Claire's Night (V)

Andy and Claire took the elevator to the Suite in companionable silence, neither of them needing to fill the gap after a day that had already said so much. The doors opened with their usual hydraulic sigh, and the hallway outside the Suite was washed in the blue of oncoming dusk. Claire hung back a half-step as Andy stepped out.

He paused immediately. Something was wrong, and not in the disaster-movie, “someone’s been here” sense—more in the way the air of the Suite was… off. Too neat. Beyond Mildred’s normal cleaning routine. There was no sign of the usual entropy: the scatter of notes on the coffee table had been squared off with ruler precision, the remote controls stacked like a museum exhibit. The sofa cushions were so evenly arranged they looked vacuum-sealed.

Claire noticed, too. Her tail gave a slow, investigative curl, and she stepped inside with the wariness of a cat inspecting new furniture.

Andy’s mind did the math. The last time he’d seen the Suite, it had been, well, lived in. He’d left his shoes by the door, a sock on the arm of the sofa (don’t ask), and a bottle of seltzer with one sip left on the side table, as a dare to himself to finish it next time. All were now banished. Of course, given the events of the previous day, he already suspected the culprit, and it brought a smile to his face.

On the coffee table, dead center, was a pyramid of sticky notes—twenty or thirty of them, stacked in decreasing squares like an Aztec ziggurat, a triumph of pale neon.

Andy approached, casting a look at Claire to see if she was getting the same vibe. She was. She leaned in, peering at the sticky-note pyramid with the focused energy of a safecracker.

He peeled the top note. The handwriting was unmistakable: Laura’s, tight and sharp, letters running straight up as if in a hurry to reach the top of the page.

Welcome home, to my bright-eyed pair,
The couch is cleaner than it dares.
If you find my first “Gotcha,” beware,
For the rest will follow you up the stairs.

Claire’s eyebrows shot up; she grabbed her notebook and jotted, in tidy block print, Scavenger hunt? She held it up for Andy to see.

He grinned, feeling a familiar tug of anticipation. “Yeah,” he said, “but be warned—her rhymes get worse as you go.”

The next note was easy: taped to the remote. It read:

Remote control, remote as the moon,
Yet you still can’t resist, you buffoon.
Push my buttons, if you dare—
But check the fridge for my next snare.

Andy made a show of groaning. “That’s so bad, it’s genius.” He looked over and saw Claire’s neutral expression, although he could sense her simmering amusement, as always.

They headed to the fridge, which hummed ominously. Inside, the leftovers were sorted in color order, and on the middle shelf, a sticky note was folded into a tiny tent.

Icebox baby, chill to the core,
Don’t touch the green beans, or there’ll be war.
Your next clue’s hidden by something sweet,
If you can guess it, you’ll earn your treat.

Claire, reading over his shoulder, nudged him toward the freezer. Andy pulled it open and found, buried in a bag of frozen blueberries, a bright blue sticky:

You’re cold, so cold—get warmer, go east,
Check the cutlery for my last feast.
In the drawer where the spoons love to huddle,
You’ll find my message, just waiting to cuddle.

Andy pulled open the cutlery drawer. Inside, in the teaspoon section, a note waited:

We’re nearly done, but don’t get cocky,
For the real prize is under your pillow, Rocky.
No need to be quiet, no need to shush,
Just remember: I always loved Swedish Fish.

Andy snorted, full-volume, so hard he nearly doubled over. The laugh was a punchline years in the making, and Claire actually startled at the sound—then, catching his joy, started to shake with laughter herself. She covered her mouth, eyes wet, tail flicking in time with her silent giggles.

Andy wiped his eyes. “She really knows how to—” He gestured vaguely, unable to finish the thought.

Claire scribbled: Yes. She does. Underlined, twice. She paused, then added, I can’t even begrudge her use of the keycard this way.

He led the way to the bedroom, and sure enough, there was one last note, taped to his pillow with surgical precision. Next to it, in a mesh bag with a ribbon, sat a little pile of Swedish Fish.

The note read:

GOTCHA

He flipped it. On the back, he read, voice thick:

To my favorite person, friend, and soulmate—
You said you’d never eat the last one.
Here’s a whole school.
Try not to share.
(But if you do, make sure she’s worth it.)
—L
P.S. Couldn’t help myself. I love you.

Andy sat on the bed, clutching the mesh bag like a talisman. The laughter, when it came this time, was quieter, but it felt different—less like an explosion, more like the start of something. He realized Claire was watching him, her head tilted, her face thoughtful. He could sense her empathy, even in the hush: she was reading the happiness, but also the ache, the love, the relief.

“She used to do this all the time,” he said. His voice was a little ragged, but he didn’t try to hide it. “Prank me. Hide stuff, leave clues. Even when there wasn’t anything worth finding, she’d make up a trail, just to see if I’d follow.”

Claire picked up the pillow note and read it again, then wrote in her own book: She’s pulling us in.

Andy nodded. “It’s how she loves. She can’t help it.”

She pointed to the last line on the sheet: (But if you do, make sure she’s worth it.) She blinked at him, but there was an edge to it, an unspoken challenge. Andy grinned back and tore open the mesh bag, pulled out a single gummy fish, and held it out to her.

She looked at him, then at the fish, then shrugged and popped it into her mouth. She chewed, slow and deliberate, as if savoring not just the taste but the absurdity of the whole thing. Andy ate one, too, and together they polished off half the bag, one fish at a time, sitting on the edge of the bed.

For a while, neither spoke. Andy reached out and took her hand, sticky with sugar, and she laced their fingers together.

“This,” he said, “feels like the right kind of chaos.”

Claire nodded. She leaned over, and for the first time that day, kissed him without any restraint. She wrote:

She wants you to laugh.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Then she flipped to a new page and continued writing, her pen moving deliberately across the paper.

I know we all agreed on rules for the keycard. This isn't exactly what we discussed.

She paused, considering her next words carefully.

But I can see she's not trying to monopolize you. She just wants to show you she loves you. In her own Laura way.

Andy read the words, feeling a tightness in his throat. Claire's pen hovered, then descended again.

It's okay if you love her the most, Andy. We all knew from the first time you told us about her. I think I knew before anyone.

She looked up, meeting his eyes directly, then wrote one final line:

And I know better than anyone that your heart has room for all of us too.

He stared at the page, vision blurring slightly at the edges. When he finally looked up, he found himself utterly unguarded.

"Yeah," he said, voice rough with emotion. "She got me. But so did you."

Claire's tail curled slightly, the only sign of her pleasure, but he felt it nonetheless, in the bond they shared.

Claire let the warmth of the moment linger for a few more seconds—Andy’s sticky hand in hers, the soft echo of laughter caught in the seams of the Suite—then gently extricated herself and, with a quick, deliberate flourish of her notepad, wrote:

I promised Katherine I’d spend a bit time with her when I’d be here next.

She added, I said it to her face. Can’t break a promise.

Then she tapped the final line twice with her pen, as if to nail it in place.

Andy smiled. “Do you want me to wait outside?”

Claire rolled her eyes, but affectionately, and added a quick line below: Join us. I’m sure she will be happy.

He followed her to the bedroom. Katherine’s painting waited on the dresser. Even in the low light, her green eyes seemed to track them, unblinking, each detail rendered with more care than a camera’s lens.

Claire approached and gave a shy little wave, then sat on the edge of the bed and started to write. She flipped the notebook so Katherine could see, though the angle was awkward.

Andy watched as Claire scrawled, in her tiniest, most careful script:

How are you? I am getting used to my new transformations. They have not kicked in yet. It’s strange, but not bad. I am a bit worried about the heat.

She hesitated, then looked up at the painting. Katherine nodded, then mimed a quick, theatrical sigh, as if to say, Oh, you think your problems are difficult? With two careful fingers, she pantomimed turning a page, then pointed to herself, then back to the bed.

“She says she’d trade in a heartbeat. You get into heat once per month, but she has to pose naked in a frame for all time,” Andy said, as diplomatically as he could manage.

Claire nodded and wrote: I was going to bring you cookies. But then I remembered. Claire drew a little sad face, then added, If I could bake you a way out, I would.

Katherine’s painted hand pressed to her heart in gratitude, then made a quick chopping motion through the air. Andy interpreted, “She says you should never apologize for cookies, even theoretical ones.”

Katherine extended two fingers in a peace sign and waggled them, and Andy guessed, “And that she’d still appreciate the cookies.”

Claire nodded, then turned to Andy and wrote, You’re next.

He shrugged. “I don’t have cat ears and I’m not a painting. Not sure I’m part of this club.”

Katherine jabbed a finger at him, then pointed emphatically at the bed. It was enough like a mom’s scold that Andy caught the intent.

“Fine,” he said. “I do have something to share with you, Claire. It’s… sort of big.” He sat on the bed, hands folded. “I bought the Comfort Gift. For Katherine.”

Claire’s tail froze, then flicked in surprise.

He continued, “It means I can visit her in dreams. Or rather, I can bring her into dreams with me, and in the dream, she can move and feel things. Touch. Hug. Even eat dream cookies, I think.” He risked a glance at Katherine; her painted face had softened, the usual mask of stoicism replaced with a look so raw he had to look away.

Claire scribbled, Can you take me too?

Andy shook his head. “I’m not sure. But if you want to try, we can try. Emi asked me to, too.”

Emi knows about Katherine? Claire wrote. Andy nodded, and she added, So when does she meet the rest of the harem?

Andy shrugged and looked at Katherine, who shook her head stubbornly. Then she pointed at Claire, made a gesture with two fingers as if walking across a surface, mimed a hug, then bowed her head and pressed her painted lips into the crook of her elbow, a gesture so grateful it left Andy stunned.

Claire wrote something and showed it to Katherine, who nodded, then to Andy: Does this mean you’re in the harem now?

Andy hesitated, then nodded. “To access the Gift, I had to add her. But I haven’t told the others yet. I didn’t want it to be a spectacle.”

Claire considered, then wrote, Welcome. Dinner with us?

Katherine nodded, then made a pantomime of tucking a napkin into her collar, as if preparing for a feast. Claire laughed—a quiet, breathy snort, but a laugh all the same.

They adjourned to the kitchen, with Andy carefully carrying the painting (facing outward, at Claire’s insistence) and propping it against the tile backsplash so Katherine could watch from her perch on the counter. The Suite was empty, the usual traces of other lives absent. Claire seized the moment: she yanked open the fridge, pulled out a hunk of cheese and a sleeve of crackers, then scribbled, I claim this kitchen for the evening. Sous chef, she wrote, pointing at Andy.

He saluted. “Orders, ma’am?”

She pointed to the pantry. Andy found himself smiling as he rummaged for pasta, noting that she’d already started boiling water, prepping a cutting board, and lining up every knife in strict descending order of length. Her tail swept across the floor in wide, contented arcs.

She cut vegetables with a surgeon’s focus, each carrot sliver a perfect duplicate of the last. Andy, more of a kitchen improviser, started in on a sauce, dumping crushed tomatoes into a pan and seasoning by instinct. They worked side by side, rarely speaking, but it was a companionable quiet—the kind of silence that hummed with anticipation instead of absence.

Katherine watched from the counter, her painted eyes following every move. Every now and then, Claire would angle her notebook so Katherine could read the recipe step, and Katherine would give an approving nod, sometimes with a dramatic chef’s kiss.

Andy couldn’t help but compare it to cooking with Erin. Erin never followed recipes, treated the kitchen as a laboratory, always substituting and adjusting on the fly. It was chaotic, but it made for food that was alive. Claire’s way was the opposite: a precise, elegant algorithm, every variable controlled for. He realized now that neither way was better—both were a kind of love, expressed through the medium of dinner.

When the meal was ready (simple, yes, but Claire’s pasta was a perfect al dente, and Andy’s sauce had just the right sharpness), they plated it and set the table. Andy poured water for three, then nudged the third glass to the center, as if for a guest of honor.

They ate at the kitchen island, Claire perched on a stool, Andy standing beside her, and Katherine’s painting propped up in a straight-backed chair. It should have been ridiculous—a dinner for three, one of whom couldn’t eat—but it felt, to Andy at least, perfectly natural. He filled plates for himself and Claire, set a wineglass by the painting for effect, and then waited for Claire’s cue.

She wrote: I always thought family dinners would be more awkward. But this is nice.

She showed it to Katherine first, then to Andy, who laughed. “You’ve never met my family,” he said. “Thanksgiving always ends with at least one person storming off.”

Katherine responded with a grand gesture, both painted hands pressed dramatically to her heart, then an exaggerated pantomime of fainting. Andy interpreted, “Katherine says she’d pay to see that. Or she would, if she had cash.”

Claire nodded, deadpan, and wrote: We can roll you up and smuggle you in a duffel bag. Just let me know if you have a preferred color scheme for the interior of the bag.

Katherine grinned, then made a dainty waving motion as if already perched atop a float in a parade. Andy made to pour Claire some wine, but she refused in favor of water. Andy held his glass out in front of Katherine and tapped it gently to the rim of hers, which made both Claire and Katherine smile in their own ways.

They ate in companionable quiet. Andy found himself watching Claire more than usual, noticing the exactitude of her movements: how she measured out each bite, the way she dabbed sauce off her lips after every third or fourth forkful, the way her cat ears shifted with every new sensation. She met his gaze once and, with a flicker of her pen, wrote: Staring is rude. But not always unwelcome.

He grinned and raised his glass in apology.

After dinner, Andy cleared the plates, then, at Claire’s insistence, left the washing up for tomorrow. She opened her notebook with a click, then wrote: I have a surprise for you. I’ll explain as we go. She considered, turned to Katherine, and wrote: Would you like to come too?

Katherine watched this exchange, then gestured toward Claire, towards Andy, and lifted up two fingers. She pointed to herself, and then pointed in the direction of the bedroom. Andy understood. “She says it’s a two-person thing. She’ll wait in the bedroom.”

Claire nodded, and wrote: I’ll tell you everything after, promise.

Katherine nodded, made a shooing motion, then, with a sudden delicacy, mimed pulling the frame of her painting tighter around her body, as if drawing a blanket close. It was oddly moving.

Andy took that as his cue to carry the painting back to the bedroom, setting it up so Katherine had a view of the resort lights through the window. He pressed two fingers to the painting’s edge—a silent goodnight—and she answered with a regal little wave.

Claire met Andy at the bedroom door, a little flush on her cheeks, her notepad primed and ready. She gestured, not with her usual economy but with a theatrical flourish: Follow me, please, and don’t ask questions.

He did as instructed. She led him back through the living room, past the scatter of prank notes and the now-empty coffee table. At the far end of the Suite, the stairway—modernist, all steel and glass—led up to the next floor.

Claire didn’t say a word. She bounded up the steps, tail high, and paused at the landing, waiting for him to catch up.

The observatory deck was a platform open to the sky, framed by a rail of burnished brass and glass panels so clear it was like standing on the edge of a rooftop dream. Above, the night was black and infinite, pinholed with cold fire. It felt a million miles from the rest of the resort, private in a way that nothing else on the island was.

At the center of the deck, on a low table, a turntable spun quietly, needle gliding through a vinyl groove. The music was low and gentle, a piano jazz that sounded just slightly out of time, the notes fluttering upward into the sky. On either side of the turntable, two neat stacks of records waited, their sleeves faced out: Thelonious Monk, Bill Evans, a few titles Andy recognized from old mixtapes Claire used to make for him in high school.

He let out a low whistle. “You did this?”

Claire’s eyes went wide, almost affronted by the question, then softened. She tapped her chest and nodded, then made a tiny scribble in the notebook: I asked Mildred to help set up. I bribed her with black licorice and old **** mysteries.

He grinned. “She’ll do anything for licorice.” He eyed the setup, the records, the glass table. “And ****.”

Claire shrugged, as if to say, Why not both?

Andy wandered over to the rail, peered out. The island stretched away, a fractal of lights and shadows and tropical canopy, but up here, it all seemed small. Above them, the constellations burned with extra clarity, so sharp that Andy wondered if this was the real sky, or one of Emi’s improved versions.

He turned back and found Claire not at the table, but standing a few paces away, her posture stiff, arms folded as if holding herself in place. She didn’t meet his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She hesitated, then, with obvious effort, wrote: I haven’t danced in… ever. I thought it would be romantic, but now I feel… dumb.

He walked to her, closing the gap. “I haven’t danced in years, either. Not with someone I cared about.” He reached out, tentative, not touching her but offering. “Let’s both be dumb together.”

She smirked—just a little—but placed her hand in his. Her fingers were cold, but not from nerves; more like her body was saving the heat for some future emergency. She guided his hand to her waist, the motion practiced but tense, then rested her other hand on his shoulder.

Andy recognized the song—a slow, waltzing standard he’d once called “sentimental pap” in a fit of teenage bravado. Now, standing here with Claire, he understood it completely.

They swayed, awkward at first, her tail knocking into his calves every third step. He tried to lead, but she’d clearly done her research; she anticipated each movement, forcing him to match her rhythm or risk stepping on her foot. After a minute, the tension faded, and they found a pattern that suited them: slow, deliberate, with no need for flourishes or spins. Just two people in a bubble of music, moving together in the dark.

The world outside the glass rail drifted away. It didn’t matter that they were still in weird, magical captivity, or that every step of their lives had been gamed and orchestrated by forces beyond their control. Here, on this little stage, it was just the two of them.

Claire let herself relax, just a bit. Her head dropped to Andy’s chest, and she exhaled so slow and deep he could feel her breath on his skin. He was suddenly, intensely aware of her body, the way she fit against him, the warm line of her thigh, the little catch in her breath every time their steps aligned perfectly. He let his hand slide lower on her back, just an inch, and she squeezed his shoulder in reply—a signal that it was okay.

They didn’t speak for a long while. The music shifted, the records switching automatically, and each song grew softer, more intimate, as if the turntable was learning their preferences in real time.

Finally, Claire stopped moving. She pulled away, just enough to look up at him, and her eyes were luminous. She wrote, very slowly, each letter careful and precise:

Prom night.

Andy blinked, not sure if it was a joke or a prompt. He read the page again, then looked at her face: dead serious, but with that same fractured smile still hanging on.

He said, “You mean, like—this is our prom?”

She hesitated, then nodded, not meeting his eyes. She started to write again, this time slower, each word more careful than the last.

I never went. Not once. Not because I didn’t want to, but because no one ever— She stopped, erased, then rewrote: It’s not that I was never asked. It’s that I couldn’t tell if anyone actually meant it, or if it was a setup, or if I was a joke. So I stayed home. My mother bought me a dress anyway. We ate pasta and I watched documentaries about ctenophores until I could pretend I wasn’t alone.

She waited, hands tense around the notebook.

Andy felt a fist close in his chest. He saw her as a teenager, neat uniform, hair brushed flat, hovering on the edge of every group photo, never quite fitting in. He remembered the rumors about her, how she was “robotic” or “ice queen,” how the other girls would whisper and giggle about her until one day they didn’t, because she stopped trying. He remembered his own clumsy attempts to talk to her in sophomore math, how she never laughed at his jokes, how he had tried for two years before he had gathered enough courage to tell her how he felt, and her answer had convinced him she just didn’t like him. But the truth was there, plain as day: she wanted to be wanted, but never trusted it when it came.

He said, “If I’d known, I’d have asked you. I’d have… I’d have worn a dumb tux and made you a corsage out of dandelions.”

Claire’s face stayed neutral—no upward curve at the corners of her mouth—but her ears lowered, the fine hairs relaxing, and her tail gave a slow, soft thump against the deck. Andy felt the shift in her tension.

She lifted her pen and wrote on her notepad, letters precise and even:

I’m sorry that when you told me you liked me, junior year, I froze. I didn’t know what to do. She shook her head, the motion fierce and small. She wrote: I always thought I was the backup option. The safe one.

He took her hand and laced their fingers together. “You were never second to anyone.”

Her tail brushed his ankle, curling around it. She wrote, softer this time: I’m glad it turned out this way. I like who I am with you, more than I did in high school. And I have friends now, and sisters. I’m not alone, anymore.

Andy smiled. “You’re amazing, Claire. You’ve always been.”

She rolled her eyes, but the compliment worked; her grip tightened, and she leaned her head against him again.

They let the next song play out, the music settling into a gentle hush. Andy closed his eyes, just for a second, and let himself float.

When he opened them, the world had changed.

The glass rail now glowed with a soft, golden light. All around the deck, fairy lights hung in gentle loops, strung from nowhere and everywhere, swaying in a breeze that hadn’t existed a minute before. A scent of jasmine and rose filled the air, not cloying, but present, romantic, nostalgic. The scent of late spring or early summer, in Warrenville, by the school. The stars above were brighter, and the moon shone with a silvery light that made everything feel oneiric, every moment evanescent, while time itself was meaningless. And the music had shifted, too, morphing into a slow, orchestral cover of a song Andy hadn’t heard since graduation. It took him a second to place it—“Bittersweet Symphony,” the one that always played at the end of every school year slideshow. It was cheesy, but the effect was so perfectly staged that it nearly knocked him over.

Claire stared, slack-jawed, at the sudden transformation. Her hand flew to her mouth, but the other didn’t let go of Andy.

He looked down at her and said, “I think Arabella’s been listening in.”

She huffed, but her eyes were glassy, and he could feel complete happiness radiating from her like a little sun. Andy held her close, pulled her into the middle of the deck, and spun her—just once, careful and slow. She followed, and the motion was so perfect, so fluid, that even the wind caught its breath. He leaned down, kissed her cheek, and whispered, “I know it’s not prom. But will you dance with me anyway?”

She nodded, the motion shy and sharp.

He grinned, gave a mock bow. “The floor is ours.”

She marched over to the turntable, flipped through the stack of records, and selected one Andy had never heard before—French, maybe, or Italian. The music was languid and lush, full of swelling strings and soft, breathless vocals. She started the track, then walked back to him, her hips swaying just a little more than before. He noticed, and she noticed him noticing, and neither of them said a word.

They danced. This time, there was no awkwardness, no self-consciousness. Claire let herself move, really move, the way she did in the library when she was certain nobody was watching. She pressed in close, head tucked under his chin, her body a warm, living line against his. Andy matched her, step for step, and for a long, golden moment, there was no world beyond the deck, no voices but the music, no future but this.

The record spun down, and as the last note faded, they stood together at the edge of the glass, staring out at the infinite night. Claire’s hand found his, and she wrote, one last time: Thank you for loving me.

Andy didn’t answer, not with words. He turned, cupped her face, and kissed her—slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that said, This is everything, this is the only thing that matters.

When they finally broke apart, she wiped a stray tear from her cheek, and wrote: You can have my last dance, too.

He laughed, kissed her again, and promised, “I won’t ever waste it.”

They stayed up there until the stars faded, and even when they finally drifted back down the stair, Andy felt the warmth of the lights, the music, the memory of her in his arms, still spinning inside him.

They returned to the Suite, walking in silence for once. Andy felt the night’s magic wrapped around them still—soft as a borrowed coat, not quite theirs, but perfect for the moment.

Inside, the hush was complete. The fairy lights vanished the moment Andy and Claire descended the stairs. Claire beckoned him to the bedroom, tail flicking once—a come here that brooked no delay.

He followed. The bed was neatly made, still, but Claire tugged off the coverlet with methodical precision, smoothing out the sheets, tucking in the pillows. She did it all without looking at him, though Andy saw the way her ears twitched with every movement he made. She was bracing herself, cataloguing each part of the process, so when she turned to face him at last, it was with her hands folded, her breathing controlled, and her eyes locked on his with a kind of challenge.

She wrote: May I undress you?

He hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Yes. Please.”

Claire nodded, then walked up close, close enough that her body’s heat merged with his. She started at the collar of his shirt, popping each button with deliberate care. She leaned in as she worked, so her hair brushed his cheek, the faint scent of her—citrus, paper, salt—becoming the air he breathed. At his cuffs, she paused, tugged them loose, then slipped the sleeves down his arms. The shirt fell to the floor. She let her hands map the new skin, cool fingers running over his shoulders, then down to his wrists.

She wrote: Still okay?

“Better than okay,” he said.

She blushed, a faint pink, but pressed on. His belt, then his jeans—she had trouble with the zipper. When she finally wrestled the denim down, she stepped back and gestured for him to do the rest. He did, naked now but for his socks, which she promptly removed, one at a time.

Your turn, she wrote, and stood still, waiting.

He could see she wanted to be claimed. Not with ****, but with certainty. He started at her collarbone, tracing the line of her throat with his fingers, then unzipped her dress and let it fall away. She wore nothing beneath it. The pale skin, the sharp bones, the delicate curve of her breasts—he saw all of it at once, and the knowledge that this was for him, only for him tonight, made him dizzy.

She stood, hands at her sides, letting him look.

“Beautiful,” he said.

Her ears flattened, a sign of bashfulness. She reached for her glasses to hide, but he caught her hand, took them off for her, and set them gently on the table.

He stepped forward, held her face in his palms, and kissed her. It was softer than before, less about victory or need, more about sealing the distance that had always existed between them. Her hands found his back, kneading the muscle, holding him close. When he pulled away, her eyes had lost all their defensiveness; she looked ready.

Claire climbed onto the bed, lay back, and beckoned him with a curl of her finger.

She wrote: Tonight, I want to try things. But we go slow. Yes?

“Yes,” he said, and meant it. He wanted to savor every minute.

She rolled onto her stomach first, tail curled to the side, her back and shoulders exposed. She reached behind and patted the space beside her. He lay down, spooned up against her, his arm draped over her hip.

He nuzzled her neck, kissing the fine hairs at her nape, and she shivered in his grasp. Her tail flicked, then curled around his thigh, the fur electric against his skin. He let his hands wander, learning the shape of her—ribs, waist, breast, the sharp line of her hip. Her body was all contrast: soft and hard, yielding and tense. She pressed her ass into him, and he felt the heat of her, the slow grind of her wanting.

He whispered, “Show me what you want.”

Claire didn’t reach for her notebook; instead, she used his hand, guiding it between her legs, pressing his palm to the heat there. She was slick, and he moaned into her neck, fingers stroking until she arched back, breath coming faster.

He rolled her onto her back, kissed her all over—neck, collar, breasts, stomach. He moved lower, spreading her thighs. She was soaked, pink and flushed, her scent filling the air.

He kissed her inner thigh, then the mound itself, licking slowly, letting her get used to the sensation. She trembled, clutching the sheets, and he felt her legs tense and relax as he found her rhythm. He teased her clit, circling it with his tongue, then flattening it, then sucking gently.

Claire's hands fisted in the sheets, her body arching with a tension he recognized as more than just pleasure. It was the way she processed anything overwhelming: by gripping, bracing, bearing down until she could break it into manageable pieces. He moved slowly, bringing her to the edge, then easing back just as her breathing quickened too much. Each time he retreated, her tail lashed, not quite frustration, not quite relief. He watched her fingers twist in the fabric, knuckles white, then relaxing, only to tighten again as he resumed. This dance continued, his tongue working steadily, then slowing deliberately, refusing to give her more than she could handle at once, but also refusing to stop—she had made it clear, in every way but words, that this was what she wanted. What she needed.

When he finally decided she'd endured enough, he focused his attention precisely where she needed it most, maintaining a rhythm that left no room for retreat. Her breathing accelerated, then hitched. He glanced up: her cat ears were flat, her eyes shut so tight they might never open again. When she came, she did not scream or thrash—she simply shuddered, every muscle taut, then slack, as if the wave had taken her apart and left her in pieces on the sheets.

Edged by the Master! +2 VP

Master ate her out! +3 VP

He rested his face in the hollow between her hip and her mound, waiting for her to catch up. When she did, she reached down and carded her fingers through his hair, tentative at first, then with growing assurance.

He rested his face in the hollow between her hip and her mound, waiting for her to catch up. When she did, she reached down and carded her fingers through his hair, tentative at first, then with growing assurance. She wrote, after a long minute: You didn’t have to do that.

He read it upside down, then grinned. “I wanted to,” he said, and meant it.

Claire wiped her hand on the edge of the comforter, then flipped to a new page and wrote, in tiny print: It felt like flying.

He laughed, and the sound vibrated through her body; she gripped his hair tighter, holding him close.

She rolled over, pulled him up, and kissed him. He tasted himself on her lips, the faint tang of her arousal. She didn’t seem to mind; if anything, she seemed fascinated by the intimacy of it. His hand slid behind her and cupped her butt cheek, squeezing. She startled, then melted against him, her tail swishing lazily. She cupped his face in both hands, then—without warning—bit his lower lip, not hard, just enough to leave a marker.

Groped by the Master! +2 VP

She released him, then wrote: May I return the favor?

Andy’s smile was sheepish, almost shy. “Please do.”

She pushed him down onto the mattress, her body lean and pale against the deep blue of the hotel sheets. She straddled his thighs, hair falling forward, then paused—uncertain, maybe, or calibrating her plan of attack. She wrote: I want to try something.

He nodded, propping himself up on his elbows to watch her.

She gripped his cock in her hand, studying it the way she would an ancient manuscript: delicately, respectfully, but with an appetite for knowledge. She licked a line up the shaft, slow and deliberate, eyes tracking every twitch and microexpression he gave in response. Then she sucked just the tip into her mouth, making a seal, her tongue working in gentle, investigative circles.

The sensation was electric. Andy had been with enough people to know the difference between performative oral and the real thing; this was different than either. Claire wasn’t trying to impress—she was trying to understand, as if every taste and touch were a clue she needed to decipher.

She alternated between using her hand and her mouth, adjusting her rhythm in response to his breath and the subtle flex of his thighs. Occasionally she would glance up, checking his face for data, then refine her approach accordingly. He was half convinced she’d built a feedback loop out of his pleasure and her own, fed through their bond, and the thought made him shudder.

She increased her pace, and Andy felt himself getting close. He gripped the sheets, mirroring her earlier desperation, and gasped, “I’m—” She didn’t stop. She squeezed the base of his cock and pulled off at the last second, aiming the tip at her own face.

He came hard, the first spurt landing across her cheekbone, the second splattering her jaw, the rest streaking her neck and breastbone. She looked astonished, almost amused, then reached up and scooped a fingerful of cum from her cheek. She examined it—turning her hand this way and that—then, with the blank seriousness of a scientist, brought it to her mouth and licked it clean.

Facial! +2 VP
Pearl Necklace! +2 VP

She blinked, then wrote: Salty. And a little sweet.

Andy laughed, dizzy with endorphins and awe. “Did you just take tasting notes?”

She nodded, then wrote: Is that strange?

He shook his head, smiling. “Not at all. You can taste me anytime.”

She rolled her eyes, but the blush crept up her neck, covering some of the lingering streaks. She looked, in that moment, like nothing so much as a cat that had licked the cream off the canary. She cleaned the rest off with a swipe of her palm, then licked that clean, too. She wrote: I like the way you look at me.

Andy caught her wrist and pulled her down, kissing her hard. She let him, her body pliant, but when he reached for her, she stopped him. She wrote: I want to try… positions. I’ve read about them. She hesitated, then added, I brought diagrams.

He burst out laughing, but when she looked hurt, he quickly said, “Not making fun. I think it’s adorable. And sexy.”

She sniffed, then flipped through the pages: a set of artfully drawn illustrations, color-coded, with small notes in the margin. She pointed to one—doggy style, annotated with the phrase optimal for deep penetration and partner control—and then pointed to herself, then to him.

He nodded. “We can do anything you want.”

She set the notebook aside, then got on all fours at the edge of the bed, tail curling to one side. She looked over her shoulder, her glasses sliding down her nose, and waited.

He knelt behind her, hands on her hips, and guided himself in. She was wet, even wetter than before, and the sensation made him groan. He moved slow, letting her adjust, but she pushed back against him, making a pleased, breathy sound that vibrated through her whole body.

He started thrusting, careful at first, then deeper. Claire’s head dropped, her arms shaking a little, but she never told him to stop. If anything, she pressed back harder, her tail lashing in time with his movements.

He leaned forward, wrapping an arm around her waist to reach her clit. She jerked at the touch, then settled, rocking back onto him with each pass. He felt her tense, then shudder, her orgasm rolling through her in a long, low wave. She didn’t make a sound, but her whole body sang it. He didn’t last much longer. He pulled out and came across her back, painting her pale skin with thick, hot lines.

She collapsed onto her side, panting, then turned and swiped her finger through the mess, again tasting. She wrote, when she caught her breath: Messy. But satisfying.

He lay down beside her, brushing the hair off her forehead. “You’re incredible,” he said, and meant it.

She wrote: I want to try one more. Is that okay?

“Anything.”

Claire moved with sudden confidence, as if her earlier hesitancy had been a ruse, or perhaps a test for herself. She rolled Andy onto his back, straddling his thighs with feline precision, then slid down to lie beside him, her head at his hips and her own ass angled up invitingly, tail arcing with a subtle dare. For a moment, she flipped open her notebook, not to show him, but to set the tone, scribbling a single word in a bold, all-caps scrawl: Sixty-nine.

A blush rose on her cheeks, but she pressed her lips together in a determined line—the intent having been declared, the experiment would proceed.

Andy grinned, stretched out and momentarily passive, but only until she reached for his cock and guided it between her lips, swallowing him with a thoroughness that stunned him. Her mouth was hot, soft, enveloping; her tongue worked in slow, careful spirals, as if she could taste the entire history of a body in a single, sustained arc. He let his head tip back, eyes closed, and for a moment just reveled in the sensation of it—her wet, insistent mouth, the gentle scrape of her canines, the almost surgical attention she gave to every twitch of his body.

But then he felt the invitation in the flex of her hips, the arching of her back, the deliberate way she nudged her thigh against his face. He moved down, one hand stroking the length of her spine, the other splaying across her lower back to anchor her in place. Her scent was sharp and sweet, her skin flushed with blood and heat. He buried his face between her thighs, feeling the fine tremor of anticipation that ran through her body.

He started slow, tongue gliding along the length of her, tasting her, mapping every contour. He paid particular attention to the little reactions: the clench of her fist around his thigh, the flick of her tail as it coiled and uncoiled, the faint tremor she tried to smother with the fullness in her own mouth.

They moved together, at first clumsily, then with increasing synchronicity. Their bond helped, giving each of them a sense of how the other was feeling, the enjoyment, the arousal, the pleasure. Every time he drew a gasp from her, she redoubled her efforts, as if determined to return the favor with scientific parity. He lost track of time, sensation bleeding into sensation until the whole world narrowed to the points of contact between them: her tongue and his cock, his tongue and her clit, her thighs pressed around his ears, his hands digging into the hard muscle of her ass.

He found it intoxicating. He wondered if she was analyzing every moment, or if, for once, she had allowed herself to fall out of her head and into her body. He hoped it was the latter. He wanted this for her.

They spiraled together, each bringing the other closer, then backing off, then escalating again, until even the air around them seemed to crackle with tension. Claire came first, her whole body going rigid, thighs locking around his head in a vise grip, her tail winding around his forearm as if she needed him to hold onto something—or perhaps needed him to hold onto her. She was soundless, but Andy felt the gush of her arousal against his mouth; he licked her through it, gentle at first, then more insistent, wanting to draw it out, to give her every last ounce.

He was close himself, and she must have sensed it—she shifted her grip, deepened the angle of her mouth, and sucked him with a slow, milking pulse that left him no refuge. He tried to warn her—“I’m going to—” but she just swished her tail in acknowledgment, swallowing him deeper. When he came, it was sudden and overwhelming, a bright flare behind his eyes. She didn’t gag, didn’t pull away; she swallowed, then ran her tongue over the tip, lapping up the aftershocks as if savoring the last drops of a rare, forbidden liquor.

They collapsed in a tangle, limbs awkward and perfect, foreheads pressed together upside-down. Andy was laughing, gasping, his hands shaking as he tried to brush the hair out of her face. Claire was glassy-eyed, panting, her body loose and unselfconscious for possibly the first time since she’d arrived at the Hotel.

She turned her head and searched for his hand, finding it, squeezing tight. He realized she was trembling—not fear, but the raw, emptied aftermath of something enormous. He squeezed back, then brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

When they finally moved, it was to curl up together in the center of the bed, their bodies sticky, but neither caring.

Claire wrote, before she closed her eyes: You make me feel safe.

He read it, pulled her close, and whispered, “Always.”

Then he let himself drift, the warmth of her pressed to his chest, the scent of sex and sweat and gummy fish everywhere around them.

They stayed that way for a long while, their bodies glued together with the residue of sex and sugar, a tangle of limbs on the soft hotel bed. Claire’s tail twined loosely around Andy’s thigh, and every now and then she would flick it, slow and aimless, as if reminding herself this was not a dream or a lab experiment, but real, lived life.

She shifted, propping herself up on an elbow, hair falling in a dark curtain over her face. She reached for the nightstand and retrieved her notebook and pen, then wrote something—slow, with each letter formed as if she was inscribing a secret—and handed the page to Andy.

You are my favorite person.

He read it twice, just to make sure he wasn’t projecting. Then she drew a line underneath and added: Thank you for seeing me.

Andy swallowed, the rawness of the moment prickling at the backs of his eyes. He turned, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “I’m so glad you’re here. I couldn’t imagine my life without you.”

Claire didn’t look away, didn’t flinch. She only wrote, quick and small in the margin: I used to think no one would ever really know me.

He brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her again, softer this time, and she let him.

They lay together in silence, not awkward, but not yet finished. Claire nuzzled into the hollow of his shoulder, and for a while, neither moved. Andy could feel her pulse against his chest, her breathing slow and deep.

Finally, she shifted and wrote: Can I tell you something weird?

He grinned, “Absolutely.”

She hesitated, then wrote, in smaller script: I’ve been reading a lot about intimacy. She paused, as if weighing whether to keep going. Then: I didn’t know what I’d like, or what was supposed to happen, so I researched. A lot. But some of it is confusing, and some of it… isn’t.

She turned the page, continued: There are some things that keep showing up, and I don’t know if I want to try them or if I’m just curious about them. Is that normal?

Andy smiled, “I think that’s the definition of normal. Especially for you.”

She snorted, then wrote: Would you play a game with me?

He nodded, immediately interested.

She wrote: Guess one secret or kink I have. I’ll do the same. Wrong answers allowed.

He said, “Deal. You first.”

Claire studied him, eyes hooded, then scribbled quickly: You like giving orders.

He considered, then shrugged. “Guilty. But only when someone wants to follow them. Otherwise, it’s not fun.”

She nodded, then wrote: Your turn. Guess.

Andy feigned deep thought, lips pursed, then ventured, “You like… control. Having it, losing it, both at once.”

Claire tilted her head, then circled both at once. She drew a little cat face beside it, tongue out in embarrassment. Next to that, she wrote: I like when you hold my wrists down, but only if you ask first.

Andy smiled. “Consent is sexy.” She rolled her eyes, but her blush spread to her chest. She motioned for him to keep going. They volleyed for a while. Andy guessed her interest in sensory deprivation—she vetoed it, but said she was curious. She guessed he liked praise; he did, especially from her.

She tapped her pen on the page, then flipped to a clean sheet. The next words she wrote were slower, and each letter was bolder: I’ve read about shibari. The pictures are beautiful. I don’t know why but I keep coming back to them. She paused, considering. Below that, she added: I want to understand what it would feel like. Maybe even try it with you. Is that strange?

Andy’s heart thumped once, hard. He grinned, “Not strange at all. It’s… honestly, I think you’d look amazing. Even if I had to practice first, so I didn’t hurt you.”

She drew a quick diagram—her favorite kind, a neat stick-figure cat with neatly crossed wrists, a thick line of rope curving around the middle. Next to it, she wrote: Practice on me. I trust you. They lingered, the air heavy with the taste of new admissions, and for a while the only sound was the slow tick of the nightstand clock. Then Claire tapped the notebook: One more thing.

She waited for him to look at her, and her face was almost shy now, the armor of precision peeled away. Are you still happy to be bonded to me this way? The empathic thing. I know it can be too much.

He didn’t hesitate. “It is never too much, with you. I like it more than I should. I want to feel what you’re feeling. Especially when you’re happy.”

She wrote: I’m happy.

He smiled, leaning forward to steal a kiss. “I love you, Claire.”

She rolled her eyes, but her happiness was real. She wrote, in letters so tight they almost overlapped: I love you, Andy Cooper.

The rest of the night was less about sex and more about comfort. They held each other, arms and legs tangled, the world outside fading to a distant hum. Occasionally, Claire would jot a note and pass it to him, or he’d whisper something so earnest he almost regretted it—but never did. The sticky notes from Laura’s prank glimmered in the moonlight on the coffee table, casting little rectangles of color across the floor.

Andy almost drifted off three or four times, every nerve sludgy from afterglow and carbs, before he realized Claire hadn’t moved for several minutes. She still lay on his chest, but the angle of her cheek had shifted—no longer seeking comfort, but steeling herself. Her tail was tight as a metronome against his thigh. She’d been so relaxed just minutes ago, her breathing deep and even, but now she was awake and calculating.

He brushed a hand over her shoulder. “Hey. What is it?”

She reached past him for her notebook and fished for the pen. The light was dim, but there was enough for her to write in neat, blocky script. When she finished, she set the notebook on his chest and drummed her fingers until he picked it up. Can we talk about the Garden of Glass? she’d written.

He nodded, suddenly much more alert. Andy shifted on the bed, propping himself up against the headboard. Claire waited for him to answer, her head on his chest, her cat ears stilled in a way that meant she was bracing for impact.

“Of course,” he said. “We can talk about anything. Always.”

She wrote again, flipping the notebook so he could read it as she went, each word steady and deliberate: I know you saw everything. All the scenes. Not just mine, but the others too. I don’t understand how you could handle that much pain at once. Even if you weren’t inside the memory, it must have hurt.

He exhaled, the memories flooding back in a moment: the parade of traumas, not just the sharp ones but the tiny, cumulative wounds. Watching the women he cared about—each so strong, each so breakable—relive the worst days of each other’s lives. Seeing himself through their eyes in helpless cameos. He’d tried to keep it together, for their sake. But it had nearly undone him.

Andy tried to find words for what he’d seen in the Garden, for the sense of being cracked open and **** to witness, not from the safe distance of a storyteller, but as a participant in the pain. In the dark, with only Claire’s soft warmth pressing into his side and her notebook poised, he realized that even here, even after everything, there were still things he could not say easily.

He settled for honesty. “I thought it would be like watching a movie, or reading a diary,” he said, voice low. “But it wasn’t. I could feel it. Every time someone was hurt, or left, or… lost themselves, I felt it.” He let the words hang in the air, sticky as old honey. “I kept waiting for it to end. But I wanted to see it through, because—” He stopped, the confession catching in his throat. “Because I couldn’t leave any of you alone to face all that pain.”

Claire didn’t write right away. Instead, she traced circles on his chest with the back of her pen, a tiny, repetitive comfort. Finally, she wrote: Did you see the ones about me?

“Yeah,” Andy said. “And the ones you saw about the others.” He hesitated, then added, “Some of those hurt more. Like, in the moment, I wanted to pull you out, or tell you it would stop, but I couldn’t do anything.”

She pressed the notebook to his arm, not a demand, but a need. He read: How did you keep going? When it hurt that much?

He thought about lying, about saying something heroic or easy. Instead, he went with the truth. “Because of Laura,” he said. “Or maybe because of Emi, and the way she remembered Laura.” He tried to untangle the knot in his head. “There were a few scenes where Emi saw Laura before she died. And even though it hurt like hell, seeing her again, it also helped. Because it was like—” He broke off, groping for the right words. “Like she was still there, pulling me back. Even before she came back for real.” He could feel Claire’s intake of breath. It fluttered across his ribs, a tiny ghost of surprise.

She wrote, slower now, the letters shaky: I felt your pain through the bond. That’s why I broke in the later rounds. It got so much worse, and I didn’t understand why until now.

Andy’s chest clenched. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice small. “I should have shut it down.”

She shook her head, swift and sharp, then scribbled: Not a complaint. Just worried. You always try to carry too much.

Andy let himself smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I can’t seem to stop.”

She added: You don’t have to. I want to help. But I also want to know… She paused, chewing the inside of her cheek, then wrote, tiny: Should I know what parts of my past were shown to the others? Was it the one about my father?

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Liesa saw that one. I’m sorry.” He took a breath. “Norah saw the one at the party. With the noise, and the other girls. She didn’t say anything later, but I could tell it shook her.”

Claire’s eyes dropped to the sheets, and for a second, Andy wondered if he’d broken her. She didn’t move, just stared at her notebook, hands motionless.

He reached over and stroked her hair, careful and slow. “It doesn’t change how anyone sees you,” he said. “If anything, I think it helped.”

She wrote, barely legible: I wasn’t a good daughter. When my father was dying, all I did was look for a cure. I couldn’t even stay in the room with him unless I was researching something. I wanted to fix it, not watch it end. Her hand hovered over the page, hesitating, then continued beneath: He just wanted me to be there, but I couldn’t do it.

She set the notebook down on his chest, not looking up, and wiped at her eyes with the heel of her palm, as if she could erase the tears before they started. Andy waited, letting her choose the tempo. He touched her cheek, gentle, tracing his thumb under her eye until she stilled.

"It’s not fair, you know," he said quietly. "Most people run. At least you ran toward something. You tried to fix it because it was the only thing you could do."

She shook her head, fierce and fast. She wrote: He died alone. I was in the next room, reading a paper about experimental therapies in rats. I can’t even remember what it was now. Just that I didn’t want to see him die. Her ears flattened against her head, the only sign of how hard this was. She added, small: That’s why the Silent Muse trade was fine. I deserved it. It’s better than not knowing what other people feel. It’s worth it.

Andy let the words settle, then pulled her in, one arm curling around her shoulders. He didn’t try to offer empty comfort. He just held her, as tightly as he dared.

She clung to him, breath hitching. Her hand fumbled for the notebook, and she scribbled in a slanted rush: I’m not asking you to fix it.

He kissed the top of her head, her hair soft under his lips. "I know," he said. "I just want you to know you’re not alone with it. Not anymore."

She didn’t answer, but her grip on his side tightened. He felt her tail wrap around his calf, a small claim. Andy let her have the quiet. He stroked her hair, waiting as her breathing evened out. Only then did he start talking, the words measured, low, and careful: "I saw the Garden of Glass. All of it. I saw you, but I also saw the way you tried to help Dawn when she was drowning at The Harrington. You stood between her and the rest of the world. You reminded her of what really mattered."

He watched as the lines of her face shifted, her mouth tightening.

"I saw the way you felt for Emily," he said. "You saw what she went through when she was pulled out of her old life, how scared she was, and it hurt you. You wanted to take it away."

Claire’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry yet. Instead, she reached for the notebook and wrote: You really saw everything, then.

"Yeah," he said, voice hoarse. "I saw the one where Riley lost her son in the hospital. And I saw how you tried to console her after, I saw what it did to you, and to her. That matters, Claire."

He took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "You’ve got this incredible heart," he said, "even if it scares you sometimes. Even if it hurts to use it."

She shivered, but didn’t pull away. She looked at him, eyes wide and raw, and wrote: You really believe that?

"I do," he said. He brushed his lips against her temple, slow and careful. "I’m glad you upgraded the transformation," he went on. "Now I get to feel how much you care, how strong your love is. It never ceases to amaze me."

She looked away, unable to hold his gaze, but she didn’t let go of his hand. He said, "I think your dad knew you loved him. Even at the end. I think he’d be proud of you, if he could see how far you’ve come, how much you’ve done for everyone here. You stood up for people, you lead them, you built a life. You became more than you ever thought you could."

The words hit her harder than he expected. For a second, she just stared, then closed her eyes, and the tears came. Not loud or showy, just a silent streaming. He let her cry, pulling her closer, rocking her a little, the way you’d rock a child in pain. He felt her ribs shake with the effort of letting herself grieve, and it nearly broke him.

She eventually surfaced, rubbing her face dry, and wrote, letters jagged: You’re too good to me.

He shook his head, kissed her again, this time lingering. "You deserve love, Claire. You deserve happiness. You deserve a family. And I love you," he said, voice thick.

She looked at him, then kissed him back, a gentle press of lips, her tail curling around his leg.

She wrote: I love you too. I’m not good at showing it. But I do.

"You don't need to show it, Claire. I know, I can feel it," he said. He brushed her cheek. "And I’ll never stop being grateful for you."

She hugged him then, arms around his waist, face tucked into his shoulder. After a minute, she shifted, awkward and shy, and wrote: Can you hold me while I sleep?

He smiled, tugged her up onto his chest, her head resting under his chin. "Anytime," he said.

She pressed her whole body to his, tail wrapping his thigh. She fumbled for the notebook one last time, the page already damp at the corner: Thank you for not letting go.

He didn’t answer, just kissed her hair and let her drift. She fell asleep before him, curled tight to his chest, the notebook drying out on the nightstand, Laura’s sticky notes still scattered across the coffee table like confetti from some impossible celebration. Andy stayed awake longer, watching the dim lights of the Suite reflect off the window. He thought of the last gummy fish, of Claire’s careful dance on the observatory deck, of the way she had finally, truly, claimed a night that belonged only to her.

Bonus Art! Claire's Pathfinder character, Clara Catsworth:

Tomorrow: Gretch the Collector!