Cake and Presents, Part 2

The crowd parted again, and Genet stepped forward, accompanied by Richard and Aubrey. She moved with a presence that was impossible to ignore, similar (though perhaps more muted) to Anna’s own. Richard flanked her on one side, Aubrey on the other, but Genet only had eyes for Andy and his growing collection of gifts.

"I believe I have something that ties this all together," Genet said, producing a wooden box with ornate silver leafing that caught the light like liquid metal. She extended it to Andy with the satisfied air of someone who had solved a problem before it fully existed. Andy opened it carefully, revealing four rows of four velvet ring boxes nestled in perfect formation. His breath caught. Most bore labels—familiar names, one for each of the women in the harem, plus one for himself. But three sat blank, their velvet faces unmarked and waiting. Genet puffed up with pride as he looked through them, and when she spoke, her voice carried the weight of someone who thought several moves ahead. "I imagined the need may arise soon, so I wanted to make sure you were ready." Andy's fingers hovered over one of the blank boxes, curiosity winning out. Genet's smile deepened into something knowing. "I thought I'd prepare, just in case you found anyone new," she said, and winked.

Behind her, Aubrey had gone quiet, and even Richard seemed to be reconsidering his entire understanding of the evening. Andy looked at Genet, wondering what the Host knew that he didn't. "Thank you," he said quietly, somewhat embarrassed. "I'll make use of them." Genet smiled dazzlingly, and walked back, Richard nodding companionably to Andy.

Sam let the energy of the room linger for a breath, blue hair catching a slant of leftover sunlight, and then—true to form—she clapped her hands three times to break tension, each one sharper than the last.

“Alright, alright!” Her voice rolled out across the crowd, still buoyed by the corgi’s antics and the sugar high of three cakes. “I see what you’re all doing—waiting to see if Andy cries at his own birthday. You absolute sharks.” She grinned, then gestured grandly at the pile of gifts on the table, the armor gleaming and the teddy bear tucked between the honey wine and the sword. “First off: thank you, every one of you, for making the birthday boy feel like a million bucks. And decking him out like knight. I can safely say he’s never had this many friends at a party, ever, and if I’m wrong I’ll eat my own shoe.”

There was a laugh, a few pointed glances at Andy (who, to his credit, only blushed a little), and a smattering of applause from the Haunted Castle crowd, who seemed to enjoy the idea of a dare.

Sam waited, arms folded, until the volume dipped. “Now, I’d like to remind everyone that while presents from other universes and sealed bottles of doom are great, there is a second tradition for birthdays here on the island.”

She paused, eyes sweeping the hall, her smile going sly. “It’s time for the harem to put up.” She let the phrase hang, let the wolf-whistles from Stella and the catcalls from Tracy bloom and then die, before mock-glaring at them both. “I said put up, not put out. Get your minds out of the gutter.”

Tracy, unrepentant, shouted, “No promises!” but quieted instantly under Riley’s stare.

“Thank you,” Sam said, giving Riley a slow clap. “As I was saying: it’s time for the women who keep this place running to show Andy what he means to us. So, get in line, people—we’re doing this proper.” She leaned in toward Andy, voice pitched for him alone: “You’re not getting out of a single speech, by the way. Just be warned.”

He laughed, nerves and affection mixing in equal measure. “You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”

Sam just winked, then spun on her heel. “First up: Erin, you absolute legend. Let’s go.”

There was a ripple as the crowd parted for her, and Erin approached with a kind of easy confidence Andy had never seen in her before the show. Mint-green skin luminous in the overheads, she wore exactly nothing but a pair of ankle boots and a look of deadpan amusement. Her gravity-defying breasts bobbed lightly with every step but were so entirely hers that nobody in the room could mistake her for a joke. If anything, she owned the space harder than anyone.

In her right hand, she carried a small, matte-black bottle, stoppered in glass and capped with wax. She handed it to Andy without a word.

He turned it in his palm. No label, no marking, nothing to say what it was or why it mattered.

Erin waited, hands on her hips, until Andy looked up. “Open it,” she said, her voice low but carrying.

Andy cracked the wax and eased out the stopper. Instantly, a warmth rose from the bottle—not just a scent but a feeling, a memory, something that made the hair on his arms stand up. He inhaled, and was hit with a wave of damp grass, river mud, summer rain. Layered in was something sharp—crushed mint, maybe, or wet stone. But underneath it all was a warmth that could only be Erin: something unnameable but so intimate he felt himself blushing.

He closed his eyes, savoring. It was like a bottled memory of their best day together, the one they never quite got to have yet.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Erin cut him off with a wry smile. “It’s not a perfume, exactly. I wanted to make something that you could keep, even when I’m not around. Something real, not just…” She shrugged, a sudden awkwardness slipping in. “It’s for you, not for anyone else.”

He nodded, a lump rising in his throat. “It smells like—” but he couldn’t finish.

Erin finished for him. “Like home, I hope.”

Andy looked at her, and for a second the world shrank down to just the two of them, the crowded hall and all its weirdness held at bay by the quiet between their heartbeats. “It does,” he whispered.

She grinned, breaking the spell. “Don’t make it weird, Andy. I already gave you your real present this morning.” The crowd howled, a wave of laughter rolling over them.

He laughed, then leaned in and kissed her—quick, but real, and her hand found his neck with the old muscle memory.

“Next!” Sam boomed, eyes twinkling. “Chloe, let’s see what you got.”

Chloe approached, her ivory sundress swirling around her like a memory of a simpler world. She walked with a hush, as if worried she’d wake someone, but her face was lit with the kind of pride that came from surviving three straight weeks of keeping a secret.

She held a large, meticulously folded bundle—ivory, like her dress, but heavier and more substantial. As she reached Andy, she set it on the table and unfolded it with care. The crowd drew closer.

It was a sweater, but unlike any Andy had ever seen. The base was creamy, hand-knitted in thick, soft yarn that somehow looked both impossibly delicate and strong. Down the arms ran diamond-shaped patches of color, each one unique: a wash of mint green, a slash of electric blue, a splash of strawberry-blonde, a dab of sunburst orange, and so on. Each patch was bordered in a fine thread of gold, as if to say, this one matters.

Chloe smoothed the arms, then turned the sweater inside out. On the lining, in tiny, almost invisible cross-stitch, were names. Every woman in the harem—each stitched with a color that matched her patch.

She looked up at Andy, shy but steady. “It’s… from all of us,” she said. “Every patch, every stitch. I know it’s too warm for the island, but maybe—when it gets cold, or when we go back—you’ll know we care, whenever you wear it.”

He ran his fingers down the sleeve, each patch a different texture. He read the names in order, tracing the inside of the cuff: Norah, Marissa, Emi, Erin, Sam, Claire, Dawn, Liesa, Chloe, Riley, Emily, Myra.

He swallowed, hard. “It’s beautiful,” he said, but that wasn’t enough. He looked at Chloe, saw the hope in her eyes, and added, “I’ve never had anything like this.”

Chloe smiled, and something in her face uncoiled. “You don’t have to wear it,” she said, “but I hope you do.”

He grinned, holding it up to his chest. “You sure it’ll fit?”

Chloe laughed, and for a split second the air around her seemed to shimmer with pride.

Sam, from the sidelines, shouted, “That’s the only sweater in the world that could fit both Andy and Andi. Good thinking, Chloe!”

The room broke into another round of applause.

Andy looked at Erin, then at Chloe, and for a moment he was utterly at a loss for words. But they didn’t seem to mind. Both women smiled, happy just to have given.

Sam, savoring the momentum, clapped her hands once more. “That’s what I’m talking about,” she said, then gestured to the next two women in line. “Alright, next up: Claire and Emily. Let’s go, squad!”

Claire’s approach was as precise and intentional as the rest of her life: each step measured, body held at a quiet, poised angle, tail flicking with controlled anticipation. She held a journal in both hands, cradled like an offering, and for a moment it was not a crowded ballroom but the hush before something sacred.

Andy saw the title before he saw her face. Observations on Andrew: A Partial Record of Emotional Interactions, Volume One. The label was hand-printed in block letters, followed by a series of paw-print stickers and one wobbly smiley face. He met Claire’s eyes over the journal—huge, blue, and wide open to him in a way she rarely let herself be.

She handed it to him with a two-handed, miniature bow, then stepped back, notebook out, pen poised.

Andy opened the front cover. The inside flap read, in elegant calligraphy: To Andrew Cooper. For the advancement of mutual understanding, and because you asked me to tell you how you make me feel. —Claire F. Beneath it, in a smaller script, was a parenthetical: This is not exhaustive, nor fully peer-reviewed. But it is honest.

He looked up, and Claire made a soft, welcoming gesture—palms open, chest slightly forward, tail curled in a question mark.

He turned the first page.

The opening entry was dated forty-eight days earlier:

Day 0: Subject invited me in without pretense or games. Offered drink, gestures of hospitality—nervous ones, stumbling slightly. Possibly does this when uncertain of his footing.
When I wrote my silver lining about silence, he laughed. Real laugh. Then said: "You always had the best words." He apologized for what happened to me, as if my condition were a personal failure of his. Hypothesis: He carries responsibility for others' pain, whether warranted or not. Likely rooted in deeper pattern.
What struck me: He didn't try to "fix" the silence. Instead, we fell into rhythm—notes and gestures, my deliberate pauses, his interpretations. He filled some gaps with nervous chatter (defense mechanism), but mostly he listened. Waited.
He said I could talk in riddles if I caught him up. I refused. He accepted this without argument.
Note: In the past, people have wanted me to perform normalcy. He seems to prefer me as I am.
Felt safe. That is notable.

Andy blinked, moved on to the next entry.

Day 1. Subject observed making coffee for everyone in kitchen, even those who do not drink coffee. Hypothesis: He prefers to have a task, and uses acts of service as a mask for discomfort. Noted: Only smiles with left side of mouth. Right side reserved for rare, true smiles. Note to self: Track frequency. (He made me tea, even though I did not ask.)

The next entry jumped two days:

First date night with subject. Unsure of what to expect. He made dinner, then held me. For a moment, this was enough.
Then he broke the silence with a question. "If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?"
I indicated outer space. He laughed and said I would get bored. I didn't argue the point. Instead, I showed him: a book, pages turning, eyes scanning stars.
He understood immediately. "You'd want to be the first librarian on Mars."
What moved me: He didn't correct me or suggest something more practical. He simply saw the logic in my dream and named it. Most people have never done that.
Later, when we were closer, his hands learned me carefully. He waited for my signals. He asked without words.
Note: He still carries the habit of wanting to fix things. But he sees my brokenness and thinks it beautiful.
Both sides of his mouth smiled tonight.

He flipped forward. Every entry was a scene, a moment of him through her eyes, written with the same clinical accuracy that Claire used to catalog rare books or logic puzzles, but threaded through with a warmth that bled through her usual detachment.

He read a half dozen more. He felt his chest tighten with a pressure that was not pain, but something dangerously adjacent to it.

Near the end, there was an undated one:

He took my hand when I could not look at anyone else. I did not ask him to. He did it without needing a reason.
Later, he asked if it was okay. I told him yes, but I do not think he believed me. I will write it here so I do not forget: It is always okay.
Analysis: Subject demonstrates consistent pattern of seeking consent. But something has shifted, gradually, over time.
When he holds my hand, I feel it before I understand it: no pity. No accommodation for my silence or my strangeness.
Just Andy, choosing me. Choosing this version of me—the one without words, the one who reads his feelings like text on a page, the one who says the wrong thing less because she says nothing at all.
Correction to previous hypothesis: I am not broken. I needed someone patient enough to wait for me. Someone kind enough to hold my hand without needing me to ask.

Andy’s vision blurred. He closed the journal and looked at Claire, who stood perfectly still, her lips pressed together and her gaze fixed on the book in his hands.

He reached for her, and she didn’t hesitate: she let herself be drawn into his arms, chin on his shoulder, the purr in her chest barely audible above the party din. She pulled back after a moment, but not too far—just enough to look up at him with an expression that said, I see you, and I want you to see me, too.

He cleared his throat, struggling for composure. “Thank you,” he said, voice soft enough for her alone. “I think this is the best present I’ve ever gotten.”

Claire nodded, a tight smile ghosting across her mouth. She wrote quickly, flipped the page, and held it up: There are two more volumes forthcoming, one for each of the other rounds we completed, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you.

Andy barked a laugh, then hugged her again. The crowd, sensing the moment, offered applause that was less raucous than before—almost reverent.

Sam, never one to let things get too sappy, called, “Let’s hear it for science, people!” which triggered another round of cheers.

As Claire stepped back, Emily approached. Where Claire’s movements were calculated, Emily’s were all nervous energy and perpetual motion—naked except for a faint pink flush and her hair, which flowed and billowed around her in a modesty shield that defied gravity and the laws of probability. She held a sketchbook against her chest, the cover worn and dappled with watercolor stains.

She offered the book to Andy, her hands trembling ever so slightly. “Happy birthday,” she said, just above a whisper. “I, um… I wanted to show you something real this time.”

Andy smiled, gentled by the earlier emotion. “I always like seeing your art,” he said.

She blushed harder, then motioned for him to open it.

The first pages were portraits—of Chloe, radiant and dreamy-eyed, caught in the moment of laughter; of Dawn, bunny ears upright, mouth open mid-sentence as if caught in a joke; of Riley, glowering but also smirking, her hair already winding around her wrists as if ready to pounce. Every one was alive, a snapshot that managed to catch something the camera never could.

Andy flipped slowly, careful not to smudge the graphite. Each member of the harem appeared in turn, rendered with more depth and affection than he could have expected. Marissa’s portrait showed her mid-conversation, a hand raised as if to make a point; Liesa’s was caught in the act of drawing herself, the sketchbook within a sketchbook. There was even one of Andy, head bowed, lost in thought, his own arms folded in the same way as the fondant version of himself from the cake.

He paused on a portrait of Claire. It showed her in profile, glasses down on her nose, ears perked forward, eyes intent on a book in her hands. But behind the focus, Emily had shaded in a kind of radiance—a soft halo that made her look, to Andy, like a saint or an angel from a Renaissance painting.

He looked up at Emily. “These are incredible,” he said. “You caught everyone… perfectly.”

She smiled, bashful, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I wanted to draw everyone how they really are, not just how the show makes them look.”

He flipped ahead, catching a glimpse of a two-page spread—every woman together, sitting on the beach, some talking, some staring out at the water, all of them at peace.

Andy looked at the art, then at Emily, and saw her waiting for something—approval, maybe, but also something more basic: permission to be seen, and to be proud of herself.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, holding her gaze. “Thank you, Emily. You have a gift. I hope you never stop.”

Emily glowed, her whole body relaxing, and for a moment she looked more naked in her relief than she ever did in her skin. She leaned in, quick as a hummingbird, and kissed Andy on the cheek.

She lingered, just for a second, then whispered, “If you have time later, I’d love to talk about… you know. The other thing.”

Andy nodded. “Whenever you want,” he said.

She stepped back, glowing, and tucked herself between Chloe and Dawn, who immediately wrapped her in a side hug.

Sam, pleased with the proceedings, declared, “We are on a roll, people! Next up, Dawn and Liesa. You’re up, you two.” She gave Andy a wink, as if to say, Good luck surviving this one.

Dawn practically bounced to the table, her hands loaded with a three-tiered display box that looked like it had been filched from a Parisian bakery just for the occasion. The ribbons were black and silver, the bows immaculately tied, but the box itself vibrated with the scent of fresh sugar and warm fruit. The effect was so potent that even the corgi, deep in his nap, twitched a paw in anticipation.

She set the display in front of Andy, then paused, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. She met his gaze and, for a moment, the rest of the world faded. “Happy birthday,” she said, and her voice caught, just a hair. “I, um… I wanted to try something special.”

She opened the box with a little flourish. Inside, row after row of hand-sized pastries and cookies glistened in the warm light. Each treat was tagged with a card—some in Dawn’s looping script, some in the blocky, careful letters of the women who had helped her in the kitchen. There were lemon poppyseed pinwheels, guava turnovers, miniature alfajores, and a half-dozen others, all arranged with the symmetry of a jewelry display.

Dawn pointed to the top row, her finger trembling just a little. “These are for mornings when you wake up and wish you were back home. They taste like cinnamon and cardamom, but there’s also a little bit of my abuela’s coffee in the filling. I… hope that’s okay.”

Andy picked up one of the pastries. The outside was glossy and perfectly coiled, the sugar glaze barely sticky. He took a bite, and the flavor exploded—warmth, sunlight, the memory of laughter in a too-small kitchen. He felt his whole body relax, a line of tension he hadn’t known was there going loose.

He closed his eyes for a second. “Wow,” he said, when he could speak. “That’s—Dawn, this is incredible.”

She looked away, but her smile was so big it threatened to split her cheeks. “There’s more,” she said, and pointed to a second tier. “These are for when you’re sad, or when you need to feel brave. They’re not as sweet, but the inside has something special.” She hesitated, then added, “If you eat them together, it’s supposed to help you remember that you’re not alone.”

Andy picked up one of the brave cookies, noting the subtle sprinkle of salt on top. He broke it in half, and the inside was almost golden, studded with bits of dark chocolate and candied ginger.

He ate, and the taste was both new and hauntingly familiar—like the promise of comfort after a long, hard day.

He looked at the card next to the row. Dawn had written:

Sometimes, we forget that it’s okay to need help. I made these to remind you that it’s not weakness to ask for support. It’s strength.

Andy’s throat closed. He read the card aloud, then looked at Dawn, who watched him with open hope.

“Thank you,” he said, voice thick. “This means a lot.”

Dawn glowed—there was no other word for it. She hugged herself, then, impulsively, Andy too. It was a brief, fierce squeeze, but she pulled away before he could say anything more.

Sam, not to be outdone, called, “I suggest you try at least three more before the night is over! We need to test the full emotional spectrum, right, Dawn?”

Dawn giggled, the sound high and pure, then gave Andy a final smile before stepping back into the cluster of her friends.

Liesa was next. She walked with the kind of grace that made even her casual movements feel choreographed. Under her arm, she carried a folio and a rolled canvas, the latter tied with a piece of twine.

She placed both on the table and regarded Andy with a wry, nervous smile. “It is not as tasty as Dawn’s,” she said, “but maybe you will still like it.”

She opened the folio first. Inside were a dozen watercolors, each on thick paper, each one labeled in tiny script at the bottom right. Andy lifted the first, and found himself looking at a botanical study—a cluster of blue-green ferns, rendered in perfect detail but also with a liveliness that made them seem to move on the page. Next was a pair of flowers, scarlet and yellow, petals unfurling in the act of blooming; then a delicate, nearly-transparent moth, antennae so fine they seemed drawn with air.

Each painting had a note beneath it: North Ridge, morning light, or by the waterfall, two days before the second challenge.

Liesa watched as Andy paged through. “I went to all the places we have not seen yet, and tried to capture what I felt there. I thought… maybe, if we ever have to leave, it would help to remember.”

Andy was speechless. He ran a finger along the edge of a painting, feeling the raised texture of the paper. “These are beautiful,” he said. “Liesa, you could hang these in any gallery in the world.”

She blushed, the freckles on her cheeks standing out. “Maybe,” she said, “but they are for you.”

“Thank you,” Andy said softly, looking at the paintings she had made for him.

Liesa nodded, and unrolled the canvas. It was a map—hand drawn, inked in fine lines and watercolor washes, the island rendered in all its odd beauty. The trails were marked in blue, the cliffs in ochre, the streams and ponds in mirrored silver.

She pointed to the map. “Sam and I mapped every trail we could find. If you ever want to go, we can show you the best places. There are still some secrets left.”

Andy looked at the map, then at Liesa. For a moment, the silence stretched between them, not awkward but full.

He said, softly, “Thank you. I love it.”

She smiled—quietly, but with unmistakable joy—and handed him a slim, spiral-bound notebook. “If you find any new places, write it down for me, okay?”

He promised, and tucked the notebook into his armful of gifts.

Sam, ever the emcee, broke the moment with a clap. “That’s the spirit! I propose a field trip tomorrow—hiking, art, and pastries. Who’s in?”

The room filled with enthusiastic shouts. Even the guests from other seasons seemed to catch the energy, their faces turned toward Andy as if they’d never seen someone so perfectly, absurdly surrounded by care.

There was a lull—just a few seconds, as if the world itself was refilling its lungs—before Riley moved to take her place at the front. She did it with the same headlong certainty she used to break up fights at the youth center, but Andy could tell from the way her fingers twitched at her side that she was more nervous than she wanted anyone to notice. It was the book in her hands that drew every eye.

It was small, hand-bound, wrapped in a ribbon so violently red it looked like an artery had been tied around it. She held it with care, but when she reached Andy she extended the book as if it might snap or turn to ash.

“It’s not much,” Riley said, voice low, “but I thought you might get a kick out of it. I mean, you got me out of bed for half of the last month, so the least I could do was make you something you can ignore on a shelf.”

Andy accepted the book with both hands, nodding with the solemnity of a man handed a relic. He ran his finger along the spine, felt the rough thread of the binding, the warmth of the paper—real, heavy, the kind that always left flecks on your thumb after you closed it. He undid the ribbon and opened the cover.

The first page read: Things That Survive Fire, handwritten in blocky letters, all caps, the ink bleeding a little at every downstroke. Below it, in smaller, neater script, was a dedication: For the guy who taught me sometimes the worst day of your life isn’t the end of your story. —R.

Andy exhaled, the tension in his chest blooming outward. He turned the page, and there it was: poetry. Row after row of it. Some short—just a fragment, a razor-edged haiku that made its point and left you bleeding. Some longer, little monologues or stories in verse, the language so spare and clean it could have been carved from obsidian.

He glanced at Riley. She was studiously not looking at him, arms folded, chin set. The crowd around them had gone hush, all the wildness and confetti and dog chaos suspended.

He started to read, quietly at first:

Morning:
There is an hour before the world stirs,
when coffee tastes like last rites
and the air smells of bleach and old grief.
You remind me that breath is still possible,
even if it hurts.

He looked up. Riley’s face was flushed, but she met his eyes and shrugged, as if to say, What did you expect?

He flipped ahead. Another poem, different this time—faster, lighter, an echo of Norah’s accent in the cadence:

In another life, we argue about
bagels and baseball, or
who gets the window seat on the train.
In this one, we argue about who gets to survive,
and how much of themselves they have to burn to do it.
I never win,
but now I want to try.

He grinned, genuinely, and scanned forward. A dozen more—some about the island, the women, the sense of being stranded and not minding it as much as she thought she would. But every third poem was about Andy, or at least she used his name as a shield, a vessel for the things she couldn’t say out loud.

One near the end stopped him:

Sometimes,
the only thing holding me together
is the memory of how you looked at me
when I thought I was the ugliest thing on this island.
You said, 'I see you.'
Not, 'I want you,' or,
'I miss the old you.'
Just,
'I see you.'
That was enough.
(I am sorry that I hurt you.)

He closed the book, a hush in his bones that he wasn’t ready to break. He looked at Riley, then at the room, then back at Riley. “This is beautiful,” he said, quietly but so the whole room heard. “Thank you.”

She snorted, but there was something shaky in it. “Yeah, well, you can use it as a doorstop if you hate it.”

Achievement Unlocked: Ashes and Ink +5 VP

He shook his head, and for a moment he was the thirteen-year-old again, standing on the bridge, with Laura, terrified of saying something real because he didn’t trust himself not to ruin everything. This time, though, with Riley, he reached out and hugged her—quick, fierce, real. Riley stiffened, then let herself lean in, her head tucked against his collarbone, her hair spilling over his shoulder. When she pulled away, she made a show of brushing imaginary dust from her arms, but Andy saw the shimmer in her eyes.

She retreated to the edge of the crowd, and Chloe instantly latched onto her, the two of them murmuring something soft between them. Andy looked down at the book, tracing the cover. He could feel the echoes of her pain and pride, each word a stitch in the armor she built for herself.

The room was still, for a second. Then Sam, never one for long silences, made her move.

She approached with a pair of gifts: the first a battered spiral notebook, the second a glass bottle of gin so blue it looked like it could strip the chrome from a sports car. She grinned, hair bright as ever, eyes gleaming.

“Alright, Andy,” Sam said, “I know you’re the sentimental type, but I figured I’d give you something you can actually use.” She handed him the spiral notebook, the cover labeled in bold Sharpie:

Harem Management for Dummies: A Practical Guide by S. Collins, M.S. (Mostly Sarcasm)

Underneath, someone—probably Emi—had doodled a tiny Andy, surrounded by a dozen wild-eyed women, all shouting at once. The Andy on the cover wore a sign that said Help Me.

He cracked up before he even opened it. “This is incredible,” he said, flipping the pages.

Sam pointed over his shoulder. “I interviewed everyone for that, by the way. There are sections on crisis negotiation, kitchen politics, and why you should never let Emi near glitter.” She paused. “That’s a new section.”

Andy riffled through. Sure enough, the chapters were real, or at least as real as anything on this island:

CHAPTER 1: Crisis Triage, or, “Put Out the Biggest Fire First”
CHAPTER 2: Emotional Logistics (With Flowchart)
CHAPTER 3: Feeding the Masses Without Starting a War
CHAPTER 4: Polyamory: The Advanced Rulebook, with Diagrams
CHAPTER 5: If All Else Fails, Bribe with Cake

He laughed, shaking his head. “Did you really make a flowchart?”

Sam gave a little bow. “Please turn to page fourteen.”

He did. It was color-coded, with a key at the bottom (Red = Danger. Orange = Sexually Complicated. Green = Probably Not Your Fault. Blue = Ask Marissa First.)

He read aloud: “‘If Riley is upset, check to see if Chloe is involved. If yes, abort and seek shelter. If no, proceed to page 7: Apologizing Like You Mean It.’” He choked on his own laughter. “This is the most useful thing anyone has ever given me.”

Sam held up a finger. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t seen the best part.” She nodded to the bottom of the notebook, where a pocket held a set of coupons, each one labeled ONE FREE ESCAPE FROM GROUP THERAPY.

“There’s only five,” Andy said, mock-scandalized.

“Use wisely,” Sam deadpanned. “They don’t expire, but they’re non-transferable.”

The laughter in the room felt real, unforced. Andy caught sight of Marissa, grinning despite herself, and Norah, who looked like she might steal the coupons at the first opportunity.

Sam set the second gift on the table. The gin glowed in its bottle, label hand-painted and perfectly straight: Birthday Gin, Batch 001: Sam Collins Exclusive. In smaller type, Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery After Consumption. May Induce Singing.

Sam uncorked it and poured a shot into a waiting glass, the liquid catching the light and sending blue fire down the side. “I’m told it’s the closest thing to actual magic on this island,” she said. “I made it myself. With a little help from Emi, but I did the flavor and the botanicals. And Beerista took care of the rest. I warn you, it’s strong.”

Andy took the glass, swirled it, and sniffed. He blinked, the fumes nearly overpowering. “Wow. That’s… whoa.”

“Go on,” Sam said, “unless you’re scared.”

He tossed it back. For a moment, it was like swallowing a thunderstorm: juniper, then something else—citrus, rosemary, and, at the finish, a weirdly nostalgic note of cinnamon. It was smoother than he expected, but the afterburn was real. He coughed, eyes watering, and the room exploded into applause.

“Holy shit,” Andy said, “that’s—” He coughed again. “That’s actually really good.”

Sam looked smug, but also a little proud. “Knew you could handle it. Happy birthday, Andy.”

He set the glass down, and for a second the world was sharp and clean, every color brighter.

Sam turned to the room, raising a shot glass in toast. “If anyone else wants to try, I’m pouring. But be warned—this is the only booze on the island with a body count.”

Chloe, never one to resist a challenge, called, “Do we get coupons for that too?”

Sam winked. “Just bring your own glass.”

Taking Sam’s warning seriously, only a few people lined up. Laura, the Host Cassandra, and to Andy’s surprise, Anna and Arabella joined in as well. Even some women from his harem joined: Liesa was first, followed by Norah, then Marissa.

Andy watched, hand resting on the table, surrounded by a stack of books and a glass bottle and the buzz of laughter. He’d expected the presents to be embarrassing or sentimental. He hadn’t expected them to feel like armor.

Sam caught the look, grinned back, and poured another shot, raising it in salute. “To Andy Cooper,” she said. “Best damn Master a harem ever had, even if he’s not great at reading flowcharts.”

The cheer went up.