Roots of Loyalty, Part 2

The sun found its way into the Dance Hall, reflecting off polished floors and catching in the gold leaf on the trim. Light spilled through the long western windows, smearing everything with a soft, early-afternoon haze. The room was as close to ready as it would ever be: rows of chairs, a table for the cake, and, most importantly, the presents stacked at the far end, every one wrapped with mathematically precise corners and color-coordinated bows.

Norah and Marissa huddled at the control station. From a distance, they could have been generals about to launch an ****—heads bent, hands tracing the plan on a printed map of the Hall’s layout, voices too quiet for the commotion of the space. Norah’s dark hair was up in a spiral bun, held by a pencil she’d borrowed from the desk. Marissa, sleeves rolled to her elbows, tapped at a tablet, her lips moving as she double-checked the setlist.

“It’s too slow. He’ll get bored.” Norah’s voice had the clipped efficiency of someone raised on deadlines.

“Not if you give it more buildup,” Marissa replied, flicking through music cues. “You need the tension, then the release. Trust me, it’s neuroscience.”

Norah shook her head, but there was no real argument in it—just the ritual sparring of equals. “I want to test the speakers.”

“You did that already, twice,” Marissa said.

“I want to do it again,” Norah insisted.

Marissa yielded with a smile and a flick of her fingers. The speakers shuddered to life, and the opening notes of some grand, movie-trailer fanfare echoed through the Hall. Norah, satisfied, moved to the soundboard, adjusting a dial by half a millimeter.

A few yards away, Claire made the final adjustment to the memory wall. She stood with her back perfectly straight, tail flicking at intervals, each flick a calibration of focus. The wall was a collage of Andy’s life: photos from every stage, from his childhood to his time at The HH. Each item was anchored with a small tag, hand-written in Claire’s exact, looping script. She paused to compare two Polaroids, squinting as if weighing their emotional payload, then swapped their places with a surgeon’s precision. Satisfied, she uncapped a sharpie, made a notation, and moved on to the next cluster.

Sam entered with a clipboard, calling out, “Roll call! We’re starting the dry run in five. If your name is not on the clipboard, then what are you even doing here?” Her voice cut through the air, crisp and buoyant, and people responded instinctively: Emily put down her mimosa, Chloe snapped a hair tie off her wrist, and Emi drifted out from behind a curtain, all six hands fluttering nervously.

Sam moved from cluster to cluster, marking checks and making small talk—never lingering, always propelling the group forward. When she reached Claire, she took a moment to admire the wall. “Looks amazing, Catgirl. You got the creepy childhood pictures, too?”

Claire nodded, pointing to a section labeled “2007-08: The Braces Era.” The photos here were of Andy in the throes of middle school awkwardness: hair too short, teeth too big, but always with that same careful smile. Sam grinned, then wrote “PERFECT” in block letters on her clipboard, next to the checkbox for the memory wall, before moving on.

Liesa worked the room, arms full of white lilies and wildflowers. She glided in a state of perpetual motion, her dress catching at her hips, hair braided and looped in a crown around her head. She paused to study the table arrangement, then leaned down and inhaled the centerpiece with a slow, deliberate breath.

Sam found her, eyebrow cocked. “You high on your own supply again, Liesa?”

Liesa winked. “If you could bottle this, you would never be sad again. Here.” She plucked a bloom and tucked it behind Sam’s ear. “Now you are the most beautiful girl in the Hall.”

Sam blushed, rolled her eyes, and let it stand.

The energy in the room was different from rehearsal. People were still, but it was the stillness of a string drawn taut, every muscle waiting for the right cue. There was an absence of last-minute panic; the big decisions were made, and now it was just a matter of making everything look inevitable.

By half past four, the frantic activity had collapsed into the lull before the doors would open. The presents were perfectly arrayed, the memory wall curated, the tables gleamed, and the first notes of music—subtle, noncommittal, the kind meant to ease guests in—spilled into the room.

Marissa, Norah, Sam, and Liesa met up at the memory wall, each bringing with them the residue of what they’d just finished. Marissa carried the remnants of the soundtrack, Norah the faint smell of sweat from setting up the projectors, Liesa the scent of lilies, and Sam the contagious, vibrating energy of anticipation.

Claire waited for them, notebook hugged to her chest, tail still. She’d finished the last detail five minutes ago, and now she simply watched, as if expecting the wall to rearrange itself without supervision.

The five of them—Marissa, Norah, Sam, Liesa, and Claire—clustered at the memory wall, the air still crackling with the aftershocks of readiness. There was a kind of gravity here, drawing them close; each woman brought her own orbit, her own minor collision.

Claire stood nearest, hugging her notebook as if it might leap from her hands. She watched the others approach, her cat’s tail curved in a perfect question mark. The wall itself was both shrine and dossier: here was Andy as a baby, pudgy legs and green eyes, a puckered frown that promised every bit of the man to come. There was the college graduation, a line of identical blue gowns with Andy grinning like he’d hacked the system from inside. There were the launches and speaking gigs, a spread of old Aural press clippings, and a clutch of inside jokes from the HH pasted with winking precision.

Dead center, framed in four strips of neon gaffer tape, was the Polaroid: Andy and Laura, circa 2008, perched on a battered Chevy hood, their arms tangled like roots. Laura’s eyes burned blue from the print, and Andy’s hands clamped the air around her as if he were holding down a tent in a storm.

The photo seemed to radiate energy into the Hall, as if it was a tiny star and the party’s only purpose was to circle it.

Marissa was the first to speak, her voice calibrated to hover just above a whisper. “You know, I always wondered if he would have found someone like her, even if she hadn’t… even if things had been normal.”

Liesa, who was never still, slid in beside her and bent to eye-level with the Polaroid. Her green eyes traced the line of Andy’s arm across Laura’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t have. There is only one Laura. You can see it.” She pointed, one perfectly manicured finger almost touching the glass. “In his face. Like there’s nowhere else he could be.”

Sam snorted, but not unkindly. “That’s how all the nerds looked at their first crushes. But yeah, you’re right. She owned him from the word go.”

The Polaroid drew them, the way a bruise draws a thumb. Its placement on the wall was perfect, dead center—an axis for all the smaller stories orbiting it. Marissa let her gaze linger on the image, her arms folded, voice soft. “She really was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

Liesa nodded, chin propped on her hand. “You can see why he never got over her. It’s in the way he holds her—like he’s scared to let go.”

“She’s got a hold on him in the photo, too,” Norah said. “Look at her arm. She’s not letting him escape.” Norah’s tone was dry, almost defensive, but her eyes were soft.

“Emi said she once saw them on a swing set, and they were adorable,” Sam offered, leaning in, “and that Andy would often let Laura win when she challenged him to something physical, even if he was twice her size.”

There was a lull. The group stood, all focused on the Polaroid, each absorbing something slightly different. The Hall, even with the buzz of low music and distant voices, felt muted around them, as if the energy from the setup had pooled here for this conversation.

Liesa broke the silence first. “If she hadn’t died—do you think any of us would be here?” She looked at Marissa, then Norah, then, more gently, at Claire.

Norah shrugged, but the gesture was deliberate. “Not like this. He’d have probably married her at nineteen, started a company, and never looked back. We’d be talking about their kids’ birthday parties instead of planning his.”

Marissa’s lips twitched. “He might have found his way to therapy anyway,” she said, “but it wouldn’t have been for grief.” She let the joke hang, then added, “She shaped him. For better or worse.”

Sam turned, her voice buoyant to keep the group aloft. “Alright, real talk: If Laura showed up at The HH tomorrow, how do you think it’d play out?”

Norah snorted. “It would be a bloodbath. She’d chew up Riley for breakfast, outflank Erin in a week, and have us all running for the hills before the first challenge finished.”

Marissa shook her head. “You’re underestimating the rest of us. She might be the past, but we’re the present. He wouldn’t trade what he has now, not even for her.”

Liesa considered. “I think he’d try to have both. He can’t stop wanting the impossible.”

Claire wrote: Harem logic: If the original were here, all current relationships become expansions, not replacements. She looked up, eyes mischievous.

Sam laughed, then nudged Claire with her elbow. “You are so weird. I love it.”

Liesa turned to the group, her voice softer now. “Sometimes I think that’s why we’re all here. To help him heal the wound she left behind.” She ran her thumb along her jaw, as if testing the truth of her own words. “Or at least fill the space so he’s not alone with it.”

Marissa caught the edge of this. “We’re not second best,” she said, not quite to herself. “If anything, we’re the reason he’s still standing. Even ghosts need company.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but her lips quirked upward. “Group therapy via harem. Only in America.”

Sam snapped her clipboard shut. “That’s the pitch, right there.” She surveyed the wall, then turned to the rest. “Okay, moratorium on dead-girlfriend talk. Tonight’s about Andy, not his trauma.” She shot a glance at the Polaroid, as if to say, Sorry, but not sorry.

Marissa nodded. “Agreed.”

Liesa lifted a finger. “Before we move on, I have to say—if she’s watching, I hope she’s proud of him. He’s turned out alright.”

There was a moment, a kind of collective exhale. Even Norah smiled, just for a breath.

Sam grinned, “Hell, she’s not even alive and she’s still in the lead. But that doesn’t mean we don’t matter.” She paused, letting the words settle. “We’re here, too.”

They stood together for a minute, not speaking, just letting the glow of the wall and the faint, rising music fill the space.

The Hall felt different now—not tense, but charged with a new kind of purpose. The party wasn’t just for Andy, they realized, but for all the selves he’d carried with him, and all the ones he’d yet to become.

Sam was the first to break away. “Okay! Let’s check the cake before Mildred eats the decorations.” She pointed at Liesa and Marissa. “You two, with me. Norah, do one last sweep of the seating. Claire, you good?”

Claire nodded, her notebook clutched to her chest.

The group dissolved, each woman moving back into her role, but something had shifted. They’d named the ghost in the room, and now they could celebrate without its shadow.

But as they turned, Claire lingered, her eyes on the Polaroid, as if she could will it to speak.

---

Room 69 was quieter than Riley expected. The only sound was the slow churn of the ceiling fan and the faint click of pencil on paper. Emi sat cross-legged on the bed, notebook balanced on her knee, two arms supporting her on the mattress, her other four arms busy: two holding colored pencils, one sketching, one flipping pages. She looked up when Riley knocked, her expression going from surprise to mild panic and then—finally—to something like composure.

“Oh. Hi, Riley,” Emi said, setting down the notebook but not quite closing it. Her voice was as light as the breeze, but her hands were a fluttering of nerves, fingers drumming out a six-part rhythm on the blanket.

Riley hovered in the doorway, uncertain. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” Emi said, though it was obviously untrue.

A beat passed, then another. Riley realized she was still gripping the doorframe, her knuckles white, so she let go and stepped inside. “Norah’s not here?”

“She’s in the Hall. Sound checks or something.” Emi gestured, as if the whole hotel could be summed up in one vague sweep.

Riley nodded, feeling the silence lurch back in. She was not, by nature, a talker, and she could see that Emi wasn’t either. Two introverts in a room, both waiting for the other to blink.

Emi broke first. “Do you want to sit?” She motioned to the chair by the little desk, then started gathering her pencils, as if clearing a runway.

Riley sat, perching on the edge. She ran her thumb along her jaw, trying to figure out how to start. The apology stuck in her throat.

Emi watched her, hands now neatly folded. “It’s okay if you want to say something,” Emi said, so quietly that Riley almost didn’t catch it.

Riley looked up. “I owe you an apology,” she said, finally. “For the way I acted last round. I was an asshole. Not just to Andy, but to you.”

Emi’s mouth quirked. “You weren’t mean. Not really.”

Riley shook her head. “No, I was. I was pissed at you because I couldn’t handle what Andy said. About Laura. I thought if I could just point at someone else, maybe I wouldn’t have to look at myself.” She paused, then added, “It was easier to be angry at you and him than at the truth.”

Emi blinked, eyes huge and dark. She didn’t argue or try to soften the words. She just nodded, accepting them like gifts she didn’t want but would keep anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Riley said again, voice low.

There was a moment where it felt like nothing would happen—just two women marooned in a room, stuck in the gravity well of the past.

Then Emi got up, crossed the small space, and hugged Riley. Not a tentative, side-armed thing, but a full, all-six-arms-around hug, every limb a different pressure. Riley stiffened, surprised, then—almost against her will—let herself relax into the embrace.

She had heard some of the other women mentioning that Emi gave the best hugs. Now, Riley begrudgingly had to admit she couldn’t disagree.

It lasted only a few seconds, but something essential shifted in that time. When Emi let go, she smiled, shy but real.

“You don’t have to be sorry forever,” Emi said.

Riley snorted. “Fine. You know, you can be a lot harder than you look.”

Emi shrugged, her smile widening. “I have a lot of practice.”

Riley stood, not sure what else to do. She looked at Emi, at the careful arrangement of pencils on the desk, at the open window with its view of the gardens below. She felt lighter, somehow, like the room had been cleared of ghosts.

“Thanks,” Riley said. “For forgiving me.”

Emi nodded. “Any time.”

Riley turned to leave, then paused at the door. She looked as if she was about to say something, then she slipped out, letting the hush settle behind her.

Emi watched the door for a moment after Riley left, then picked up her notebook and resumed her drawing. But this time, the lines came easier.

---

The Hotel Library was never quite empty, but it always felt abandoned. Rows of ancient books pressed close, their cracked leather spines huddled like survivors. The air was dry, and the only light came from desk lamps that made little islands of brightness on the vast sea of dark shelves.

Liesa sat curled in one of the battered club chairs, legs folded beneath her, a mug of tea cupped in both hands. She wore a soft blue dress that caught at her hips and left her freckled shoulders bare. Across from her, Marissa had settled into a more rigid pose, ankles crossed, fingers laced around a black coffee. Marissa’s suit jacket was folded over the armrest, her white blouse slightly rumpled, her blonde hair pulled into a practical ponytail.

For a while, they didn’t talk. There was a comfort in the hush, the kind of easy silence that meant both could just be themselves. Liesa had picked up a paperback from a shelf and was idly tracing the title with her thumb. The Cunterbury Tails. She didn’t dare open it. Marissa watched her, taking the occasional sip of coffee, waiting for the right moment.

It was Marissa who finally spoke, her tone pitched low and even. “I want to apologize. For how I handled your confession, with the ribbon.” She hesitated, eyes fixed on her coffee. “I was… quick to accuse. I think I was trying to be supportive, but it probably came across as aggressive.”

Liesa considered this, tilting her head. “You didn’t need to apologize, you know. To be honest, I was too wrapped up in my own guilt to notice.”

Marissa met her gaze. “I don’t believe that. I’ve replayed it in my head. I sounded more like a bad therapist than a friend. I should have—” She shrugged, the motion tight and self-directed. “I should have let you see how much it meant, that you owned up to it. I was proud of you.”

Liesa let the words settle in the hush between them. She wasn’t used to being the subject of anyone’s pride—least of all someone who watched as closely as Marissa. For a moment, Liesa didn’t know what to do with her hands. She set the paperback down on the armrest, the bright blue of her nails a tiny flare against the cracked leather. Liesa hesitated, searching Marissa’s face for the usual catch: the gentle eyebrow raise, the therapist’s soft landing. But there was none—just the steady, unblinking look of someone offering something real.

She took a long sip of tea, holding the mug in both hands as if it were something fragile. “I thought you’d hate me. That everyone would.”

“I never hated you,” Marissa said. “I was worried about Dawn. And about you. It’s easy to be a referee until you have to blow the whistle on someone you care about.” She leaned in, her voice lowering. “That’s why I got it wrong. I forgot I was supposed to be your friend, not the judge.”

Liesa shrugged, her shoulders almost disappearing into the cushions. “It’s okay. I didn’t make it easy for you. I could have just… told the truth. Instead I made it a spectacle. For attention, maybe. Or because I wanted to look braver than I felt.” She smiled, but it was crooked, a little broken around the edges. “Maybe I’m just better at other people’s stories than my own.”

Marissa’s mouth twitched, a hint of her old wryness. “You’re an artist. We get to curate how we’re seen. It’s not a crime to want your story to end well.” She sat back, cradling her coffee. “But you didn’t make it a spectacle. You made it right. You could have let Norah take the fall, and you didn’t.”

Liesa looked away, blinking fast. “I almost did, though. I thought about it. That’s the part I hate.” She **** herself to meet Marissa’s eyes. “But then I thought about how sad Dawn would be, and how even Norah would never forgive me for it. So I decided to be brave.”

“You were,” Marissa said.

They let that hang. The Library’s quiet was punctuated only by the faint hum of the air system and the sound of Liesa’s thumb tapping on the mug.

After a while, Liesa risked a small smile. “Thank you. For saying it.” She glanced at the battered copy of The Cunterbury Tails on the table between them. For a moment, neither spoke. The apology had done its work. The knot was gone.

They clinked mugs, and the sharp porcelain tap felt like a reset. Liesa lounged deeper into her chair, loose now, her legs kicking lazily over the armrest. Marissa looked more at ease, too, the lines around her mouth softened.

Achievement Unlocked! Ethics of the Heart +5 VP

“Have you ever actually read any of these?” Liesa asked, gesturing to the endless rows of leather-bound books.

“Some,” Marissa said. “A lot of them are… not what they seem.” She picked up the nearest volume. “This looks like a medical text, but inside it’s a treatise on how to tie up your lover using only silk scarves and wit.”

Liesa cackled. “At least the Hotel knows its guests.” She eyed Marissa, mischief blooming. “You ever try any of the techniques? Professionally, I mean.”

Marissa smirked. “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent knot-tyer. It’s part of the curriculum.”

“I believe it,” Liesa said, her eyes sparkling. “But you strike me as more the… psychological bondage type.”

Marissa considered this, then grinned. “Maybe. But I’m learning to enjoy the company.” She tilted her mug, saluting Liesa. “You’re good for me, you know.”

Liesa flushed, not used to hearing it. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then dared to hold Marissa’s gaze. “You’re good for me, too. I need someone who doesn’t let me get away with bullshit.”

The two women sat together, drinking their tea, letting the hush do the rest of the work.

---

By the time the party machinery slowed to a stop, the Banquet Hall was washed in a mellow, golden hour light. The big tasks were done: cake decorated, banners hung, memory wall curated to within an inch of its emotional capacity. Most of the crew had vanished to other corners of the HH, but Sam and Claire lingered, alone at a table by the garden-facing windows, the detritus of coffee and pastry spread between them.

Sam had changed into a t-shirt and athletic shorts, hair pulled up in a loose bun, the blue at the tips catching the sun like sea glass. Claire sat opposite, poised but somehow comfortable, a mug between her hands and her notebook open at her elbow. The tail twined around the leg of her chair was more decorative than anxious. For once, she wasn’t checking off tasks or directing a build; she just sat, attentive, as if waiting for the next thing to happen.

The next thing was coffee. Sam poured for them both, then slumped into her chair, legs sprawled and arms crossed like she’d just survived a trial by fire.

“God, I needed this,” Sam said, draining half her cup in a swallow.

Claire smiled, but only with her eyes. She tapped her notebook, then quickly scrawled something and slid it across the table.

Sam read: Working on the memory wall made me curious. I need to make sure the pictures are all arranged properly. Tell me more about Andy, after college. You know him best.

She smiled, returning the notebook with a mock salute. “You’re not gonna ask about my tragic past? Or what my favorite cake flavor is?”

Claire just raised her brows, shrugged. It was the kind of gesture that said: We have all day.

Sam sipped, thinking. “Okay. After college…” She stared out the window, marshaling the memories. “We both ended up in New York. I was working retail hell, then coffee, then the Blue Bean. Andy… he was doing a million things. He’d been in school for like six years—engineering, then more engineering, then some weird side gig teaching SAT prep to rich kids.”

Claire’s pen was already moving, not just words but little diagrams, a timeline annotated with tiny exclamation points and boxes. Sam watched, half-amused, half-impressed.

“He was different after the breakup with Erin,” Sam went on. “Not in a ‘woe is me’ way. Just—closed. Like he’d decided to protect something inside himself. He’d always been intense, but after that, it was like he’d been cauterized. Still funny, still smart, but there was a line you couldn’t cross.” She smiled, fond and a little sad. “Unless you were me, because he’d known me long enough to know I’d break in if he didn’t open the door.”

Claire looked up, the question clear in her eyes.

“I didn’t date him,” Sam said, laughing. “I’m queer as a three-dollar bill, and even if I wasn’t, we’d have killed each other in a week. But I love him as a brother who’s always messing things up and then fixing them better than they were before.”

Claire wrote: Was he always… so careful?

Sam took a while to answer. “No. In college, he was a disaster. He argued with professors, picked fights with the campus police over dumb things. He had this stubborn streak—if someone said he couldn’t do something, he’d make it his mission to prove them wrong. Once, he learned enough Flemish in a month to win a bet with Liesa. I didn't even know her then, but Andy would practice with me.” She made a face.

Claire’s eyes widened, and she jotted: Like a hero from a Victorian novel.

Sam barked a laugh. “Yeah, except the part where he gets the girl. That never worked out for him. Except maybe with Erin, but even that…” She trailed off, face falling for a second. “He loved her. I know he did. But he was so afraid of losing her that he never let her get too close. And of course, there was the elephant in the room he didn’t speak about. I think that’s why she left.” Sam fiddled with her mug, then added, “But he never blamed her for it.”

Claire paused, weighing her next words, then wrote: He blames himself for everything.

“Yeah,” Sam said, voice soft. “He does.”

For a minute they just sat with that. The sound of the surf drifted in through the half-open doors. Claire doodled absentmindedly in her notebook—a little cartoon of Andy as a wind-up doll, gears for brains, a heart patched with tape.

Sam noticed and snorted. “That’s him. All gears and duct tape.”

Claire wrote: You care about him a lot.

Sam nodded, letting the silence grow. “You want the honest answer? There were times when I hated him. He could be so stubborn, so impossible. But he is the only person who ever made me feel like being different wasn’t a flaw. He just… accepted me. No questions, no drama. Even when my parents flipped out, he was there. He got me through.”

Claire put her pen down, then reached across the table and touched Sam’s hand. It was a light, deliberate touch—comfort, not pity.

Sam squeezed back, grateful.

“I’m glad you’re with him now,” Sam said, looking Claire dead in the eye. “I mean, not in the weird poly way. Just—he needs someone who can see him. Call him out if he’s spiraling.” She shrugged, a little embarrassed. “And, you know, handle his taste in junk food.”

Claire wrote: I can see him. And I like his junk food. She drew a tiny heart next to the words.

Sam grinned. “He’s lucky.”

They let the moment stand. Then Claire wrote: Tell me about Liesa.

Sam rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna do a full psychological profile, aren’t you?”

Claire smiled, wry, then gestured: Please.

Sam leaned back, considering. “Liesa was a wild card. She was smart—smarter than any of us—but she played dumb a lot. I think she was scared people would find out she cared. I didn’t really know her back then, you understand. And she left for Belgium so fast, none of us knew what happened. Andy never talked about it, but it wrecked him. I think she was his first real love. Maybe the only one before Erin.”

Claire nodded, as if this confirmed something she’d always believed.

Sam smiled, then said, “You know, he talks about you.”

Claire’s ears twitched. She wrote: What does he say?

Sam grinned. “He said you were the only one who ever really surprised him.” She looked at Claire, her expression suddenly earnest. “He loves you. I hope you know that.”

Claire’s eyes shone, but she just nodded, once, and wrote: I love him, too. She underlined it, then closed the notebook as if sealing a secret.

They sat, the moment a soft bubble around them.

After a while, Sam pushed her mug away. “Okay, enough soul-baring. You wanna go spy on the others and see if they’re screwing up the cake?”

Claire’s tail flicked, amused. She stood, grabbed her notebook, and gestured for Sam to lead the way.

They left the table, sunlight catching on Claire’s hair and on the edge of Sam’s blue streak, both women casting long shadows behind them.

---

In the kitchen, the air was thick with cinnamon, vanilla, and the barely controlled chaos of four women determined to out-bake an entire French pastry school in a single afternoon. Chloe ran the oven like a dictator—every timer precise, every tray rotated with the military efficiency of someone who’d spent years wrangling kindergartners and recalcitrant parents. She wore an apron splattered in icing, her hair pulled into a high, cheerful ponytail. The apron was at least two sizes too small, which only drew more attention to the breasts she pretended not to notice.

Dawn floated between the mixing station and the counter, her black bunny ears twitching at every change in the room’s mood. She carried herself with a calm that bordered on the preternatural, never flustered even when flour erupted in a mushroom cloud or the mixer threatened to escape the countertop. Every time the oven beeped, she was already there, opening it with a flourish, bunny tail wiggling as she checked the progress of the blondies or macarons.

Emily hovered near the island. Her eyes were huge and blue, and mostly she focused on stirring, licking spoons, and sneaking tastes of whatever batter happened to be at hand.

Myra worked the side station: zesting lemons, measuring out ingredients, and managing to keep her movements smooth and sure despite her blindness. Her fox ears rotated to catch the smallest shifts in tone or conversation. Her tail, enormous and fluffy, served as both ballast and emotional barometer, bristling with each burst of laughter and then curling tight again when things got quiet. When Myra smiled, it was shy and a little guarded, but every time Chloe complimented her grating skills or Dawn asked for her help, the smile brightened and held longer.

They worked in a coordinated chaos, the kind that emerges only among people who genuinely liked each other. Chloe would call out for someone to sift, and Dawn would appear with a bowl in hand. Emily hummed as she piped meringues onto a tray, the song changing tempo whenever Dawn’s ears flicked in her direction. Myra, hands covered in lemon sugar, would quietly reach for the bowl at her right and, guided by her fingertips and her Kitsune Step transformation, pour it perfectly into the stand mixer, never missing a beat.

After the third batch of cookies, they paused for a break. Chloe poured everyone iced coffee, adding extra sugar to Emily’s and a splash of milk to Dawn’s. Myra took hers black, sipping it with small, measured swallows.

There was a moment of collective exhale. The kitchen, for once, fell quiet.

Dawn leaned on the counter, watching the sunlight creep along the far wall. “You know,” she said, “I think this is the most fun I’ve had since arriving here.”

“Even with the bunny ears?” Chloe teased, flicking the tip of one.

Dawn grinned, her nose wrinkling. “Especially with the bunny ears. Makes it easier to know when someone’s about to spill a tray.”

Chloe poured herself another coffee, then said, “We should do this more often. It’s like group therapy, but with cookies.” She caught Myra’s slight flinch at the word and softened. “Sorry. I know that’s a loaded term.”

Myra shrugged, her fingers tracing a slow spiral on the countertop. “It’s okay. I could use the therapy. And the cookies.” She smiled, a little more real this time.

Emily was the first to break the hush. “Myra, can I ask something? You don’t have to answer. I just—” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “When you first got here, what did you think of all of us?”

Myra considered, ears dipping. “Honestly? I thought you’d all hate me.” She paused, as if weighing every word. “I could feel Andy’s anger. Riley’s, too. And after I found out why, from Andy, I thought if anyone knew the truth, they’d want me gone.” She let her hands fall to her lap, the sleeves of her hoodie hiding her wrists. “But everyone was… kind. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

Dawn’s hand found Myra’s, squeezing gently. “We all have our pasts. You didn’t have to be perfect to be part of this.”

Myra squeezed back, grateful.

Chloe smiled, setting down her mug. “I’ll let you in on a secret: most of us arrived here with at least one thing we wish we could do over. If we judged people by their worst day, nobody would make it past the front desk.” She looked at Myra with steady, warm eyes. “You belong here.”

The room filled with a soft, warm energy. Myra blinked hard, then laughed. “Thank you. Really.”

There was a pause, then Myra cleared her throat. “You know, I never thought I’d be anywhere interesting ever again, after…” She gestured to her face. “I mean—” She gestured to the kitchen, to her fox tail, to the air around her. “I thought after… after everything, I’d just fade away. When I lost my sight, I thought that was it. No more medicine, no more life. But Andy forgave me, and Riley made a truce, and all of you—” She looked at the other three, as if needing to memorize their faces. “You made it so I didn’t have to hide.”

Dawn wiped a tear from her cheek, her smile radiant. “We’re glad you’re here.”

Myra looked away, ears hot with embarrassment. “It’s silly. But I think this is the first time I’ve ever felt like I had a real family. Like, the kind you choose.”

Emily rested her chin on her palm, dreamy. “Chosen family is the best kind. No offense to my parents, but they’d have sent me to a nunnery by now.”

Chloe snorted. “Mine too. Or at least a dairy farm.” She cupped her chest, then rolled her eyes, and the others burst into laughter.

They shared the moment, letting it breathe, then Chloe raised her coffee in a toast. “To chosen family.”

Everyone clinked, the sound ringing bright.

After a beat, Dawn turned to Myra. “Can I ask something?”

Myra nodded, a little wary.

Dawn leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “Do you like Andy?”

Myra flushed, foxfire igniting green along her cheekbones and collar. “I—what? I mean, yes, but—”

Chloe grinned. “We figured. You’re kind of obvious.” She winked, then added, “But don’t feel bad. He’s easy to like.”

Myra turned beet red. "No, I mean... He's been so kind, but... Ahh!" She brought her hands to her burning cheeks, trying desperately to disappear.

Emily, emboldened, said, “It’s okay if you want to, you know, sleep with him. That’s basically the point of all this.” She gestured around the kitchen, as if the pastries were proof.

Myra covered her face with both hands, ears drooping, foxfire dancing higher. “You’re all terrible.”

Dawn’s voice was gentle. “You don’t have to. But if you want to, we can help. Andy’s dense sometimes, and the Suite can be confusing to navigate if you can’t see.”

Chloe said, “We could even run interference, if you’re shy.”

Emily piped up, “Or we could just leave a trail of cookies to his bed. I'm sure it would work wonders.” She grinned, then covered her mouth, blushing.

Myra peeked through her fingers, still blushing but less mortified. “Maybe after the cake’s done. I need a little more time to work up the courage.”

Chloe nodded, then leaned over and whispered (not quietly), “If you want pointers, I have the best cheat codes.” She winked, and Dawn nearly fell off her stool laughing.

Myra’s tail thrashed once, then settled. “Thank you. All of you.”

They smiled, the mood light and easy. Even Emily, who usually preferred to drift on the periphery, looked fully present.

Chloe checked the timer, then said, “Alright. Five minutes until the next batch is up. Who wants to help me taste-test?”

All hands went up, even Myra’s.

They baked until the sunlight vanished, then made plans to meet in Myra’s room after dinner. “For plotting,” Dawn said, and nobody disagreed.

If harem therapy existed, Myra thought, this was probably how it started: with friendship, a little mischief, and enough sugar to level a small city.

---

Room 143 was dark except for a strip of orange moonlight that fell through the slats of the window blinds and across the foot of the bed. Myra’s side of the room was impeccable—spare, almost monastic, but for the neat row of clothes folded atop her dresser and a single glass of water on the nightstand. Erin’s side was less so: two pairs of sneakers and one pair of hiking shoes slumped in the corner, scattered books, a half-forgotten bra she had never thrown away after the second transformation round '‘for sentimental reasons,’ and the faint scent of eucalyptus and something sweet lingering in the air.

The door clicked open, and Dawn padded in first, followed by Chloe and Emily. Myra was already waiting, her back straight, hands folded on her lap, fox tail curled protectively around her feet. When the others entered, she looked up, her sightless gaze searching for their voices.

“Hey,” Dawn said, soft as dusk. “You ready for the huddle?”

Myra nodded, ears alert. “I think so.”

Emily flopped onto the bed, her hair exploding across the pillow like a thrown net. Chloe curled into the window seat, bunny-printed pajama pants bunched at her knees. Dawn dragged over the rolling desk chair, spinning it around to straddle the seat backward.

They looked at Myra, who felt the attention and swallowed, then smiled—a small, scared thing, but sincere.

“So,” Dawn said, “we’re here to plot the perfect crime.”

Emily grinned, catching on. “A heist.”

Chloe leaned forward, voice soft but eager. “We want you to get your Andy moment. We just need to figure out how.”

Myra’s hands flexed on her lap. “I haven’t… dated in a long time. Or ever, really.” She blushed, foxfire dancing over her shoulders and arms, lighting up the room in an eerie green radiance. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Dawn reached out, covering Myra’s hand with her own. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ll plan everything, so all you have to do is show up.”

Myra laughed, nervous but not unwilling. “Okay. Where do we begin?”

Dawn took the lead. “Option one: we piggyback you onto my next date night. I still haven’t had mine, and I don’t mind sharing. Andy’s already comfortable with you, and we can make it super chill. Like, board games and snacks, or just sit on the couch and drink wine.”

Chloe considered this. “Low pressure. Very good. But is that what you want?” She looked at Myra, concern in her eyes. “Because if you want something more private, we can make that happen, too.”

Emily rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. “Or we could do a surprise.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “We could dress you in all black, like a ninja.”

Myra giggled, fox tail flicking behind her. “I think the ears and tail might give me away.”

Emily’s eyes sparkled. “We’ll get you a hat. Or a cape. Or—wait, do they sell ninja outfits in the HH gift shop?”

Chloe held up a finger, bringing things back. “Or, radical idea: you could just ask Andy for what you want. He’s so literal sometimes, I bet he’d say yes without even realizing it was a date.”

Myra’s cheeks flamed again. “Just… ask him?”

Chloe nodded, kind but firm. “You’re allowed to ask for things. You’re allowed to want things.”

Dawn squeezed her hand. “And we’ll support you, whatever you pick.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the only sound the hum of the air system and Emily humming softly to herself as she imagined a ninja getup.

Myra thought about it. The thought of piggybacking on Dawn’s date was comforting, safe; she wouldn’t be alone, and she could lean on Dawn if she lost her nerve. She wasn’t even sure how far she wanted to go, she just knew she felt safe with him, even though she had no right to. But the idea of a covert mission, sneaking into the Suite, made her giggle. And the third option—just asking for what she wanted—was terrifying, but somehow it felt like the truest choice.

“I think…” Myra started, then stopped, nerves getting the better of her. Foxfire danced in sheets over her skin. “I think I want to ask him. But I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

Chloe beamed. “That’s perfect. You can practice on us.”

Emily leapt up, suddenly serious. “Pretend I’m Andy,” she said, dropping her voice two octaves. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

Myra snorted, which only made Emily hunch her shoulders and deepen her voice more. “I like board games and unprocessed snacks. Let’s go for a walk, Myra. Or… whatever you want.”

Dawn lost it, covering her mouth to keep from howling with laughter.

Chloe grinned, encouraging. “See? If you can do it with Emily, Andy will be a breeze.”

Myra took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said, “Andy, would you like to… spend some time with me? Just us?”

Emily clapped, then added, “Hell yes, I would. And you look amazing, by the way.”

Chloe and Dawn cheered, both genuinely impressed.

“See?” Dawn said. “Easy.”

Myra smiled, a real one this time. “I think I can do it.”

They spent the next half hour plotting scenarios: casual date, surprise visit, even a coded message hidden in a batch of cookies. By the end, Myra had options and backup plans, and the support of three of the quietest but most determined women in the HH.

When it was time to sleep, Chloe hugged Myra tight, the warmth lingering even after she let go. Dawn ruffled her hair, then promised to be on call for emotional support at a moment’s notice. Emily, at the door, paused, turned, and hugged Myra from behind, arms looping around her waist and her hair falling over both of them like a blanket.

“Go get him, tiger,” Emily whispered.

Myra’s tail flicked, her ears twitching with something close to joy.

When the others left, Myra crawled into bed, her heart pounding but light. She let her fingers run over the edge of her pillow, feeling the world as it was—not the dark she used to fear, but something rich and full and brimming with possibilities.