged Chloe off to the kitchen, their heads bent in immediate consultation. Emi pulled Claire into a quiet corner, arms waving as she described her vision for the decorations. Riley and Liesa locked eyes, exchanged a long, meaningful look, then both shrugged and headed for the nearest exit—probably to raid the annex for lighting supplies. Marissa and Norah squared off, their debate about playlists already escalating into competitive banter.

Sam watched them go, a satisfied smile on her lips.

For once, the harem was working together. And if Andy didn’t see it coming, well… that was the point.

After breakfast, the Suite felt both smaller and lighter, as if confession and carbs together had altered the local gravity. Andy rinsed the plates, set them in the dishwasher, and wiped down the counter with unnecessary thoroughness.

Myra lingered by the window, tail draped over the back of the chair, hands twisted together in her lap. She looked, for the first time since arrival, almost peaceful.

Then she spoke, voice aimed at the glass. “Do you think I can actually change?”

Andy set the towel aside. “You already have.”

She considered that, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I mean, really change. Or does all the work I did—medicine, all the nights on call—just disappear, since I ended up here?”

He moved closer, leaning on the far side of the table. “You’re still you. All of it counts. This place can’t erase what you did out there.”

Her mouth quirked. “But I won’t be a doctor again. Not like this.”

He shrugged. “Maybe not the same way. But you’ll still find a way to help people. I think that’s who you are.”

She was quiet for a long time. Then: “I don’t know how to do anything else.”

Andy nodded. “You don’t have to decide today. Or ever, really.”

They left the Suite together, Myra finding his arm automatically—no awkward pause, no question, just a smooth hook of hand to elbow, like she'd always known how to do it. There was something in the gesture that felt ceremonial, as if by walking this gauntlet one last time, she could make the past hour stick.

She didn’t ask for directions or instructions. The world was mapped in sound and scent: the faint hush of filtered air, the elevator’s almost imperceptible whir, the bright slice of citrus that lingered on Andy’s shirt sleeve. She moved with new confidence, if not speed. Her fox tail bobbed just behind, occasionally flicking to adjust her balance, and her ears swiveled at every footstep.

Andy slowed his stride to match hers, letting the silence stretch. There was nothing urgent left between them, not after last night’s storm of words. Resentment had turned into something stranger, something Andy still needed to process. And as for Myra’s response to finally naming the sin for which she spent sixteen years doing penance, the knowledge seemed to have set her free, in a way. As if giving her guilt a name.

“What’s she like?” she asked, just as they entered the elevator.

He blinked. “Who?”

“Marissa. I know she’s my day-chaperone, but that’s it. Erin said I’d like her, but Erin likes everyone.”

He let the question settle as the elevator arrived with a muted ping. “She’s… smart. Patient. She has a way of making people tell the truth, even if they don’t want to. When I first met her, I thought she’d see through me in two seconds and find nothing worth keeping.” He paused, then shrugged. “But she made it feel safe to be seen.”

Myra considered that, brow furrowing. “Was she your therapist?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “And a friend, eventually.”

“Did you ever sleep with her?” Myra asked. She had a way of firing the question dead-on, then bracing for the recoil.

Andy grinned, almost despite himself. “Not until very recently.”

A sly smile flashed. “So that’s how it works here.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s not a requirement.”

She snorted. “I bet Arabella would disagree.”

The elevator doors opened. Andy guided her inside, pressing the button for Lobby. Myra stood close, tail swishing in the small, mirrored space. In the glass, their reflections looked like two strangers pretending to be a couple—his polo and slacks, her crumpled blue dress and huge, fox-plumed tail. But the proximity was easy.

Myra broke the silence again, her voice softer. “Do you think I can be a normal person, with all of them?”

Andy mulled it over, watching the floor numbers tick down. “I don’t think any of us are normal anymore. But yeah, I do.”

She nodded. “I keep waiting for it to hurt. For the others to freeze me out, or for someone to—” She stopped, not finishing the thought.

He reached over, squeezed her hand where it clung to his forearm. “Most won’t. You’d be surprised how fast this place can make strangers into family.” He didn’t mention Riley. He knew her well enough by now.

She didn’t answer, but her grip eased.

At Lobby, the doors parted to a wash of light and the floral sweetness that passed for “house scent” at the Harem Hotel. Andy led the way, eyes scanning the open atrium for Marissa. He didn’t have to look far.

Marissa was seated at a small marble bench. She wore a sleeveless, dove-grey dress that made her look simultaneously businesslike and effortless. Her blonde hair was in a loose twist; her posture—upright but relaxed—radiated quiet authority.

She looked up the instant she heard them, blue eyes locking onto Myra’s blind, searching ones. Whatever she saw satisfied her. She smiled, stood, and closed the distance with calm, measured steps.

“Myra,” Marissa said, the voice just above a whisper, but somehow it seemed to fill the room. “How was your night?”

Andy felt, rather than saw, the effect. Marissa’s voice had that new thing, the challenge gift: a soft compulsion, a nudge that set your thoughts drifting to warmer, softer places. He saw the small shudder run up Myra’s spine, the way her tail flared then stilled, as if pulled by a tide.

“Better than expected,” Myra said, the words coming out almost honest. “Thanks to Andy.”

Marissa’s smile warmed, and she looked at Andy approvingly, nodding. “He’s good at that.”

There was no awkwardness, no need for introductions or ceremony. Marissa simply took Myra’s free hand in hers, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and said, “Come on. I thought we’d do breakfast in the solarium, then maybe walk the grounds. Unless you’d rather try the pool.”

Myra’s fox ears perked. “Solarium sounds nice. Less chance of public face-plants.”

Marissa laughed, and there it was again: the soft, enveloping hum of her voice, nudging the mood upward by degrees. Andy felt the pull himself, but resisted.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, not sure if he was dismissing himself or just needing a buffer from the intimacy. “Myra, if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

She nodded, then, after a second, reached up and found his shoulder by touch. “Thank you,” she said again, this time with a clarity that left no room for deflection.

Marissa and Myra drifted off together, Marissa matching her stride to the cadence of Myra’s cautious steps. The two women moved as a unit, the effect both comforting and somehow clinical—as if Myra had already become Marissa’s patient.

Andy watched them go. He felt both lighter and a little sad, as if handing off a fragile package that wasn’t his to keep.

He was about to turn for the stairs when someone collided with him at rib-height, almost knocking him off balance.

“Hey, hotshot!” said Emily, arms already wide for a hug. She wore nothing but her usual hair—a gold-and-pink waterfall that skimmed her knees and, somehow, always covered every strategic inch even when it looked like it shouldn’t. Her skin was flushed, her blue eyes bright and eager.

Andy caught her, steadying both of them. “Hey, Em. You’re up early.”

Emily grinned, nudging the tip of her shoe against his ankle. “Early bird gets the date. We’re going on a walk today.” She tilted her head, hair fanning behind her, and Andy saw a flicker of vulnerability beneath the bravado.

“Ready when you are,” he said. He meant it.

"I even brought sunscreen," Emily said, holding up a little travel bottle as if it were proof of her seriousness. She radiated excitement, but underneath, Andy sensed the same delicate undercurrent he’d seen in Myra—an eagerness to claim the day as hers, even if just for a few hours.

He offered her his arm, and she took it, light as air.

They walked out of the lobby and down the stone path to the main beach, the hush of the waves and the heat of the rising sun a world apart from the inside.