Stitches of Trust, Part 1

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacdaimed.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 88 VP - 2600 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 75 VP - 5700 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 74 VP - 2350 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 72 VP - 3000 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 69 VP - 8900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emily - 57 VP - 6100 BP - 1 Achiev
Liesa - 56 VP - 4200 BP - 2 Achievs
Dawn - 54 VP - 6300 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 46 VP - 3550 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 17 VP - 5600 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 14 VP - 4275 BP - 1 Achiev
Myra - 14 VP - 4800 BP

Andy must have fallen asleep at some point in the night, because he woke to a familiar hush—like the world was waiting for him to name it before anything could happen. For a moment, the heavy warmth of bodies on either side of him stilled the bad dreams, pinned them flat. On the left, Marissa’s breath tickled his neck; she had stolen his pillow in the night, and now used his bicep as a replacement. To the right, Myra lay curled fetal, her fox tail draped across her own knees like a weighted blanket. Between them, Andy let himself be a bridge. It was, by any metric, an improvement.

He lay still a while, content to let the morning creep in at its own pace. The Suite was silent but for the soft whir of the ceiling vent and Marissa’s sleepy snore. He watched the gauzy light play on the wall, wondered if time ever passed differently in this place, if the whole hotel just invented mornings for people who needed them. He almost laughed—yesterday, he wouldn’t have called himself one of those people.

Eventually, Myra stirred, blinking against the dark, not that it would have made a difference. She mumbled a greeting into the pillow, then rolled onto her back, arms folded over her chest. The ears atop her head flicked in slow, lazy arcs, listening for danger or the first hint of awkwardness.

Andy spoke low, so as not to wake Marissa. "You sleep okay?"

Myra stretched, catlike, legs kicking out beneath the sheet. "Better than expected," she said. "There's something to be said for not having a floor full of residents slamming doors all night." Her voice was lighter than he'd ever heard it, almost playful.

"Or maybe it was the fox tail," Andy said. "Looked comfortable."

She grinned, just a hint. "It helps. More than you'd think."

After a moment, her ears flattened slightly against her head. "Though I did have some... strange dreams."

"Strange how?"

Myra's cheeks flushed. "I could feel it, you know. From the living room. The... intensity. Between you two." Her tail twitched against the sheets. "My Echoes of Inner Worlds transformation makes me particularly attuned to... that kind of thing."

Andy felt heat rise to his own face as he remembered—her first transformation had heightened her empathic abilities, especially around desire. "God, Myra, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," she interrupted, her voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "It wasn't unpleasant. Just... overwhelming. Like standing too close to a bonfire."

Marissa's hand snuck up in her sleep, finding Andy's ribs, and she squeezed gently. Myra's ears twitched in response, as if catching an echo.

After a while, Myra propped herself up. "Can I ask you something else?"

He nodded, eager to change topics.

"Was I... did I do anything weird last night? Like, sleepwalking, or talking? I used to do that, before."

Andy shook his head. "No sleepwalking. Marissa might have spooned you for a bit, but she does that to everyone." He glanced at Marissa, now deeply entangled in the blanket.

Myra smiled. "Good. Last time I did, I woke up in a stairwell and the building's night manager had to rescue me."

She hesitated, then: "Thank you. For letting me stay."

He didn't deflect. "Anytime."

She nodded, then levered herself upright, feeling her way to the edge of the bed before standing. She wore only her black bra and panties, and they made her look more at home than she ever had in a hospital coat. Andy watched her hesitate, then, tightening her lips, she stood and, arms outstretched to avoid obstacles, she counted steps to cross to the bathroom, tail trailing behind her like a thought she hadn’t finished. Her Kitsune Step transformation helped her avoid smaller obstacles, and her memory from the last visit to the Suite helped her the rest of the way.

He lay back, careful not to wake Marissa, and let himself enjoy the rare feeling of something having gone right.

After a while, Marissa rolled over, eyes half-open, hair tangled and wild. She blinked at Andy, then at the ceiling, then at Andy again, as if confirming that yes, the night had been real, and no, he hadn’t run off.

She yawned, stretching her arms overhead, then flopped one hand over his chest. “You’re awake,” she observed, voice hoarse.

“So are you.”

She grunted. “I dreamed we were running from something. I don’t know what.” She glanced at the empty space to Andy’s right. “Where’s Myra?”

“Bathroom,” he said.

Marissa nodded, then closed her eyes, as if testing whether the world would hold together if she let go for another minute. It did.

After a minute, she said, “Last night was… a lot.”

Andy waited, unsure if she meant the sex or the rest of it.

She solved it for him. “I liked it. All of it. Even the part where Myra fell asleep on your arm and you tried not to laugh.”

He smiled, remembering.

Marissa rolled onto her side, propping her head on her hand. Her hair fell in a messy sheet, and the way she looked at him—direct, unblinking, a little mischievous—reminded him of the first time he’d met her, years ago in her office, before everything got so complicated.

She traced a finger across his collarbone. “You’re different now, Andy. I don’t mean the muscles or the tan. It’s… softer, somehow. Like you’re letting things touch you again.”

He exhaled, feeling the truth of it. “I’m trying.”

“It suits you.”

He shrugged. “I’m just… I don’t know. Trying not to screw things up.”

Marissa laughed, a low, real thing. “Nobody’s keeping score,” she said, then reconsidered. “Well, maybe Norah is. But you’re still winning.”

He grinned, let the banter ground him. “Should I worry about her?”

Marissa shook her head. “She likes you. She just doesn’t want you to get comfortable with it.”

Andy filed that away for later. “You want breakfast?” he asked, changing the subject. “Or should I let you two have your girls’ brunch without me?”

Marissa sat up, covers pooling at her waist. She wore nothing underneath, her G-cup breasts proud and heavy, nipples hardening in the chill. Even now, with every clinical instinct drilled into her, she seemed both aware of and completely indifferent to the way her chest caught his attention.

She slid out of bed, stretching again, and padded naked to the closet, retrieving a robe. “Let’s all eat together,” she said. “If Myra’s up for it.”

They reconvened in the kitchen, where Marissa found a matching mug and poured coffee for all three. Andy tried to ignore the fact that Marissa wore nothing but the hotel’s plush bathrobe, which did nothing to hide the impossible swells of her chest. Myra, meanwhile, had found her way to the breakfast bar by counting steps and using the cabinets as a Braille map. She sat on the counter’s edge, feet dangling, tail curling and uncurling around the leg of the stool.

The initial silence wasn’t awkward so much as careful—everyone figuring out if last night’s fragile peace would translate to daylight. Marissa broke the spell by padding to the fridge and fetching the eggs, then setting them on the counter with a solid thump.

“I nominate you as chef,” she said to Andy, sliding the carton toward him. “But I’ll do the eggs if you want.”

Andy considered, then shrugged. “Let’s make it up as we go.”

He started by chopping onion and spinach, narrating each step so Myra could follow the process. “Careful, I’m opening the drawer now. Knife is on the right side. Cutting board in front of you.”

Myra listened, her head cocked, and then reached out with surprising accuracy. “You’re good at this,” she said. “Makes me feel like less of a liability.”

Marissa, whisking eggs with controlled ****, said, “You’re not a liability. You’re a guest.” Her voice was gentle, but Andy felt the subtle hum of arousal beneath it. He wondered, not for the first time, how much of her clinical focus had always been leavened with actual want.

He sautéed the veggies and let the kitchen fill with the smell of cooking onion, which seemed to relax everyone. Myra asked questions—about the knives, about the layout, about how the suite differed from the Hotel’s other kitchens. Andy and Marissa answered companionably, and Myra seemed to gradually relax further, as if the building of an image of the hotel in her mind’s eye made her feel more centered.

Andy plated up three breakfasts, then settled across from Marissa, letting Myra have the counter to herself. The eggs were perfect.

Halfway through the meal, Myra paused, fork hovering. “Sorry,” she said, suddenly sheepish. “If I crowded you last night. I didn’t mean to—” She stopped, tail flicking, then tried again: “I used to get told off for that, at home. Being too clingy.”

Andy shook his head. “I didn’t mind.” He smiled, sincere. “It was nice.”

The compliment had an immediate effect: foxfire flickered in a faint green glow along the tips of her ears, and her cheeks colored visibly. She tried to play it off by taking another giant bite of eggs, nearly **** herself.

Marissa grinned, her attention split evenly between Andy and Myra. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about,” she said. “It’s healthy, needing people sometimes.”

Andy felt the words land, gentle but pointed. He was about to answer when Marissa added, “Speaking of which—what’s your plan for today?”

He looked to Myra, who shrugged. “No clue. I think Dawn and Chloe want to talk to me about cakes—I mean, about teaching me to bake. It’ll be a challenge.” Andy noticed the slip-up, but said nothing. “What about you?” Myra asked, slightly too quickly.

Andy shrugged, feeling oddly cheerful. “I think Sam said she’d be waiting for me downstairs. We’re supposed to meet for breakfast, or brunch, or whatever you call it when nobody is looking at the clock. She’s probably still asleep, knowing her.” He sipped his coffee, then added, “But I’ll be spending the day as Andi, so I can burn those 24 hours.”

Marissa nodded in understanding. “It’s smart. And you don’t mind, switching?”

He shook his head. “Not really. It’s just a body. The brain stays the same.” He let the words hang, unsure if that was actually true.

Myra’s ears twitched, and she tilted her head. “Is it weird, being a woman one minute and a man the next? Do things… feel different?” She hesitated, and for once Andy sensed genuine curiosity.

He tried to put it into words. “It’s like—I don’t know—putting on your favorite hoodie after months of not wearing it. It’s comfortable, familiar, but not the same as the old you. Just… different.” He wasn’t sure if that was a good explanation, but Myra nodded thoughtfully.

Marissa, true to her professional instincts, had her clinical face on again, but there was a warmer edge to it. “You look happier, lately. Not just in here, but…” she made a vague gesture to his chest, then the room, “everywhere. Like you’re not carrying as much.”

He thought about it, then shrugged. “I guess it’s harder to feel sorry for yourself when you have to cook breakfast for other people.” He meant it as a joke, but the look in her eyes said she understood the truth of it.

He excused himself to the bedroom and, with the door ajar, let the change overtake him. It was nothing like a superhero transformation—no burst of light or rippling sound effect. Instead, it was slow, bone-deep, like every muscle and sinew quietly reconfiguring, rearranging the landscape of his body. His hair grew in a slow ripple down his back, growing more lustrous as it lengthened; his jaw softened, Adam’s apple retreating like a tide; his frame dropped a few inches in height and widened in the hips and the chest while his waist shrunk, a gentle rebalancing of his entire posture.

She dressed quickly, picking clothes from the Andi section of her wardrobe. She chose blue jeans, a pair of old-school sneakers, and a fitted while button-down that felt like armor. When she glanced in the mirror, Andi looked back—her hair a loose, shining spill over her shoulders, her face familiar but rendered in a gentler palette, her body curved and lithe where Andy’s had been angular. She took a deep breath, and the higher, melodic note of her own voice still startled her. The mind was the same, but the context was completely different.

Andi walked back into the living space, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Marissa, mid-sip of coffee, looked up and did a visible double take, her eyes widening then narrowing, as if recalibrating the entire universe.

“Wow,” she said, soft. “That’s… remarkable.” She studied Andi for a beat, then: “Does it really feel normal?”

Andi laughed. “It’s like switching the setting on a weighted blanket. Different, but still you under there. Probably because it's a Gift and not a transformation.”

Marissa grinned, more openly than before. “You look good.”

“Thanks,” Andi said, oddly grateful for the affirmation.

Myra’s head turned sharply at the sound of the new voice, her ears flicking in confusion. For a moment, her face was a knot of uncertainty—then her body language eased, and she offered a small, awkward smile.

“Can I—” Myra hesitated, then barreled forward. “Can I feel your face? I want to know what the difference is.”

Andi nodded. “Sure.”

Myra approached, careful as ever, and reached out. Andi took her hand, guiding it to her cheek. Myra’s fingers traced the new landscape: the softened jaw, the finer nose, the higher arch of the cheekbones. Her touch was delicate, almost reverent.

“You’re not as tall as before,” Myra murmured, a blush rising on her cheeks. The faintest glimmer of foxfire danced along the edge of her left ear, a reflex she couldn’t hide.

“Nope,” Andi said, “but I still have the same appetite for coffee.”

That broke the tension. Myra smiled wide, her hand dropping away. “I like it,” she said. “You.”

Marissa, observing, just nodded—her eyes thoughtful, but softer. “Thank you for showing us,” she said. “It’s strange, but also… not strange at all.”

Andi shrugged. “That’s how it feels on the inside.”

Myra and Marissa gathered their things, ready to head out. As Marissa opened the door, she paused and looked back at Andi, her gaze lingering a little longer than before. “If you ever want to talk about it,” she said, “or anything else—I’d listen.”

Andi smiled, genuinely. “I’ll take you up on that.”

They left, Myra’s tail waving a quiet goodbye, and Andi was alone in the Suite. She stood for a moment, letting the hush settle around her, then grabbed her backpack and headed for the elevator.

The doors closed with a whisper, and for a brief interval she was suspended in the quiet, a woman in motion, neither here nor there.

When the doors slid open, Sam was waiting in the lobby, arms folded and grinning like she’d just won a bet with herself.

She took one look at Andi and said, “Damn, you clean up nice.”

Andi laughed, the sound higher but still hers. “You say that every time.”

Sam winked. “Because it’s true every time.”

They exited the lobby into that strange not-quite-morning, not-yet-afternoon light where the world was still up for grabs. Andi followed Sam down the resort’s main path, past a trio of Mildreds sweeping sand off the pavers, each ignoring the other as if the world didn’t have room for more than one at a time. Sam didn’t even glance at them. Her stride was easy, loose, like she owned the place and didn’t care if anyone disagreed.

Andi liked walking beside her like this—two friends with no agenda, no one keeping score. Sam tossed her an aside as they rounded the last low hedge before the dunes: “You know, I think I prefer you like this,” she said. “You make a damn fine woman, Andi. No offense to your other self.”

Andi rolled her eyes, but the smile was real. “Thanks. My hair looks better than yours, anyway.”

Sam gave her a look—mock wounded, but with an edge of pride. “You wish, lady. This blue is all natural.”

They walked until the resort was a memory behind them, a haze of white and glass dissolved into the blue. The wind was cool and clean here, and the crash of the breakers was so loud that Andi felt it in her jaw and in the bones of her feet. She wondered sometimes if the ocean could wash things away for real—not just footprints and sandcastles, but the junk that trailed after a person, the sharp bits that caught and stung. She didn’t believe in that kind of magic, but it’d be nice if it existed.

Sam was quiet at first, which was peculiar because usually Sam was a monologuist, turning any silence into a story, an anecdote, a half-joked complaint about the state of the world. But this morning she was different: no sunglasses, hair tied back tight, face bare and honest, the sort of look Sam only wore when she needed to talk about something and was afraid she’d lose her nerve if she didn’t start right away.

After a while, Sam slowed, then stopped near a piece of driftwood that had been whitened and twisted by years in the surf. It made Andi think of the skeleton of some great beast. Sam sat down without ceremony, legs sprawled wide, and patted the spot beside her. Andi joined, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Their combined weight made the driftwood creak, but it held.

For a long time they just sat. Sam dug her heels into the sand and watched the horizon, teeth worrying her lower lip until it looked raw. Andi leaned back on her palms, letting her hair fall behind her like a veil, and closed her eyes. The breeze was salted, cool and sharp, and it bit at the tip of her nose. She waited for Sam to start.

“You ever feel like you’re just… not built for this?” Sam asked. Not looking at her, but out there, where the sky and sea made a seamless horizon.

Andi considered it. “Built for what?”

Sam shrugged, then laughed, low. “For being everything someone else needs, even when you want to be.” She turned, searching Andi’s face for a reaction, but found only patience. “I keep thinking—Liesa, she deserves better than me. She’s so fucking careful, and I’m—” Sam held out her hands, inspecting the calluses on her palms. “I break things. Even when I try not to.”

Andi tilted her head, scanning Sam’s profile. “You don’t break things. Sometimes you knock over a glass or two, but—”

“That’s not what I mean.” Sam’s voice was taut, and it flattened the humor out of the air. She shook her head. “I meant people.”

Andi let the silence hang, then said, “You want to talk about it?”

Sam let out a long breath. “I do. But I don’t know if I should.”

“You can,” Andi said, and nudged her knee into Sam’s. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It was enough. Sam raked her hair back with both hands—an old, nervous tic—then let her elbows rest on her knees, knuckles white. When she started, her words came in a rush, like she’d been holding them back for days.

“I’m scared I’m screwing it up with Liesa,” Sam admitted, voice low over the hush of the waves. “I know you said it was fine, that things will be okay. And that’s what I thought too. The ribbon incident… she was really scared that I wouldn’t trust her again. But I thought we were past that. She’s rebuilt her connection with Dawn, with Norah. Even Marissa apologized for not helping more. But it’s like sometimes, she’s still preparing to run. She smiles—really smiles—and then, out of nowhere, she shutters. Like a window slammed shut. I can’t read her sometimes.”

Andi drew a circle in the sand with her fingertip, then looked at Sam with the kind of gentle patience that made people want to tell the truth. “What do you think she’s afraid of? Does it remind her of anything? Or is it just the old stuff, resurfacing every time something’s a little off?”

Sam’s brow furrowed and she started plucking at a loose thread on her shorts, face tight with the effort of real self-reflection. “I think it’s a lot of things at once. The deal with Dawn’s ribbon, definitely, but also… I mean, she’s always been the peacemaker in every group she’s ever been in. And last round, the museum challenge? She was convinced she blew it. She did all this work up front, but then in the end—she didn’t get to do her part. She keeps saying she’s happy just to be there, but I can tell when she’s not really believing it.” Sam let out a short, bitter laugh. “She tries to keep a good mask on, you know? Smile like it’s painted on. But when she thinks no one’s looking, it slips.”

Andi didn’t interrupt, just waited for Sam to get there at her own pace. She knew that sometimes, just having the space to unravel your own knots out loud was as helpful as anything else.

Sam rubbed her face with both hands, leaving a faint streak of sand on her cheekbone. “I want her to know I trust her, that she can trust me. I want to make her feel safe, but I…” She paused, not for effect but because she was trying to nail the words down. “I don’t think I’m doing a very good job. I keep telling her, ‘It’s fine, I’m fine, you’re fine,’ but if it was really fine, why is she crying at two in the morning, huh?”

Andi shifted on the driftwood, bringing her knees up to her chest. “Have you ever asked her directly? Like, not in the heat of the moment, but just… let her say what she actually needs from you? Maybe even let her see where you’re scared, too?”

Sam’s first instinct was to say yes, but she caught herself. She shook her head. “If I ask her, she just says ‘You’re perfect, Sam. I don’t deserve you.’ And then I feel like a monster for wanting more, for wishing she’d just get over it already. I know that’s not fair. I know, I know.” Her hands balled into fists on her knees. “But it’s like—you know when you’ve been running from something your whole life, and then someone turns around and says, ‘It’s okay, you can stop now’? But your muscles are still twitching to run? That’s her, all the time.”

Andi let that analogy sit, watching the way the shadows moved on the sand, how the sunlight made even the tiny ridges stand out in sharp relief. She reached out and rested a hand on Sam’s shoulder, a point of contact but not a demand. “You’re not screwing it up,” she said. “You’re the steady one, Sam. Even if you knock some glasses over sometimes.” She offered a small smile, the kind that asked to be reciprocated. “Maybe she just needs to see you trust her with something real. Something you haven’t told anyone before.”

Sam’s head turned just enough to meet Andi’s eyes. “Like what?”

“Anything,” Andi said. “Even something tiny. It’s not about the thing—it’s about letting her see she’s earned it.”

Sam’s lips parted, and for a moment it looked like she was going to say something, but she just laughed. Not harshly, but with that incredulous warmth that crept in when someone finally felt understood. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It isn’t,” Andi said, and this time she grinned. “But the honesty part is straightforward. I’ve had to learn that the hard way.”

Sam went silent again, but the tension had bled out of her posture. She was still picking absently at her shorts, but it was less the frantic unthreading and more the idle movement of someone lost in thought.

Andi gave her the space. She watched the water for a while, letting the rhythm of the waves fill in the silence. She thought about the question she’d just posed to Sam—letting someone in on your own fears, your own sore spots. It stung, because it was true for her too. She’d done it with Claire, with Erin, a little with Marissa, but mostly she kept her real hurts in a locked closet inside herself. She’d never said out loud how much she missed Laura on the anniversaries, or how sometimes she still woke up from dreams where she had to save her all over again, and every time she failed. She’d never truly admitted the depth of the grief she still felt in the small hours of the night, and how often she asked herself how could she still be in love with a girl who died so long ago, only to know, in her heart, that the love she had shared with Laura had been the kind that hits once in a lifetime. She’d told people the story, sure, but never the ache. The difference was so subtle it was almost invisible.

Andi looked at Sam, who was now watching her with that quiet, waiting expression. “You know my birthday’s in four days, right?” Andi asked, a little surprised at how small her own voice sounded.

Sam blinked. “I’d forgotten,” she admitted, which was a lie, but it was the kind of lie you tell someone so they don’t feel fussed over. “That’s wild. You want to do something?”

Andi shrugged, then laughed. “I haven’t really celebrated since Laura. It’s weird—three days after mine is hers. Or it was.” She thumbed the scalloped edge of a shell resting at the driftwood’s base, using the fidget as punctuation. “Her parents… they didn’t care, or didn’t put effort into anything involving her. So we’d always do a joint thing. Two cakes, two sets of candles, and my mom would buy two of everything.” She looked at her hands, almost expecting to see frosting on her fingers. “After she died, I went through the motions for a while. Let people buy me cake, say happy birthday, but it never stuck. There’s a part of me that thinks—if I ever have a real birthday again, maybe it means I’ve stopped missing her. I know that’s not how it works, but the feeling’s there anyway.”

Sam’s eyes were a little shiny now, and she nudged Andi’s foot with her own. “You could always celebrate both. Grief and birthday. Make it a tradition.”

Andi snorted. “A party with black balloons and confetti. Fun and mournful, all at once.”

“Hey,” Sam said, “if anyone could pull it off, it’d be you.”

Andi’s smile twisted at the edges, and she let herself lean into the warmth of Sam’s arm. “You’re good at this,” she said. “Being the friend who doesn’t make it weird.”

Sam grinned, blue hair catching the wind. “Years of practice, babe.”

Andi turned serious for a moment. “I mean it. I know the whole ‘Master’ thing makes it look like I’ve got the answers, but most days I’m just making it up as I go. So when you ask, ‘what can I do for you?’—the answer is this. Just sit with me, talk like this, and forget the rest for a while.”

Sam squeezed her arm back, firm. “That’s easy. But for the record—Liesa’s not the only one who thinks you’re perfect, you know.”

Andi rolled her eyes. “Gross. If you start quoting inspirational fridge magnets at me I’ll have to drown myself.”

Sam gasped, hands to her mouth, playing along. “How dare you. Those are the foundation of my entire personality.”

They both laughed, the sound rising into the wind and disappearing over the ocean.

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. Andi let herself watch the horizon and think about nothing in particular. She thought about all the years she’d spent believing nothing could ever fill the void Laura left, and how it turned out the void wasn’t meant to be filled at all. It was just another room in the house, and sometimes you had to sit there with the lights off for a while before you could leave.

Sam shifted next to her, finally breaking the silence. “You ever think about what you’d do after this whole thing?” she asked, tone lighter now, back to the safe territory of hypotheticals and daydreams.

Andi considered. “Maybe I’d start a school or something. Not the kind with books and bells, but a place where people go to learn how not to be afraid of themselves. Like a camp, but not as corny.”

“Camp Self-Acceptance,” Sam mused. “With a banner and matching t-shirts.”

“Exactly,” Andi said. “You’d be head counselor. Teach the kids how to throw shade and make the perfect s’more.”

Sam snapped her fingers. “That’s my true calling. Finally, we have a plan.”

They both looked out over the water and let the next wave of silence stretch longer. Andi realized her chest felt looser, like someone had untied a knot she didn’t know was there. She glanced over and saw that Sam looked the same, relaxed. Almost happy. It had always been like this, between them: they didn’t need much time together to uplift each other. Just knowing the other one was nearby was enough to make both of them feel that life was going to be okay. Not for the first time, Andi considered how lucky she had been to befriend Sam in college, to let her through her defenses. And at the same time, Sam considered how lucky she had been to find Andy, steady and dependable, who supported her no matter how hard her life got.

Sam cleared her throat and slapped her hands on her thighs. "Alright, enough of the mushy. How about lunch?"

Andi grinned, getting to her feet and offering Sam a hand up. "My favorite hobby." Their fingers interlocked with the easy familiarity of a thousand previous touches—helping each other over campus puddles, steadying each other after too many drinks, passing notes in boring lectures.

She paused, looking at her best friend—the one who'd slept on her couch for a week when she broke down after realizing what she had lost when Erin left, who'd driven six hours just to bring her soup when she had the flu, who knew exactly when to push and when to simply exist beside her. Without saying anything else, she pulled Sam into a tight hug.

"I've got you, Sam," she murmured, as she felt Sam's arms wrap around her, the blue-haired woman finally letting her guard down for once. Sam's shoulders softened beneath Andi's palms. "I'll always have your back. Nothing can change that." She kissed the top of Sam's head, remembering how she had once punched a frat boy who'd called Sam damaged goods, how they'd spent graduation night planning escape routes from the ceremony, how they'd built their adult lives with the unspoken understanding that they were a package deal.

"Same," Sam mumbled into Andi's collarbone, the single word carrying the weight of a thousand promises kept.

They walked back along the hard-packed sand, arms around each other's shoulders, their footprints forming a single, meandering path that the tide would soon wash away—but the connection between them remained permanent as bedrock.

They returned to the resort, cutting through the lobby. Mildred had dialed the music to “easy listening for late lunch,” and none of the women could be found. The hush, after the wind and sea, felt almost engineered.

Sam made straight for the edge of the dining area, claiming a two-top in a nook of partial shade. Mildred materialized before they even sat, her hands folded and smile glued in place; Sam ordered for both of them, not even bothering to check the menu, and the Mildred glided off with a “right away, ladies” that was both comforting and profoundly disturbing.

Andi slumped into the chair, propping her elbows on the table and letting the hush settle. Across from her, Sam had that familiar energy—like a spring wound tight, ready to snap into action or collapse, depending on what the world threw at her next.

Lunch came quick: cold sesame noodles for Sam, grilled fish and greens for Andi. Neither of them started eating right away. It was enough just to be off their feet, to let the long, salt-bright morning settle into their bones.

It was Sam who finally spoke, voice low but clear. “You ever notice how much work it is, keeping everyone from killing each other?”

Andi smiled, swirling a fork in her salad. “You make it look easy. Like you’re the general and this is just another campaign.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, well, most armies don’t have three girls who can’t be in a room together without starting a sexy cold war.” She stabbed a noodle. “Or two who can’t figure out if they’re in love or just in denial.”

Andi’s smile widened. “Is that Chloe and Riley, or you and Liesa?”

Sam pointed her chopsticks at Andi. “Yes.”

They both laughed, the tension breaking for a second.

Andi poked at her greens, then said, “You ever wish you could just let go? Stop being the one who fixes things?”

Sam considered. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But if I stopped, I’m not sure what would happen. Maybe everything would fall apart.”

Andi looked up, her expression softer. “Or maybe it would hold. Maybe you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve seen what happens when I take a day off. The last time I did, at the Blue Bean, Michael tried to organize a scavenger hunt and it ended with a fistfight over who got to hide the final clue.”

Andi laughed, picturing it. “I think you secretly love it.”

Sam shrugged, but her smile said she knew it was true. “It’s not the drama I love. It’s… knowing I matter. That if I didn’t show up, someone would notice.” She picked at her food, then added, “Sometimes I watch you and the others, how you can just… be open, or ****, or whatever. And I wonder if I missed the class where they teach you that.”

Andi thought about it, then shook her head. “You didn’t miss anything. You just learned to survive a different way.” She reached across the table and covered Sam’s hand with hers. “You matter, Sam. You are a part of my life I could never do without. So you matter. Even when you’re not fixing everyone else’s problems.”

Sam looked down at their hands, then back up. “Is it weird that I’m jealous of the other girls sometimes? Not because of the sex or the—” she gestured vaguely at Andi’s body, “—everything, but because they get to be so… messy. And nobody judges them for it.”

Andi squeezed her hand. “You can be messy when you’re around me. Any time.”

Sam’s face twisted, like she was holding back a laugh or a sob. “Thanks,” she said, voice rough.

They ate, letting the silence do the work. Now and then, Andi would make a dumb joke or Sam would point out a couple at the next table who were clearly on a disastrous first date, and the world would feel normal for a minute.

When the plates were cleared, Sam pulled a battered deck of cards from her pocket and started shuffling. “Want to play?” she asked.

Andi blinked. “Do you carry those things everywhere?” Sam only grinned in response. “Fine. Only if you promise not to cheat this time.”

“However do you dare, my lady,” Sam said with mock outrage, a hand to her chest in fake indignation, eyes wide, “These are fighting words! Defend yourself!”

Sam dealt with military precision, her hands sure and quick. They played in silence, the slap of cards on the table steady as a heartbeat. Sometimes they’d talk, sometimes not, but there was no pressure to fill the space.

After a while, Andi looked up and realized she felt… not happy, exactly, but present. She watched Sam, who was pretending to concentrate on her hand but was obviously just as content. Andi reached over, stole a card from Sam’s pile, and said, “You’re still the best friend I ever had. Even when you’re a pain in the ass.”

Sam laughed, real and loud. “Right back at you, Andi.”

They played until the sun slanted low across the tiles and Mildred started setting tables for dinner. When Sam finally called the game, she stood, stretched, and clapped Andi on the shoulder. “Gotta go check in on Liesa. See you later in the Suite?” she asked.

Andi nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They walked out together, neither in a hurry to go their separate ways.