Claire's Night (IV)

The Master’s Suite was quieter than usual, the hush so complete it swallowed the distant ocean and the drone of the hotel’s machinery. Andy sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, watching Claire pace a careful orbit around Katherine’s painting. Every so often, Claire’s tail would twitch and she’d glance at the frame, as if afraid the girl inside might vanish if she looked away for too long.

He still wasn’t used to seeing Katherine move with someone else in the room. For the first few weeks, she’d kept still when anyone else was in the room. When he’d asked her to reveal herself to Erin, she had complied, but only reluctantly. Now, Katherine seemed to have decided the rules had changed. Or maybe she knew Claire had sussed her out despite her best attempts at pretending to be a painting.

It had been Andy’s idea to tell Claire the truth, but it was Claire who made it feel like the right choice. She never needed to say anything. The way she watched Katherine—curious, gentle, never once looking away out of awkwardness—said more than pages of theory could.

He stood, unsure if he should touch Claire’s shoulder or simply let her finish her circuit. She seemed to be memorizing every line of the frame, maybe searching for clues in the gilded wood, the old cracks in the varnish, the subtle way the girl in the painting always seemed to be on the verge of breathing.

Andy’s focus was so absolute that he almost missed the faint double-chime from the elevator down the hall.

He heard it again, a little sharper this time. Then a voice—warm, clear, and unmistakably Erin: “Hello? Andy? Catgirl? Is this a party or am I early?”

Andy glanced at Claire, who grinned in her own quiet way: the corners of her mouth just barely up, the ears flicked to maximum alert.

“I’ll get her,” he said, moving to the living room. It was pointless; Erin’s stride was already closing the distance, brisk and sure as always.

She stepped out of the elevator, completely naked, her only concession to modesty the battered white sneakers on her feet and the confidence in her eyes. She’d left her hair loose, a fiery stream down her mint-green back.

She paused when she saw Andy. He realized, a little late, that he’d simply stood there, staring. “Is this where you say I clean up nice?” Erin asked, straight-faced.

Andy blinked. “You look incredible,” he said, and meant it. “Every single time I think I’m used to your looks, I see you again and it’s… wow.”

Erin’s smile was subtle, but her nipples perked up as soon as he met her gaze—an involuntary reaction, and one she’d made peace with in the last week. “Thanks. You going to stare all night, or are you going to invite me in?”

He reached out, took her hand, and tugged her into the bedroom. Claire was waiting, notebook in hand. The tail behind her was positively vibrating.

“Hey, Catgirl,” Erin said, all affection. “Glad you invited me. Not going to lie, I was worried I’d be banned after the last time.”

Claire rolled her eyes, then wrote quickly:

Not a party without you.

She held up the page, and Erin barked a short laugh. “You’re getting good at the one-liners,” she said, and nuzzled her nose against Claire’s hair affectionately. Claire didn’t flinch; if anything, she leaned in, tail winding around Erin’s wrist.

Andy felt the old, strange ache of gratitude: that after everything, the two people he loved most could still find room for each other. They looked like sisters, despite the fact they couldn’t be more different.

He turned to the painting. Katherine’s eyes were alive, brighter than ever, fixed on the scene. Claire caught Andy’s look and stepped closer, pointing at Katherine, then at Erin. The invitation was clear.

Katherine’s painted hand hovered, uncertain, at the edge of her thigh—then, as Claire pointed between her and Erin, she splayed her palm and waggled her fingers, a shy wave. For a moment, it was easy to imagine she could step right out of the painting and join them. The illusion was so strong Andy caught himself glancing at the empty spot on the rug where she’d stand if she could.

Claire’s tail flicked with satisfaction, and Andy felt the surge of pride and mischief through the bond. Erin cocked an eyebrow, grinning as she took in the full scene. “Is this the part where we all pretend the painting isn’t alive, or did you want to let her in on the action?” She winked at Andy, then at Claire.

Claire reached for her notepad, scribbling something with the pen clipped to the spiral. She held it up: We’re not pretending anymore. The words were underlined twice.

Andy met Erin’s eyes, searching for any hint of discomfort, but instead she was beaming, her green skin almost glowing in the warm light. “Good,” she said. “It was creepy enough before, but it’s creepier not to say it out loud.”

He snorted, tension easing. “Yeah. I figure tonight, she gets to be more than a fly on the wall.”

Erin walked over to the painting. For a moment, she just stood, hands on hips, studying the girl within the frame. “Hey, painting girl,” she said. “Glad you’re with us.” Katherine’s hands, always so perfectly placed, shifted to her thighs. She dipped her head, a little uncertain, then straightened and looked back at them, smiling.

“She’s happy,” Andy said, quietly.

Claire scribbled: So are we.

Erin slung an arm around Claire’s shoulders and tugged her in close. “You have a good read on people, Catgirl,” she murmured, her own eyes soft. Claire pressed her face into Erin’s shoulder, the tail winding around Erin’s hip, and the bond practically sang with contentment.

Andy felt it too, an unfamiliar fullness that made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. He looked at the painting, at the small ways Katherine’s hands shifted, the way she leaned in to see them better. She looked alive, more than he’d ever seen before. He wondered how much of her loneliness he’d missed, how much he’d left her to rot in the corner while he hid from the past.

He stepped up beside the painting and touched the frame. Katherine’s hand lifted, palm outward.

Erin grinned, but there was something soft in her eyes. “So what’s the plan? We all hang out in here until the ghosts come, or are we actually having dinner?”

Andy smiled. “We’re moving to the kitchen. And you’re helping.”

Claire’s tail arched in mock offense, as if she’d been tricked into manual labor, but her ears were upright, and Andy felt the thrum of anticipation through her. He turned to Erin, who raised her hands as if to say, “Bring it on.”

Before he could move the painting, Claire reached over and patted the top of the frame, then pointed to herself, then to Katherine, then to the kitchen. She wanted to carry the painting, or at least be the one to decide where Katherine watched from.

Andy nodded, picking up the frame with care. It was heavier than it looked, the wood dense and the backing reinforced by something that had no right to be as solid as it was. But with the strength from his Achievements, it weighed nothing. He let Claire lead the way, her tail high, as Erin followed.

For a second, as he looked at the painting in his arms, he imagined Katherine’s weight—what it must be, to see the world but never touch it, to yearn for a place at the table and have only a sliver of glass between you and the living. He’d spent years trying to avoid the ghosts of his past, but now, with Claire’s hand on the frame and Erin’s smile bright as a lantern, he realized he didn’t want to pretend anymore.

“Tonight,” he said, just for Katherine, “you’re one of us.”

The girl in the painting smiled gratefully. Her eyes said everything.

He followed the others into the kitchen.

The kitchen in the Suite had always felt more like a stage set than an actual room—gleaming counters, chrome appliances, no trace of real life anywhere except for the notes and crumbs Emi used to leave in her wake. But tonight, as Andy propped Katherine’s painting on the far end of the island, it felt transformed. The girl in the frame was finally in the thick of things, not relegated to a quiet corner.

Erin hopped onto a barstool, kicked off her sneakers, and made a show of crossing her legs under the marble countertop. “If anyone thinks I’m going near the stove in this condition, you have another thing coming,” she announced, cupping her breasts theatrically. They were, as ever, impossible to ignore—green, heavy, and so soft they seemed to defy gravity. “A naked, big-titted girl, not allowed to wear an apron? Last time, I nearly flambéed a nipple. Not making that mistake again.”

Andy laughed, leaning the painting so that Katherine’s gaze took in the full sweep of the kitchen. “You’re the one who said you missed cooking together,” he teased.

“Yeah, with clothes. And skin that wasn’t 80% plant matter. You ever think about what would happen if I caught fire now?” She looked down at herself, pinching the skin of her arm, then flexed her bicep as if expecting leaves to sprout. “If I go up in smoke, it’s on you.”

Andy came around the island and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He pressed his mouth to the slope where her neck met her shoulder—still so much like the girl he’d dated in college, only now she smelled faintly of basil and crushed mint. He felt the shiver run through her, the last of last night’s fear still clinging somewhere under her bravado.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, voice low and certain.

Erin’s hands stilled, and for a second she just leaned into him. “I know,” she said. “But don’t ask me to chop onions. I’ll cry, and you’ll be wet for days.”

Andy snorted. “Deal.” He released her and handed her the cutting board, letting her prep carrots and celery, her fingers moving with a speed and certainty that came from years of campfire stews and riverbank breakfasts. Andy’s own hands weren’t idle—he set a heavy pot on the range, poured olive oil in it, and started sautéing what Erin passed his way.

Claire watched from the far side of the kitchen, arms folded, tail swishing like a slow metronome. She waited until the first waft of onion hit the air, then set to work laying out plates and flatware. It was more ritual than necessity—there were only three of them, but she set a fourth place for Katherine, the napkin and water glass positioned just-so at the end of the island. Every time she finished a step, she’d turn to the painting, ears perked, and hold up her notebook with a question:

Straight enough?

Does this count as a centerpiece?

Katherine responded like a true professional chef—eyebrows arched, hands raised in dramatic critique, a little wave of the wrist to say “add more” or a stern finger for “not quite.” Sometimes, if Claire was especially proud, she’d do a little bow, tail high in the air.

The whole production turned into a game. Erin insisted on taste-testing the broth before Andy added any meat. She made a great show of blowing on the spoon, sucking it between her lips, then smacking her tongue. “Could use more umami,” she pronounced.

“Don’t say that word,” Andy deadpanned. “Not after what happened last time.”

Erin’s laugh was a bright, cutting thing. “It’s not my fault you didn’t know what miso paste does in a closed environment.”

Claire scribbled something, then held it up for Erin: You just like making him say ‘umami’ because it turns you on.

Andy pretended to be offended, but both women could see the flush on his cheeks. Erin leaned over from a safe distance, careful to keep her exposed green breasts away from the heat of the stove, and ruffled his hair. "You're adorable when you're flustered," she said.

Katherine's painted mouth quirked up into a smile, and Andy felt a jolt of pride. He'd never seen her so animated—never seen her body language so big, her hands so busy. He wondered if she'd once been like this in her own kitchen, surrounded by family or friends, before… all of this. Before the silence and the canvas.

"Your turn," Erin said, pointing at the spoon but not touching it. "But don't fuck it up. And keep that thing away from me—I'm not getting near that **** trap again."

He tasted the broth and tried not to make a face. "Did you put sriracha in this?"

"God no," Erin replied, taking another step back from the stove, cupping her breasts protectively. "I hate that stuff. Sam’s the only one who swears by it, and have you tried her meals? But I did add some kind of pepper from the garden. You want flavor without setting your mouth on fire, right?"

Claire raised her notebook: He likes it spicy.

Erin rolled her eyes. "Of course he does."

Andy set the spoon aside and reached for the bread, which Claire had arranged in a perfect spiral on the board. “Did you bake this?”

Claire nodded, but her ears flicked downward, the bond tingling with embarrassment. I asked Mildred to bring it up.

“Looks amazing,” Andy said, and he meant it. He broke off a piece and handed it to Claire, who hesitated before taking it. She nibbled, then brightened. “It’s really good,” he said, and watched the tension slide off her shoulders.

The soup simmered. The bread was cut. The table, if not a work of art, at least looked deliberate. Andy found himself relaxing into the rhythm, the comfort of making something with people who cared—not just about the food, but about each other. The kitchen was loud with laughter and the low hum of the vent fan. Even Katherine, for all her constraints, was the most alive presence in the room, her hands and face a constant symphony of opinion.

After a while, Andy caught Erin staring at him—her eyes sharp and serious for once, not deflecting or hiding behind jokes. “You’re happy,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded.

“Good. You deserve it.” She touched his wrist, her fingers cool and strong. Then she looked over at Claire, who was watching them both, a slight tilt to her head.

Erin reached over and brushed Claire’s hair behind her ear, a gentle, unpracticed gesture. “You do, too,” she said.

Claire’s tail curled, and for a moment, Andy felt the gratitude radiate from her like a pulse.

He looked at Katherine, whose hands had settled at her sides, fingers laced together. Her eyes were on the table, and though she could never eat or drink, she looked more at home here than she had in years. The light caught her face just right, and Andy thought—no, he knew—that for a second, the wall between her and the living had vanished.

They finished prepping, set the pot in the center of the table, and made space for Katherine’s frame at the end. The Suite, once cold and distant, was now full: of steam, of color, of the kind of laughter that left you breathless. They hadn’t cooked a feast, but it tasted like one.

For the first time in forever, Andy felt like he belonged at his own table.

They ate at the dining table, the whole world reduced to the circle of wood, four elegant chairs, and the painting propped on one of them at the head of the table. The soup was a bit too spicy and the bread crumbled at the edges, but nobody cared. Erin filled the room with stories—about her weirdest conservation assignment (“they made me count snails for six weeks, Andy, do you know how many snails that is?”), about the time she almost set a ranger station on fire and lied about it for years (“I’m not saying it was the fault of whoever left the propane torch on, but—”).

Claire listened, sometimes covering her mouth to hide a silent laugh, sometimes scribbling commentary in her notebook and sliding it across to Andy. He read one mid-way through the meal and nearly choked.

He turned the page so Erin could see: She tells the snail story every time. The fire one is new. Keep track of this. Maybe there’s a pattern.

Erin laughed, bright and sharp. “Catgirl, I never said I had range.”

Andy couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much during a meal. Every time he looked at Katherine, she was more vivid: the way her painted hair fell just so over her shoulder, the tilt of her head as she listened, the hands folded politely in her lap but fingers sometimes curling, as if itching to reach out and join the fray. She was radiant, almost feverish with the effort of keeping up.

He found all of them talking to her, including her in questions and banter as if she might answer. Once, he even ladled soup into a bowl and set it in front of the frame, to Claire’s delighted nod and Erin’s deadpan, “Don’t think you get to skip dinner just because you’re framed.”

Katherine’s lips twitched upward into a happy smile. Claire reached over, tugged a paper napkin from the stack, and dabbed it at the edge of the painting, as if tidying Katherine up after a particularly messy bite.

They all lost it, the laughter tipping over into something helpless and pure. For a minute, it was just noise—four distinct voices, two of them silent but as loud as any of the rest.

It hit Andy, then, how different this was from the first weeks. There had always been a wall, some part of him that couldn’t let anyone in fully. But tonight, the lines were gone. The old distances had collapsed. They were just people, eating, laughing, taking turns embarrassing themselves for the joy of it. More importantly, to him, Claire and Erin both loved him, he loved both of them, and while their own bond wasn’t romantic, it was just as deep.

Claire held up a fresh note: This is the best dinner I’ve ever had. And not just because of the bread.

Andy looked at her, saw the sincerity behind the joke. He reached across the table, took her hand, and squeezed.

Erin watched, a soft grin playing at her lips, then reached for Andy’s other hand. For a few seconds, they just sat like that, the soup cooling and the bread going stale, content to be together.

He turned to Katherine, unsure what he expected—maybe for her to be diminished by their intimacy, to recede again into the paint. But instead, her eyes burned brighter than any lantern in the room. Her hands were outstretched, fingers uncurling, as if offering a benediction.

“Thank you for joining us,” Andy said. And this time, he didn’t feel silly for saying it.

They finished the meal in companionable silence, with only the scrape of spoons and the soft thud of Claire’s tail against the chair leg.

Afterward, Erin stood and stretched, arms over her head, breasts lifting so high they nearly invaded the table. “All right,” she said, “who’s up for cards?”

Claire perked up, and Andy nodded, already feeling the afterglow of the evening settle in his bones.

He looked at Katherine once more, saw the pride and contentment etched in every brushstroke, and knew: tonight had changed everything. For her, for him, for all of them.

The deck of cards was pristine, another amenity of The HH. Erin shuffled with the bored skill of a lifer, riffled the edges, and began dealing.

“Standard rules,” she announced. “No wild cards, no mercy, and if you lose, you have to compliment the winner. Sincerely.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at the cards, then at Erin. Andy saw the flicker of calculation in her gaze—a human computer booting up to analyze patterns and probabilities. Claire’s ears flicked left, then right, as she fanned out her hand. She didn’t smile, but the tail gave away her excitement, thumping softly against the stool.

Andy tried to focus, but between Erin’s relentless commentary and the way Katherine seemed to be watching his every move, he barely remembered how to play.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Catgirl,” Erin said, tossing down her first card. “You can’t hide behind your notebook now.”

Claire shrugged and dropped a card of her own. The game moved quickly, the three of them locked in a rhythm of play, counterplay, and ruthless teasing. Erin was aggressive, going for the jugular every time, but Claire had a knack for biding her time, then springing a trap when you least expected it.

Andy did his best, but he never stood a chance. He realized, about two rounds in, that Katherine was subtly trying to help him—her painted hand “pointing” at the cards he should play, her gaze flicking meaningfully at the discard pile. The first time he followed her lead, he lost the hand even faster than before.

Erin noticed immediately. “Are you seriously taking advice from the painting?”

Andy tried to play it cool. “She’s got a good read on the game.”

Claire scribbled quickly: She’s hustling you.

Andy looked at Katherine, saw the tiny, unmistakable smirk at the edge of her mouth, and broke up laughing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her enjoy herself so much—even through paint and glass, her delight was contagious.

The game devolved into chaos. Erin, emboldened by her lead, started trash-talking every move Andy made. Claire, never one for words, let her play do the talking—by the end of the third round, she’d nearly swept the board. Andy made a comeback only once, and that was because Katherine feigned an urgent “point” at a card that was absolutely the wrong move, just to see what would happen.

He groaned when Erin scooped the last pile of chips. “You’re all against me,” he said, but he was grinning so hard it hurt.

Erin reached over and ruffled his hair, then nodded at Katherine. “You, too. Good game, painting girl.”

Claire lifted her notebook: MVP.

They cleared the cards and lingered, unwilling to let the night end. The conversation circled back to old memories, the games they used to play in college, the time Erin and Andy tried to teach Sam poker and ended up playing with M&M’s until everyone was sick. Even Katherine, by the end, looked exhausted but content—her hands resting lightly on her lap, her eyes soft and at ease.

The Suite was quiet, the only sound the low tick of the wall clock and the distant crash of surf. For once, Andy didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

He glanced at Katherine, who met his gaze and held it. Her painted mouth curled into a perfect, knowing smile.

After the card game, the Suite’s ambient warmth lingered, made denser by the honeyed light, the smell of toast, and the echo of laughter that felt too rich to have come from just three people. Claire, ears flicking with post-game contentment, wandered back toward the bedroom, her steps silent but decisive. Andy followed, the heavy frame of Katherine’s painting cradled in his arms like an artifact too precious to leave behind. Erin, still completely naked except for the battered sneakers, trailed them with the lazy grace of a sunbathing cat, her breasts swaying with every step.

In the bedroom, Andy set Katherine on the low chest across from the bed, adjusting the tilt until her painted face looked straight onto the mattress and everything that would happen there. He’d worried, at first, that it would feel like a perversion—putting a trapped soul in direct view of what she could never have. But as he met her eyes, so patient and hungry and alive behind the glass, he felt only relief. It was what she wanted, he realized. Not to be hidden, or protected, but to be seen, and to see. To belong in the room.

He set her down, and for a moment, the four of them just looked at each other, the arrangement impossibly intimate. Claire perched at the head of the bed, her tail curling in a perfect question mark behind her. Erin hopped onto the edge, crossing her legs and leaning back, all confidence and invitation.

“Are we doing this?” Erin said, her smile lazy but her nipples already stiffening as she caught Andy’s gaze. He saw the flicker of arousal pass over her, not subtle—the way her thighs pressed together, the way her hands flexed as if ready to knead dough or flesh, whichever came first.

Andy looked at Claire, waiting for her signal. She met his eyes, then flicked her gaze to the painting, then to Erin, then back to Andy. He felt a pulse of affection and anxiety through the bond, a tiny tug-of-war that ended as Claire patted the space beside her, direct and unambiguous.

He joined her, sinking into the cool linen. Claire curled up against his shoulder, her head tucking under his jaw, the curve of her hip pressed to his. She was smaller than he remembered—so soft and warm, so easy to pull into himself—but she radiated a heat that made his skin prickle. Her ears brushed his neck as she angled to kiss him, not with a flourish but with a shy, hungry precision.

He kissed back, gentle at first, letting her set the pace. Her tongue flicked against his, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers splayed wide as if to memorize the terrain. She tasted of citrus and something sharper, a need that made his blood go hot.

Erin watched for a moment, then snorted. “God, you two are adorable,” she said, but the words had a vibrato that was more longing than mockery. She scooted closer, kneeling at the edge of the bed so her mint-green thighs straddled Andy’s shins. She rested a palm on his knee, squeezing lightly, then looked at Claire. “Catgirl, you mind if I borrow him for a sec?”

Claire disengaged with a breathless nod, then gave Andy a little push toward Erin, as if this had been the plan all along.

Erin wasted no time. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing hot and heavy against Andy’s chest, and kissed him hard. The difference was immediate—if Claire was all shyness and careful longing, Erin was pure muscle memory and need. Her lips devoured, her tongue probed, her hands raked through his hair. Andy responded, hands on her waist, the smooth mint skin almost impossibly soft.

He felt her shudder, hips rolling involuntarily against his thigh. She broke the kiss and buried her face in his neck, nipping at his earlobe. “Jesus, you have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” she muttered.

“Missed what?” he teased, breathless.

Erin grinned against his skin, then reached down and slid her hand inside his pajama pants. She found him already half hard, and in a few strokes, made sure he was fully there. “This,” she said, and he laughed, surprised by how easily she could make him feel like a teenager again.

Claire, not to be left out, slid down to the mattress, her body curled catlike along his side. She reached out, letting her hand rest over Erin’s on Andy’s thigh. For a second, their fingers touched, and though neither looked at the other, Andy felt the charge—two currents running in parallel, both feeding into him.

Erin pulled his pants off in one smooth motion, tossing them to the far side of the bed. “Nice,” she said, eyeing him with naked approval. She moved to straddle his hips, her breasts hanging like ripe fruit, each nipple already wet at the tip with a translucent bead. She shivered as the cool air hit her, but Andy could tell it was more arousal than chill.

“Want to show Catgirl how it’s done?” Erin asked, grinning. She lifted herself just enough to guide him inside, then sank down with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips. The sensation was almost too much—the heat, the wetness, the impossible pressure of her body. Andy groaned, his hands going automatically to her waist to steady himself.

She started slow, rolling her hips in a lazy figure-eight, her breasts swinging in time. She stared down at Andy, eyes dark and feral, but there was affection there, too—a warmth that went beyond the physical. She leaned down, pressing her forehead to his, and whispered, “I love you, you idiot.” Then she rode him harder, her pace quickening, each thrust bringing a little gasp or moan from her lips.

Claire watched, unblinking, her tail twitching in rhythm. She slid closer, her hands tracing slow, reverent lines along Andy’s chest, his abdomen, the curve of his hip. She didn’t touch Erin directly, but every time their hands passed near each other, Andy felt the tension—not rivalry, but something like mutual admiration, a team effort.

Erin came first, her body stiffening, the muscles of her thighs clamping around Andy as she bit back a shout. He felt the rush of her orgasm, the way her whole body trembled, and it almost undid him. He held out as long as he could, but when Claire leaned up and kissed him at the same time, her tongue urgent and needy, Andy lost it. He bucked into Erin, his vision going white at the edges as he came, the feeling so intense he almost blacked out.

At the exact moment of his climax, a movement caught his eye—Katherine, in the painting, her hands clenching the sides of her thighs, her face flushed with a bloom of color so real it seemed impossible. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and Andy watched as her whole painted body shivered, the impossible orgasm wracking her from head to toe.

She couldn’t speak, but the gratitude in her eyes—raw and bright and devastating—said everything.

Erin slumped forward, panting, her sweat slick against Andy’s chest. She let her weight rest on him, her breasts smushed between them. Claire crawled up, resting her head on Andy’s shoulder, her hair tickling his neck.

“Holy shit,” Erin said, after a minute. “Did you see that?”

Andy nodded, still catching his breath. “Yeah. I saw.”

He looked at Katherine, who was already regaining her composure. Her hands relaxed, her painted chest rising and falling with a slow, blissed-out calm. She looked more alive than ever.

After a minute, Erin rolled off, sprawling on her back with a satisfied groan. “God, I needed that,” she said. “You’re up, Catgirl.”

Claire’s ears flicked, but she didn’t hesitate. She climbed onto Andy’s lap, her weight feather-light, and kissed him again. This time, she let her hands roam everywhere—his hair, his shoulders, the line of his jaw. She kissed like she was solving a puzzle, each movement precise and considered.

Andy let her lead, savoring the difference. Where Erin was **** and speed, Claire was patience and detail, her movements slow and exploratory. She shifted her hips, lining herself up with him, and sank down with a gasp so soft he barely heard it. Her eyes fluttered closed, her hands gripping Andy’s shoulders as she rocked, finding a rhythm that was all her own.

He felt her shudder, the tension building in her with each movement. Her tail curled tighter, her ears flattening against her head. She lasted longer than Erin—her body resisting, holding out for the perfect moment—and when she came, it was silent, but the look in her eyes was pure electricity. Andy felt it through their bond, the rush of pleasure, the dizzying gratitude. It brought him right to the edge again.

She collapsed onto his chest, her breathing fast, her skin flushed. Andy hugged her close, and for a while, the three just lay there, tangled together in a heap of bodies and warmth.

But the night wasn’t over.

Erin propped herself on one elbow, looking at Andy with a predatory smile. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, and scooted up so her breasts were level with his face. “Bet you missed these.”

He laughed, unable to disagree. Erin leaned forward, pressing her soft, impossibly large breasts against his chest, then slid them down, trapping his cock between them. She squeezed, the mint skin cool and velvety, and began to move, her hands pressing her breasts together as she slid up and down.

The sensation was unreal. Andy had never felt anything like it—Erin’s skin, the pressure, the slickness. She watched his face the whole time, grinning with satisfaction every time he moaned or gasped.

“Like that?” she teased.

He nodded, too far gone for words.

She kept it up, faster now, her nipples brushing the head of his cock each time she reached the top. It didn’t take long before he was right on the edge again. Erin sensed it, and at the last second, she squeezed even tighter, her eyes daring him to let go.

He did. The orgasm hit him like a wave, and he came hard, the hot pulse spattering Erin’s chest, her neck, even her chin. She didn’t flinch—just grinned wider, then wiped the mess off with her finger and licked it, slow and deliberate.

Claire watched, wide-eyed, her ears canted forward in shock and fascination.

“Your turn,” Erin said, nodding at Claire. “Try something new.”

Claire hesitated, but only for a second. She slid down the bed, her movements shy but determined, and took Andy’s cock in her hands. She stroked it, slow and careful, then leaned in and licked the head, tentative at first, then more confident. She looked up at Andy, searching for approval, and he gave her a gentle nod.

She nodded, then took him into her mouth, her lips wrapping around him with a sweetness that nearly undid him again. She wasn’t practiced, but what she lacked in skill, she made up for in pure affection. She used her tongue, swirling it around the tip, then bobbed her head, taking him deeper each time.

Andy groaned, the pleasure almost too much. Erin watched, eyes hooded, her own hand drifting between her legs. She rubbed herself absently, not for show but because she couldn’t help it.

Claire bobbed faster, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked. She was so intent, so focused on doing it right, that when Andy finally came, she choked in surprise, but didn’t stop. She swallowed, then let him slip from her mouth, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the head of his cock.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then looked up at Andy, ears flat, tail wrapped around her thigh. She was anxious, afraid she’d done something wrong.

He reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “That was perfect,” he whispered. She melted against him, relief flooding through the bond.

They lay together, spent and tangled, the room warm and alive with the scent of sex and satisfaction. Andy glanced at Katherine, who was watching them with an expression of pure serenity. She looked fulfilled, at peace—a part of the world again, even if only as a witness.

After a long time, Erin broke the silence. “You know,” she said, “if we do this every night, I might die. But I’d die happy.”

Andy laughed, then kissed the top of her head. Claire nuzzled into his side, her hand resting over his heart.

On the far side of the room, Katherine smiled, her painted eyes half-lidded with bliss.

The afterglow felt endless. Andy drifted in and out, every muscle boneless, his skin humming with leftover pleasure. He was faintly aware of Claire nestled against his chest, her breathing a metronome, her tail draped over his thigh like a living question. Erin sprawled beside them, one long leg thrown over Andy’s knee, her head pillowed on his outstretched arm. There was no more laughter, no more words—just the heat of three bodies, and the steady hush of their breathing, and the feeling of something new being built with every second they stayed like this.

It could have lasted forever, if not for the shift in Claire’s energy. He felt it before he saw it: a tremor in her shoulders, a sudden tightness in the curve of her back, the way her tail went still. Her ears, which had been relaxed and canted gently to the side, now flattened close to her head, and her fingers drummed a nervous tattoo on Andy’s ribs.

He opened his eyes, finding her face less than an inch from his own. She watched him, studying his every microexpression. He’d never seen her look so anxious.

She reached for her notepad, the motion so quick and practiced it was almost a tic. Andy braced himself for the usual endearment—one of her sweet, strange one-liners, or a request for water, or an observation about his pulse. Instead, she hesitated with the pen poised. She studied him for a full three heartbeats, then scrawled something in all caps, her hand shaking.

She pressed the page to his chest so he had **** but to look:

WAIT.

Andy blinked, then nodded. He waited.

Claire sat up, detaching herself from the heap of limbs. She folded herself cross-legged at the edge of the bed, rooting through her bag. The zipper stuck twice, but she didn’t fumble; she just braced it between her knees, yanked, and extracted a tightly folded piece of paper. Her hands shook as she unfolded it, smoothing it flat against her thigh.

Before she handed it to Andy, she wrote another line in her notepad. She showed it to Erin first, who read it, eyebrows going up, then looked at Andy and nodded. Claire then held the page up for Andy:

I wanted Erin here tonight because we both love you. And because I love her. She is a sister to me. I wanted her to see this.

Erin made a noise, something halfway between a laugh and a sob, then covered her mouth. She reached across the bed and squeezed Claire’s hand, hard. The green of Erin’s skin made Claire’s look even paler by contrast; they held on, knuckles blanching, neither looking away.

Claire gave Andy the folded page.

He took it, hands clumsy from aftershock, and tried to flatten the creases without tearing the delicate notebook paper. The writing was dense and small, every line perfectly straight. He recognized Claire’s script—the same careful lettering she’d used in high school, when she still thought neatness could solve the world.

He read:

Dear Andy,

I do not know if there is a correct protocol for this. There are many ways to ask a question, but most of them seem to involve speaking out loud, or at least knowing what face to make when you are waiting for an answer. Since I cannot do either, I am writing this.

I have been running an analysis for a while. The data is not perfect, but the trend is obvious. There are things I understand now about myself that I did not understand before: 1) I am in love with you, and have been for a statistically significant period of time; 2) I am happiest when I am with you, regardless of what else is happening in the environment; 3) I believe I could make you happy too, or at least be a good partner for you, together with Erin as well, if that is the goal.

I know that you proposed (informally, but not a joke) to Erin two days ago. She told me. She also told me that if it was up to her, I would be part of the family too. I know this is not how most people do things, but I do not care. I do not want to follow the rules if it means missing my chance to say this. So here is the question, as clear as I can make it:

Will you marry me?

If you do not want to, it is okay. I will not break or vanish or hate myself. But if you say yes, I will work every day to be the best wife I can, for you and for anyone else you choose. I promise to never leave, to always be honest, and to remember every birthday (even the ones you do not want to remember).

You are my person. That is all I ever wanted to say.

Claire

Andy read it twice, the words blurring into little rivers as he tried to process. On the surface, the logic of it was almost comical, so exactly Claire—her way of making the biggest decision in her life sound like a well-planned experiment, equal parts data and faith. But below the surface, it was the most naked, **** thing anyone had ever given him.

He looked up.

Claire’s ears were flattened so hard they might never recover. Her whole body was coiled, tail swishing wildly. She was bracing for a no, Andy realized; bracing for rejection so hard she could barely breathe. He felt the anxiety lashing through the bond, a wild staccato of hope and terror and ****, ragged need.

Erin pressed herself to Andy’s side, her own eyes rimmed with tears. She reached out and took Claire’s hand again, this time not letting go.

Andy felt every heartbeat in the room—his, Claire’s, Erin’s—and knew exactly what to do.

He sat up, legs crossed beneath him, and reached for Claire’s hands. He pressed the folded proposal between their palms, sandwiching her words and his own together. He could see every muscle in her body tensed to breaking, her ears trembling on the verge of flight. He held her gaze.

“Yes,” he said. Just that—no fanfare, no preamble, no hedging. “I want to marry you, Claire. I want you in my life. I don’t ever want to lose you again.” The words came out rough, stripped to the wire, but truer than anything he’d said in years. “You’re my person, too.”

Claire exhaled so sharply it was almost a bark, her chest heaving with relief. For a split second she tried to keep her face neutral, but the mask shattered. Her eyes went glassy, her lips quivered. Tears spilled, thick and silent, running down her cheeks in twin rivers. She didn’t bother to wipe them away.

Erin scooted in, wrapping her arms around Claire’s shoulders and burying her nose in the crown of Claire’s head. “That’s a yes from the peanut gallery, too,” Erin whispered, her own voice shaky with effort. “I told you he was an easy mark, Catgirl.”

Andy pulled them both close, the three of them tangled together, not as lovers or friends or rivals but as a single, messy organism, stitched together by years of wanting and not having.

Claire: Romantically Committed to the Master! +7 VP

They stayed that way, trembling and perfect, for a long time. Andy could feel the hammer of Claire’s heart against his, the way her tail wrapped around his leg like a claim. He didn’t need magic to know how she felt; the emotion was as clear as sunlight.

Finally, Claire wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, fumbled for her notepad, and scribbled quickly. She showed it to Erin first, her hand shaking so bad the letters ran together.

I hope this is okay for you. I want you to be happy, too. I want us all to be happy. If this is not good, tell me. I will make it better.

Erin read it, then looked at Claire with a fond, resigned smile. “I am happy,” she said. “You’re my family. You and Andy both.” She pressed her lips to Claire’s temple, then kissed Andy on the jaw for good measure. “Besides, the other women are all well and good, but you’re the only other person I’d ever trust to keep this idiot in line.”

Claire’s tail thumped against the sheets. She scribbled one last note, handed it to Andy, then burrowed back into the space between his shoulder and collarbone, the safest place she’d ever found.

Andy read the note:

I know I do not always say it right. But I love you both more than anything. Thank you for letting me try.

He folded the paper, tucking it into the back cover of her notebook, where he knew it would live forever. Then he let himself relax, the tension draining out with every slow, shared breath.

Erin flopped sideways, landing half across Andy’s lap, her arm draped over both of them. “Jesus,” she mumbled. “We’re a mess.”

Andy laughed. “Yeah, but we’re our mess.”

Claire nodded, her face buried in his chest. He felt her breathing slow, the tears drying on his skin. The aftershock of emotion left them all raw and soft, like a herd of newborn deer trying to find their legs.

They cocooned there, a tangle of skin and sweat and hair, until sleep dragged them under.

He dreamed, of course. It was always the river.

The water was black and fast, the current a wild rope yanking him toward the falls. He could hear her voice—Laura’s—calling his name from the far bank. It wasn’t a scream, not really, but a sound so urgent it turned his insides out. He tried to swim, to kick toward her, but his limbs were leaden and slow, and the water was filled with hands, clutching and dragging, pulling him down.

He surfaced once, catching a glimpse of her on the other side, white dress whipping in the wind, hair so dark it ate the light. Her face was clear this time, not the child’s face of old memories but the face of a woman—Laura at 29, jawline sharp, impossible blue eyes deep and endless, a single scar shining on her jawline like a memory that would never heal. She reached for him, arm outstretched, but the water spun him away, out of reach.

He went under again, lungs burning, the river colder than ****. He opened his mouth, and the water filled him.

Andy woke with a gasp, heart hammering.

He was in bed. Not the river, not alone. Claire was curled in his arms, tail wrapped around his waist, her breath a gentle pulse on his skin. Erin was sprawled across his legs, snoring like a freight train, one foot dangling off the bed.

Across the room, in the first soft light of dawn, Katherine watched from her painting. Her hands were folded in her lap, her body perfectly still, but her eyes met his with unflinching clarity. She had seen the dream—he was sure of it. But her expression was not pity. It was understanding, and something like pride.

He didn’t need to speak. He just nodded, once, and Katherine nodded back, her painted lips curving in the barest smile.

Andy lay back, drawing Claire and Erin closer, the feeling of the river still cold on his skin but fading now, replaced by the warmth of the two women beside him. He closed his eyes, letting their heartbeats synchronize with his own.

It would never be easy, he knew. But this time, he wasn’t carrying the ghosts alone.