Roots of Loyalty, Part 1

The Suite was gray with morning—no sun, just the dull insistence of cloud-filtered light leaking through the curtains. Riley woke slow, unsure if she was really awake until she shifted and felt the pull of her own hair, heavy as a wet towel, perfumed of roses. She sat up, fingers combing through the mass. For once, it didn’t twitch or try to restrain her. Last night’s memory lingered: how the hair had seized her, turned her own body into a restraint; how Andy had just… stayed, not looking away, not offering pity or jokes or rescue. She looked to his side of the bed, but he was already up, leaving only the slight indent of his body on the mattress.

She stretched, vertebrae popping, and pulled on the robe that Andy must have set out at the foot of the bed. It was big, soft, not her style, but it smelled faintly of his detergent and the sharper undertone of hotel sheets. She padded to the main room, bare feet muffled by the cold floor.

Andy was already at the table. He’d shaved, his hair was still sleep-mussed, and there were creases at the corner of his mouth from the pillow. He looked up, offered a real smile—small, not ****. Riley’s stomach twisted, unsure if it was embarrassment or hunger.

“Hey,” Andy said, raising his mug. “Coffee’s fresh.”

She grunted, heading straight for the machine. “I look like I fought a werewolf in my sleep,” she said, pouring without ceremony. “Tell me you have bagels or I’m stealing your breakfast.”

Andy gestured to the breadboard: bagels, yes, and a weirdly pro spread of toppings—cream cheese, sliced tomato, some limp lox still glistening in its shrink-wrap. Riley went for a plain bagel, slathered it thick with cheese, and ate standing up, chewing as if each bite cost her money.

They didn’t talk for a while. There was no need. The Suite was quiet, the only sounds the clink of silverware and the muted glug of coffee refills. Andy ate with his usual restraint, but she caught him glancing at her a few times. Not in the way men sometimes did—the old up-and-down—but like he was checking for signs of a wound.

Riley let him look. She took another bagel, ate slower this time, then poured a second cup of coffee and finally sat at the table across from him. She met his gaze, unblinking, and waited for the usual: the awkward joke, the careful summary, the pivot to a safe subject. Instead, Andy just sat, letting the silence build.

It was nice, the not talking.

After a while, Riley stood and stretched. “I should shower before my hair tries to strangle me again.” She didn’t wait for a reply. The bathroom was spa-grade, with towels like clouds and water pressure strong enough to flay off old skin. She shampooed her hair twice, conditioned it, then spent a solid five minutes just standing under the hot spray, eyes closed, feeling the tension leech out of her muscles.

She wrapped herself in a towel and padded outside. She found Andy in the living room, now reading something on a notebook. He’d changed shirts, though the new one was just as basic—gray, soft, the kind that looked like it had been worn for a decade.

“Your turn,” she said, nodding at the hallway.

Andy set his notebook down and went without a word. He was quick—military quick, she thought, though she knew he’d never served. When he came back, in a robe, hair damp, he paused at the door, looking at her not with curiosity, but a kind of expectation.

Riley flopped onto the couch, tucking her feet under her. “I’m not good at this,” she said.

Andy sat on the far end, careful, like he was giving her the whole couch if she wanted it. “Which part?”

She considered. “The part where you’re supposed to say what you’re feeling. Or what you want.”

Andy let the question breathe. “I can listen,” he said. “If you want to try.”

Riley laughed, the sound too sharp, almost bitter. “You sound like my old therapist. That’s not a dig.”

He shrugged, not offended. “It’s your turn to talk. No pressure.”

She stared at her knees, fingers drumming on her thigh. “Last night, I was afraid you’d expect something. Or that I’d do something stupid and regret it.”

“I didn’t expect anything,” Andy said, no hesitation.

She nodded, believing him. “I’m not used to that.” She picked at the edge of the towel. “Six months ago, I was a wife. One month ago, a mother. Then neither. I haven’t thought of myself as…” She fumbled for the word. “As a person who could even want anything. From anyone.”

Andy nodded, eyes soft but not pitying. “You don’t have to want anything,” he said.

Riley gave a shaky laugh. “I think maybe I do. Want something, I mean. But I have no idea what.” She looked at him, as if expecting a reaction. “Is that pathetic?”

Andy shook his head. “It’s honest.” He leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the couch. “You don’t owe anyone an answer.”

They sat with that for a while. Riley sipped her coffee, thinking. “You know, I used to be good at knowing what I wanted. Or at least pretending I was. These days, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be.” She let the words hang.

Andy didn’t interrupt.

She swallowed, voice lower. “Curling up with you last night—it didn’t feel like a betrayal. Not of John, not of my kid. But it was the first time I felt… not broken. Not sad, exactly, but like breathing again.”

Andy’s lips twitched. “I’m glad.”

“It felt… good, not to be alone. I… I feel better, remembering Laura, too. I’m not saying I’m ready for anything. I don’t even know what I want, if it’s just friendship, or comfort, or anything else. I’m just saying…” She trailed off, the words running out.

“You can take all the time you need,” Andy said. “I’ll be here. If you want.”

She looked at him, searching for sarcasm or bullshit. She didn’t find any.

After a while, Riley stood. She went to the window, watched the clouds churn over the water. Her hair, now mostly dry, hung in a thick curtain down her back. She wrapped her arms around herself, then turned back.

“I should go,” she said, but didn’t sound like she wanted to. “Erin’s probably waiting downstairs. I promised her I wouldn’t hog you.”

Andy smiled. “She can wait a minute.”

Riley walked over to him, hesitated, then bent down and squeezed his shoulder—not a hug, not quite, but close. Her hand was warm and solid.

“Thank you,” she said, soft.

He squeezed her hand in return, a silent yes.

Riley let go, grabbed her clothes from the back of a chair, and vanished into the bathroom. When she came out, dressed and hair pulled back in a loose band, she didn’t linger. She just gave a wave, a lopsided smile, and was gone.

Andy spent the next few minutes adrift. The Suite was too clean, too empty, still marked by the echo of Riley’s voice and the ghost of her perfume. He found himself looking for her—expecting a sharp retort from the kitchen, or the shadow of her hair in the corner of his eye.

For years, he had wondered whether the Laura he remembered was a myth, a sanitized version of who she had really been. Sometimes he had wondered if he missed her more, or less, because of it. But yesterday’s conversation with Riley had helped him realize he still remembered her as she was, the good and the bad. And he loved her not for the myth, but for the actual, day-to-day absence she left behind. Maybe, he thought, being with someone who remembered Laura—who had shared the same rooms, the same jokes, the same bottomless grief—was the closest he’d ever get to having her back.

Or maybe it was just loneliness, dressed up as nostalgia. Hard to say.

He rinsed his mug and was halfway to stacking dishes when he heard the elevator doors ding. He barely had time to turn before Erin burst into the Suite, sneakers squeaking on the tile, nothing else on her body but mint-green skin—and, of course, the impossible curves of her second transformation.

“Morning!” she said, planting herself squarely in front of him. She was glowing, literally: in the half-light, her mint green skin caught the sun and threw it back as if she’d been buffed to a shine. There was a fine shimmer to her, like the surface of a leaf after rain.

Andy grinned. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said. “Didn’t want to. Besides, I figured you’d be up.” She eyed his robe. “You haven’t changed yet. Lazy.”

He shrugged. “I was distracted.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Sure. You want help with that?” She didn’t wait for a reply—just slid the stack of plates away from him, her hand grazing his hip in a way that made him catch his breath. The touch was casual, confident, as if she owned the place.

She started tidying—first the kitchen, then the couch, then the random detritus that always collected near the door. Andy watched her, unable not to. She’d always moved like an athlete, every motion measured, but there was something different now: a grace that wasn’t quite human, as if she was tuned to some rhythm deeper than muscle memory.

Her breasts were huge, and they moved with a kind of hypnotic sway, but the rest of her was just as mesmerizing. The green skin was perfectly smooth. Her nipples were darker than before, almost a shade of emerald, and when she caught him staring, she didn’t cover herself. Instead, she grinned, eyes sharp and teasing.

“See something you like, Andy?”

Andy tried to look chagrined. “You’re kind of hard to miss.”

She laughed. “I know, right?” She bent to pick up a shirt, and Andy watched the play of muscle along her back, the way the line of her body caught the morning light. She glanced back over her shoulder, saw him looking, and gave a little shake of her ass—taunting, but affectionate.

He flushed, and she crowed in delight. “Still gets you every time,” she said, voice softening.

They worked together for a while, side by side, clearing the kitchen, folding the laundry, even making the bed. It felt domestic, comfortable—a rhythm they’d shared once and lost, now found again with new rules and better jokes. Andy found himself relaxing, letting the little touches pile up: the way she brushed his hand as she passed the salt, or pressed her hip against his as they loaded the dishwasher, or simply leaned her head on his shoulder while they sorted through the pile of clean towels.

She was warm, almost feverish to the touch, and there was a faint scent to her—chlorophyll, maybe, or grass after rain. Every time he looked at her, she seemed to pulse with life, like she’d been plucked fresh from the sun itself.

She noticed his gaze, every time.

“Seriously,” she said, hands on her hips. “Are you going to ogle me all morning, or are you going to tell me how weird this is?”

Andy grinned. “You want weird? I’ve seen weirder.”

She snorted. “Liar.”

He shrugged. “Okay. It’s weird. You’re green. But it suits you.”

Erin tilted her head, an eyebrow raised, as if expecting more. “You’re just going to stand there and stare, or are you going to actually put some pants on?”

Andy grinned and wiped his hands on a towel. “Maybe I like the view.”

“Yeah, well, enjoy it while it lasts.” She flexed, which made her breasts bounce with theatrical exaggeration, and laughed at his face. “You are such a guy.”

He shrugged, then took a long look, letting himself just… see her. It was impossible to ignore how Erin had changed since her last transformation: the color of her skin had gone from its old olive to a minty, almost luminous green, and in the right light it was as if veins of gold and silver ran just beneath the surface. She had a runner’s muscle, toned and purposeful, but now her body glistened faintly, the way a wet leaf catches the morning sun. Even her nipples, once a delicate rose, were now a deep, almost emerald shade; they stood out against her breasts, which, despite their size, seemed to defy gravity.

He realized he was ogling again.

She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Andy. Or, whatever planet this is now.” She grinned, but the moment after, her expression softened, almost shy. “It’s okay if it’s weird. I get it. I just…” She trailed off, the confidence leaking out of her stance.

He stepped toward her, took her hand. It was warm—almost too warm. “I mean it. You look amazing.”

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks darkened—a flush that went green, like the blush on a mango. “You don’t have to say that. I know what I look like.”

He wanted to argue, to insist, but she changed the subject by grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. It was a rough, quick thing, all teeth and tongue, as if she was afraid it might be their last. He matched her, not holding back, until she broke away with a gasp, eyes a little wild.

“I should probably warn you,” she said, voice low. “Plant or not, I still get so wet I could water the garden with it, when you look at me like that. That’s not a figure of speech.” She stared him down, daring him to make a joke.

He considered, then just nodded. “Good to know.”

She snorted, then let her forehead rest against his chest. Her hair was still in its ponytail, and its deep auburn stood out even more against the green of her skin. Up close, her skin had a faint, sweet smell—almost like fresh basil.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, so quiet he almost didn’t catch it.

“Me too,” he said, meaning it.

They stood like that for a while, letting the silence fill up around them, bodies close. Erin’s hands slid down his chest, then wrapped around his waist. There was a steadiness to her, a grounding, and Andy realized he felt more at ease than he had in weeks. That had always been Erin’s gift: to ground him and make him feel safe.

Eventually she pulled away, grabbed a clean dishtowel, and started polishing the kitchen counter. She was meticulous, almost obsessive about it, and Andy knew better than to offer to help.

“Seriously though,” she said, without looking up. “How are you holding up?”

He took a breath. “Better now.” He hesitated, then added, “The last few days were rough.”

She nodded, not pressing. “Did you and Riley figure stuff out?”

“I think so. We talked a lot.”

“Good.” She scrubbed harder. “You need more friends who remember her. Or at least more people who give a shit.”

Andy almost laughed. “You volunteering for the job?”

She tossed the towel at him. “Damn right. Someone’s gotta keep you from turning into a shut-in.”

He let the moment hang, not wanting to break the spell. He realized, with a little surprise, that her presence in the apartment didn’t just lighten the room, it lightened everything: the tension, the sadness, even the slow ache of guilt he always felt after talking about Laura. Erin didn’t replace any of that, but she made it easier to breathe.

She noticed his gaze again, and this time she didn’t comment—just let him look, her eyes flicking up and down his body with the same hunger he’d seen on their first date back in college.

“Are you going to get dressed, or do I need to do it for you?” she said, finally.

Andy gestured at his robe. “I was waiting for a recommendation from the expert.”

She smiled, then marched to his closet, hips swaying. “Fine. But if you come out in cargo shorts and a polo, I’m setting you on fire.”

He followed her, watching the way her calves flexed as she walked, the play of muscle under green skin. It was strange, but the longer he watched, the more natural it felt. She picked a pair of dark jeans, a worn t-shirt, and a blue flannel—old favorites, ones she would have ribbed him for in college, but now seemed to find endearing.

“Here,” she said, tossing the clothes onto the bed. “And try not to ogle me until you’ve at least got your dick covered.”

He smirked, and she returned the look with a smirk of her own.

Andy dressed, watching her out of the corner of his eye. She made a production of lounging on the bed, crossing and uncrossing her legs, running her hands up her thighs with exaggerated slowness. Every now and then, she caught him looking and grinned, but once or twice, she glanced at herself in the mirror—a flicker of doubt, quickly erased by bravado.

Once he was dressed, she grabbed his hand and dragged him back to the living room.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Anywhere. As long as it’s not here.” She hesitated, then added, “I want to be out, you know? See people. Maybe scare a few of them.”

He laughed. “You know, I don’t think anyone here would bat an eye.”

Erin wrinkled her nose. “You’re probably right. Still, it’s fun to pretend.”

They slipped into the hallway, Erin leading, Andy trailing behind. She leaned back against the elevator wall and let her hands roam his waist, sliding under his shirt to rest on bare skin.

“Did you ever think we’d end up here?” she asked, eyes searching his.

He shrugged. “I hoped. Even after we broke up.”

She rolled her eyes. “Liar. You didn’t talk to me until we came to The HH.”

He winced. “I thought you hated me.”

“I did,” she said, but her voice was gentle. “For quite a while. But really, I just missed you. Even if you were an idiot.”

He smiled, unsure what to say, so he just squeezed her hand.

The doors opened onto the lobby, and Erin stepped out first, unselfconscious. Andy followed, feeling weirdly proud to be seen with her—even if she was, by any normal standard, a walking scandal.

“Where to?” he asked.

She planted her hands on her hips and did a slow, unnecessary turn, taking in the sunlight flooding through the vast windows. “Lagoon,” she decided. “I need my fix.”

They strolled through the side corridor, the doors hissing open to a walkway lined with tropical flowers. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of green things growing—Erin inhaled deeply, her eyes fluttering with delight.

“Can you actually photosynthesize?” Andy asked, half-joking.

She shrugged. “I have not been hungry since the last transformation round, so either I’m magic, or I’m living on pure sunlight and your dumb face.” She peered at him sidelong. “You wanna guess which?”

He laughed. “I think you’re mostly powered by snark.”

She snorted, but didn’t argue. “That too.”

The Lagoon was empty—just them, the smooth boulders sloping into blue water, and the chorus of birds and distant surf. Erin bounded ahead, found the biggest sun-bleached rock, and sprawled across it with a theatrical moan of pleasure. Her skin almost sparkled; it was like watching a sculpture wake up.

Andy sat beside her, just close enough for their knees to touch. The warmth coming off her was palpable—he could swear he felt the photosynthesis happening, she arched her back and turned her face to the sky.

After a long moment, she cracked one eye at him. “Are you really going to sit there and not get naked? I’m starting to think you like being overdressed.”

Andy shook his head, but peeled off his shirt, folding it with unnecessary precision. She watched, eyes on his chest, a lazy smile spreading over her face. “Much better,” she said, and closed her eyes again.

He lay back, felt the heat of the rock and the sun, and let himself relax for the first time in a week. He hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been carrying until now, how the aftermath of seeing Myra, talking to Riley, realizing how he needed to help Emily, had wound him so tight he’d forgotten what it was to just be.

They stayed like that, bodies loose, the only sound the wind and the distant splash of fish in the water.

Erin spoke without opening her eyes. “I know you’re staring at me.”

“You make it hard not to,” he said.

“Not my fault you have no self-control.” She stretched, arms overhead, breasts rising in an obscene arc. She was showing off, and she knew it.

Andy said nothing, just watched the play of sunlight on her skin.

After a long stretch of silence, she said, “Can I confess something?”

He nodded, though she still had her eyes closed.

“I’ve been horny for three days straight,” she said, matter-of-fact. “I keep thinking it’ll stop, but it just gets worse. The more sun I get, the more I want. But the real problem is, I can’t really relieve myself, you know? So it keeps building. And with you looking at me? Now it’s like—” She gestured helplessly, then finally turned to look him in the eye. “It’s like I’m back in your dorm room. Wanting you so bad it hurts.”

Andy tried to keep his face straight. “I can look away if it helps.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, rolling onto her side. She propped herself on her elbow, her hair catching the light in weird, luminous strands. “I missed this,” she said, softer. “Not just the wanting, but the way you always wanted me back. I used to be scared you’d get tired of it. Or me.”

He didn’t answer right away. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, but he knew she hated pity. Instead, he just held her gaze.

She laughed, the sound rough. “You’re really not going to say anything? Not even a dumb joke?”

“I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll say something honest,” Andy said.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was real. “Try me.”

He hesitated, then: “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in nearly two decades.”

She went quiet, face turned away, but he could see the corners of her mouth twitching.

“I missed you,” she said again, voice low. “I know I already said it. Hell, I know I say it every date. But it’s true.”

He reached for her, hand on her shoulder, and she melted into the touch, her skin shockingly warm and soft. She closed the gap between them, kissing him slow and deep, her hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer, expertly opening his pants and pulling them down, leaving him naked. The heat between them was instant—there was no preamble, no awkwardness, just the pure, animal need that had always defined their chemistry.

She pulled him down, rolling so he was above her, their bodies pressed tight together. The rock beneath them was hot; her body was hotter. He could feel her wetness, slick and insistent, between her thighs. He wanted to take it slow, to savor, but she bit his lip and growled, “If you tease, I’ll kill you.”

He didn’t tease.

They moved together, hard and fast, but it wasn’t ****—it was playful, almost a challenge to see who could break first. She wrapped her legs around his waist, guiding him in, her hands roaming his back, nails leaving faint lines. She never stopped kissing him, not for a second.

He'd missed this. He'd missed her—the way she gave herself fully, holding nothing back, the way she let herself feel everything and made him do the same. But this was different. When he came, it was like being struck by lightning twice, his vision sparking white at the edges, her name torn from his throat. She followed a moment later, her back arching impossibly, fingers digging into his shoulders as her body convulsed with waves that seemed to pulse through her very skin, her moan rising into something primal that sent birds scattering from nearby trees. After, they lay tangled on the rock, both trembling slightly, sweat drying on their skin, her head on his chest. The sun was high overhead, the sky impossibly blue, though for the first time, Andy noticed clouds.

“Holy shit.” Erin murmured, still gasping for air. “It never… Wow.” She looked at him, her eyes glassy. He kissed her, feeling the traces of basil and mint on her lips, then they lay on the sun-warmed stone, enjoying each other’s presence in silence, for a while.

Andy propped himself on an elbow, watching her. “You’re glowing,” he said.

She grinned, looking down at herself. “Guess I am.” She glanced back at him, eyes bright. “You want to walk, or do you need a minute to recover?”

He laughed, stood, pulling up his pants, and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I’ll manage.”

They walked together along the edge of the Lagoon, not talking much, just existing. For the first time in a long time, Andy felt… happy.

---

They wandered the Inner Gardens, a winding path of mossy stones and flowerbeds so thick with color it seemed like the world had dialed the saturation to eleven. Erin drifted from one patch of sunlight to the next, pausing to touch the leaves, to admire a hummingbird, to make up Latin names for every flower she didn’t recognize.

When Andy caught her lingering by a big stand of rosemary, he joked, “Don’t eat it all, they’ll charge my account.”

She tore a sprig off anyway, rolled it between her fingers, and pressed it to his nose. “Smell,” she commanded, then, softer: “You’re happier than I’ve seen you in a long time.”

He shrugged, inhaling the sharp, resinous scent. “You bring out my best.”

“Don’t flatter me, I’ll get used to it.” But she smiled, wide and open.

They circled the garden until they reached a little outdoor terrace, a roofed patio surrounded by raised beds of chard, parsley, and rainbow-stemmed Swiss chard. Even after spending more than a month in the resort, the Inner Gardens still revealed spots they had never found before. Andy suspected they may be endless, or nearly so. Mildred was at the counter, this time dressed like a botanist in a crisp unrelieved black vest, matching shorts, and an aviator’s cap that looked one size too small. She eyed Erin with a lazy, theatrical up-and-down, then smiled at Andy with all the warmth of a car salesman and the friendliness of a cosmic horror.

“Welcome, Master and Contestant Erin!” she said, voice syrupy. The name on her tag was Nikhil. “Shall I recommend the soup? It’s nettle and mint—very invigorating.”

Andy eyed the menu. “Just a salad for me.”

Mildred gave him a flat look so arched it nearly hit her hat. “How brave. And for you, dear?”

Erin scanned the board, then said, “Can I get the black bean burger, hold the bun, extra avocado?”

“Coming right up,” said Mildred, vanishing into the back.

When she was out of earshot, Erin leaned in, conspiratorial. “You know she’s not human, right?”

Andy sipped his water, keeping a straight face. “She’s good at her job.”

“Liar,” Erin said, then dropped her voice. “She tried to recruit me for some kind of fungus cult last week. Kept winking and saying I had ‘almost the right look’.”

He almost spit out his drink. “You’re making that up.”

“I wish I was.” She grinned, then nudged him with her elbow. “You’re funnier when you’re not miserable.”

He grinned back. “You’re easier to be around when you’re not angry.”

She considered this, then nodded. “Fair.”

Mildred returned with the food, setting Andy’s salad down with an exaggerated flourish and sliding Erin’s plate to her as if presenting an offering to a goddess. “Enjoy your meal!” she said, then retreated, watching them with a faint, knowing smile.

Erin poked at her avocado. “She’s totally watching us.”

“Maybe she’s lonely,” Andy said.

Erin snorted. “If she is, it’s her own fault for being so weird.”

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, birds singing overhead, the rustle of leaves and distant buzz of a weed trimmer the only background noise. Andy watched the play of sunlight on Erin’s skin, the way her green seemed to shift and shimmer with every movement. Every now and then, she’d catch him looking and just roll her eyes.

After a while, she said, “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded.

“I realize we never talked about this, even after the end of the first round. After we broke up… what did you do?”

He chewed, considering. “A lot of work. Finished Aural, moved to New York. Tried to date a couple times, but nothing stuck.” He took a sip of water. “Mostly I just… worked.”

She frowned. “You didn’t have any fun? Even for a little while?”

Andy smiled, but there was an edge to it. “Sure, Sam and I got together for a beer or two. But the truth is, I thought I’d get over it. I didn’t. Not really.” He looked up, met her gaze. “What about you?”

She shrugged, then picked at her burger, not meeting his eyes. “I was angry. At you, mostly, but also at myself. I tried to move on—went on a few dates, nothing serious. I mostly just threw myself into work, too.” She paused, then added, “I hated that I couldn’t stop checking your social media. Even after you stopped posting.”

He smiled, rueful. “You could have called.”

“I could have,” she agreed, “but then I’d have had to admit I missed you.” She shrugged, face serious now. “It hurt. Losing you. I didn’t think it would hurt that bad, but it did. This—” she gestured at the garden, the two of them, the resort—“it’s the only reason we’re even talking right now. If it wasn’t for the whole harem thing, I think we’d have just drifted apart, forever.”

Andy considered that. “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe we’d have found a way back.”

She smiled, but it was a sad one. “You always believe in the happy ending, even when you don’t want to.”

He shrugged. He didn’t have the heart to mention that he had to believe in happy endings, even if the one he really wanted could never come true.

Erin leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You want to know what I really hated about this whole thing?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The idea of sharing you. I spent so long being angry at the thought that, even if we fixed things, I’d still have to compete. It felt unfair.” She looked at him, eyes bright. “But now I see it. If it wasn’t for the harem, I’d never have another chance. I’d never get this back.”

Andy reached across the table, covering her hand with his. “You don’t have to compete. Not with anyone.”

She squeezed his hand, hard. “I know.” She looked away, watching a butterfly land on the rim of a flowerpot. “I just… I don’t want to lose you again. That’s all.”

“You won’t,” he said, and hoped it was true.

They finished their food, the conversation lighter. Erin teased him about his salad (“You know you’re eating my cousin, right?”), and Andy shot back that her bean burger was probably made from relatives, too. The banter was easy, the laughter real.

When they finished, she stood and stretched, her green skin glowing in the filtered light. “Ready for the next adventure?” she asked.

Andy nodded. “Where to?”

She grinned, all mischief. “Pixel Palace. I hear Norah’s got the high score on the Pac-Man, and I intend to destroy her.”

He stood, following her. “You never let things go, do you?”

She shook her head, hair catching the light like spun gold. “Never. That’s what you love about me.”

He couldn’t argue.

They left the garden, their hands brushing, the warmth between them more than just sunlight.

---

The arcade was as empty as it had been when Norah first had brought Andy there, save for the faint sound of pinball machines and a couple of shrieking synth melodies that reminded Andy of every mall from his childhood. Erin led the way, weaving between rows of cabinets and air hockey tables, her skin glowing under the blacklights like a trick of the eye.

They passed a lineup of racing games, a cluster of claw machines, and a full-size Skee-Ball lane. Erin stopped at a bowling alley—half-length, just four lanes—and stared at the setup, arms crossed.

“Absolutely not,” she said, turning to Andy. “I will not be humiliated by falling face-first on the floor and bouncing a ball down the lane. I have some pride left.”

He snorted. “Are you sure? You could break the record for fastest gutterball.”

She jabbed him in the ribs, then eyed the billiard tables. “Let’s do that. Less risk to innocent bystanders.” She didn’t mention that the table was positioned directly under a row of spotlights, which made her breasts look even bigger than they already were. She just grabbed a cue and racked the balls with efficient precision.

Andy watched her chalk the tip, marveling at how easily she adapted—how she angled her body to avoid smashing her chest into the table, how she bent at the knees instead of the waist. “You’ve done this before,” he said.

She gave him a look. “Unlike you, I went to parties in college.”

He shook his head, grinning, and took the break. “Best of three?”

“You’re on,” she said.

They played in bursts, trading jokes and trash talk, neither keeping strict score. Erin was vicious on defense, but every time she had to lean in for a shot, she’d make a show of lining up and then give Andy a mock glare when he got caught staring.

After the first game, she said, “My entire center of gravity is ruined. I demand a handicap.”

“Fine,” Andy said, “but every time you win a round, you have to tell me something embarrassing from your post-breakup dating life.”

She laughed, a wild sound. “Deal. But you’re going first.”

He took his shot, sank the two ball, then lined up the four. “Okay,” he said, not looking at her. “First date after we broke up, I was so nervous I threw up in the girl’s bathroom before the food even arrived. I had to pretend I was allergic to olives.”

She doubled over, nearly dropping her cue. “Did you at least get a second date?”

“No,” he said. “I never even finished the salad. Your turn.”

She missed her first shot, then shrugged. “I went to a party, made out with a guy in the coat closet, and he called me ‘Esther’ the whole time. I didn’t correct him. Not even once.”

Andy grinned. “Wow. I’m almost impressed.”

They traded stories like that—awkward, funny, never mean. Erin confessed to an ill-fated bouldering date that ended with her spraining her ankle and having to be piggybacked three blocks to the ER. Andy admitted to getting ghosted by a French grad student after an entire summer of texting.

The games were secondary to the conversation. Sometimes they’d drift into silence, comfortable and companionable, just the click of balls and the hum of the arcade filling the air. Erin seemed at home here, moving with a confidence he hadn’t seen in years.

At the end of the third game, Erin declared herself winner by default (“You scratched on the eight, so all your embarrassing stories belong to me forever”), then slumped into one of the lounge chairs, breathing hard.

Andy flopped down next to her, letting the sweat dry on his forehead. “That was fun,” he said.

She looked at him, eyes soft. “It was. I forgot how easy this could be.”

He nodded, understanding. “Me too.”

They sat for a while, just watching the old arcade cabinets flash and blink, neither in a rush to move.

Eventually, Erin stood, stretching her arms overhead. “C’mon,” she said. “I want to show you something.” She led him past the rows of games to a quiet alcove near the back, where a single claw machine stood, filled with gaudy, impossible-to-win prizes. The sign above it read: THE CLAW KNOWS.

Andy blinked, surprised that he was back here, the exact same way it had been with Norah. Maybe there was something about the idea of him winning something for them.

“I tried this yesterday, lost three times in a row. Today, I’m feeling lucky.” She gripped the joystick, eyes narrowed, and lined up for the biggest prize—a ridiculous stuffed snake with fluorescent scales.

She missed, on purpose, and let out a theatrical groan. “Ugh, rigged.”

Andy took his turn, just as bad. They traded attempts, always coming close but never quite landing a prize. By the fifth try, Erin was giggling so hard she couldn’t hold the joystick steady.

“You realize this is just gambling for children, right?” Andy said.

“I know,” she said, “but it’s the only kind of gambling that doesn’t suck.” She tried once more, then let him have the last turn.

He lined up, aimed for a plush rabbit near the edge, and—miraculously—caught it. The claw wobbled, but the rabbit held, thumping into the chute with a dull, satisfying thunk.

He fished it out, presented it to her with a bow. “For you, my lady.”

She took the rabbit, hugged it to her chest, and said, “I’m naming him Cueball, in honor of our billiard experience.”

He laughed, and for a moment, it was like nothing else in the world mattered.

They walked back toward the resort in the late afternoon, arms around each other, the sky washed in gold. Erin’s skin glowed in the light, and she looked—despite everything—completely at peace.

Andy thought about the games they’d played, the stories they’d told, and realized he didn’t miss the drama. He didn’t miss the old wounds, the apologies, or the endless need to fix what was broken.

He just liked being here. With her.

---

They walked back toward the Main House with the sun at their backs, the world turning every surface to gold. The air was soft, not quite cool yet, and Andy felt the day’s sweat dry from his skin as a gentle breeze wove through the trees.

They said little—just the occasional remark about the path, a memory sparked by some flower or stray insect. Sometimes Erin would lean into him, bumping his arm, or let her fingers trail down his back, and he’d respond in kind, the touches easy and uncalculated.

As they reached the main walk, the resort seemed to hush around them. Andy thought about how rare that was—how much work it took to let yourself be happy, even for a few hours. He’d spent years believing that happiness was something you earned, or something that only arrived after enough suffering. But here, now, it was just there, waiting to be claimed. It didn’t erase the grief at Laura’s absence, but it built around it.

At the door to the lobby, Erin stopped and turned to face him. She looked up, eyes sparkling in the fading light. “You want to know something stupid?” she said.

He smiled, already knowing the answer. “Always.”

“I can’t wait to see what tomorrow’s like,” she said. “I don’t remember the last time I felt that way.”

He nodded, understanding more than he could say.

She slipped her hand into his, and together they walked through the glass doors, past the front desk, past a smiling Mildred, and into the elevator. There were no words, just the soft press of her body against his, the promise of a quiet night, maybe another game or just the comfort of lying side by side.

As the doors closed, Andy caught their reflection in the polished steel: her green skin and his, ordinary, side by side, both of them laughing at something only they understood.

It was simple. It was enough.

The elevator rose, smooth and silent, carrying them to the place that, for now, was home.