Verdant Arches

The path Erin led him on wound away from the resort proper, past the last of the neatly edged lawns, through a break in the perimeter hedge. The gravel gave way to sand and the sand to leaf-mold, the trees crowding close enough to blot out the sky. Erin’s hand was cool and dry in his, her stride purposeful. The only sound was the crunch of their shoes and the faint, sighing rush of wind in the canopy above.

Andy didn’t ask where she was taking him. He trusted her sense of direction better than his own. Besides, there was something about the way she moved—shoulders set, head up—that made it clear she’d been rehearsing this walk in her mind for days. Maybe longer.

They went downhill, the undergrowth thickening, the air taking on a wet-green sharpness. Every few steps, a burr or a bit of weed would catch at Erin’s ankle, but she only brushed them off, intent on her goal. Finally, after what felt like an intentional meander to throw off pursuit, she slowed. Andy saw her glance over her shoulder, checking for staff or—possibly—Arabella. Or maybe just wanting to make sure she had Andy all for herself, for a while.

They entered a small clearing, ringed by sycamores and laurel—and then Andy slowed, because clearing wasn’t quite the right word. The ground dipped subtly inward, the trees leaning as if drawn toward a center they respected, their roots gripping the slope like witnesses unwilling to leave. At the far end stood a circle of ancient stone arches—four intact, others broken or half-swallowed by earth—set not in a line but in a deliberate ring, arranged with a geometry that felt older than design, older even than ruin.

On closer inspection, the arches were not freestanding remnants but the surviving teeth of something larger. The stones were massive, their proportions squat and deliberate, each resting on broad, stepped bases that suggested weight, endurance—architecture meant to judge rather than to please. Their surfaces were worn smooth in places and jagged in others, as though they had never been carved so much as persuaded into shape. Shallow impressions—repeating, wedge-like marks pressed into the stone rather than cut—ran in faded bands along the lower courses, worn nearly smooth by time and weather. Moss and roots threaded the seams, but not randomly; the growth followed the stone’s lines with unsettling precision, bending around certain faces and avoiding others entirely, as if the structure still remembered where life was permitted to touch it.

Wisteria and jasmine surged up the columns in dense, impossible cascades, blossoms draped so thickly they blurred the stone beneath. Sunlight filtered through the canopy and didn’t just illuminate the space—it settled there, pooling in slow-moving bands of purple and gold that shifted as the vines creaked and adjusted. The light seemed to favor the center of the ring, thinning toward the edges, as if drawn inward by an old rule it still obeyed. The air inside the ring felt cooler, heavier, scented so richly Andy tasted it at the back of his tongue. Sound behaved oddly here, too; their footsteps softened, and when he breathed out, the exhale felt swallowed rather than echoed.

It was wild. It was curated. And beneath both ran the quiet, unmistakable gravity of a place that had once been used for decisions that could not be undone.

Erin let go of Andy’s hand and stood just inside the first arch. She didn’t say anything, just tilted her chin and looked at the riot of color with a hard, almost suspicious eye. Andy followed, careful to duck the lower-hanging wisteria. The scent of jasmine was overwhelming. He’d never liked the smell, but here, it was different: a sweetness layered over green and earth, a reminder of every spring he’d spent working in the yard as a kid. Without meaning to, he lowered his voice.

He turned in a slow circle, then met Erin’s gaze. “You did this?”

She shrugged, a muscle tic that set her breasts—god, how did they even fit against her ribcage?—bouncing for a moment before the mint skin settled smooth. “I didn’t find it like this,” she said, almost defensively. “The arches were a bit buried, and the rest was just broken stone and bad soil. I hauled half of it back upright myself. Dug the rest out by hand.” She hesitated. “The rest…” Her eyes flicked toward the center of the ring, where the ground dipped bare and stone showed through the moss. “The rest decided to cooperate.”

He looked again, searching for the tell. “Even Sam and Liesa couldn’t find this on their hikes.”

“They weren’t looking for it,” she said, almost shy. “I only found it by accident, last round, when I was… having a day.”

He wanted to ask what kind of day, but she pushed on. “I never thought they’d take. The jasmine, the wisteria—I put them in half as a joke. Or maybe to test the island’s appetite for strangers.” She paused, gaze distant. “They grew faster than I dared hope. Like they remembered what this place was for.” Then, softer: “Like they were hungry for more.”

“This place is breathtaking,” Andy said, and meant it. “Even in the regular world, wisteria takes years to clamber like this.”

She exhaled, a sharp little hiss. “I was terrified it would be too gaudy—or not enough. I don’t know what I expected.” She moved toward a collapsed cluster of blossoms, brown and wilted at the edges, and clipped away the dead stems with careful fingers. The vines did not resist her touch; instead, they seemed to loosen, accommodating her movements. New shoots slid into the empty spaces like eager hands reaching for light.

Andy sidled closer. “It isn’t too much,” he insisted. “It’s perfectly wild.”

She snorted, but there was no edge in it. “It’s only perfect because it’s overgrown. If I tried to keep it tidy, it’d look like any old park.” She crouched, tracing a finger along a bare patch of stone where a vine had failed to catch. The moss stopped cleanly at the edge of the depression, as if an invisible boundary still held. “It’s been three days since I last came here. The growth is…” She broke off, then looked up at Andy, expression uncertain. “They shouldn’t be this big. Not in three days. Not even here.”

He knelt beside her, resting his forearms on his knees. “Are you worried?”

She shook her head, a quick, stubborn motion. “Just… confused. And maybe a little proud, if I’m being honest.”

Andy grinned. “You should be.”

Erin lifted a trailing end of jasmine to examine it, and for a heartbeat nothing happened. Then, with a sudden rustle, fresh green shoots burst from the vine’s tip. Tiny buds fattened and unfurled into blossoms in seconds, unfurling like a time-lapse video played at double speed. Petals formed, stamens arced, and in the space of two heartbeats the vine had grown nearly a foot.

“Shit,” Erin whispered, drawing back as though she’d touched fire. “Did you see—”

He nodded, awe warring with unease. “It’s like they know you.”

She drew her hand back, flexing her fingers as if they’d been burned. “I didn’t mean to.”

He caught her wrist, gently. “It’s okay.” He made himself smile, though inside he felt a cold twist of something he hadn’t let himself name yet. “It’s not scary. Not if you’re the one doing it.”

Erin looked at him then, truly looked, and the tension sloughed off her shoulders. The anxious edge vanished from her eyes, replaced by something softer—relief, perhaps, or a fragile pride. “You really think so?”

He squeezed her hand. “Always.”

They stayed there a minute longer, letting the unnatural silence of the place settle around them. The only sound was the slow, almost imperceptible creak of the vines as they grew and shifted, claiming every scrap of sun the ruins offered.

Erin stood, hauling Andy up with her. “Come on,” she said. “There’s more.” She led him through the second arch, then the third, her hand never letting go.

Andy followed, and as he did, the sense of unease faded—not gone, but banked, like a fire waiting for more fuel.

At the heart of the ring, where the ground dipped lowest, the arches enclosed a hollow, almost room-like space beneath the bloom-heavy trellis. Erin had laid a blanket on the mossy ground, its corners weighted with smooth stones and two ancient bricks scavenged from a fallen course of the ruin. At the center was the picnic: three kinds of bread, a full wheel of brie, strawberries and stone fruit, two thermoses (one soup, one something that steamed faintly of lemon), and enough charcuterie for a party.

Andy let out a low whistle, the kind of genuine, reflexive sound he made when something knocked him slightly off-center in a good way. His voice echoed off the ancient stones and through the curtains of flowers, fracturing into shards of sound that returned to them as laughter. “Are we expecting an entire football team?” he said, eyeing the spread with comic awe.

Erin’s cheeks did a little tug-of-war between feigned annoyance and actual pleasure. “Dawn threatened to crash if I brought anything less. She said something about ‘never trusting a scientist’s sense of portion control.’” Erin poked at a wedge of brie as if it had personally offended her, then looked up at Andy with a dare: say something about it, I triple dog dare you.

He sat, cross-legged, and watched as she arranged the food with care. Her body language had shifted—looser, less defensive now that they’d settled. Still, he caught her glancing at him, as if waiting for a comment on her appetite or, maybe, her thoroughness.

“You want me to say it’s overkill,” he said, “but honestly? I’m impressed.” He took a slice of bread, slathered it with cheese. “This is the most food anyone’s ever made for me on any picnic date. I’d have shown up with, like, a protein bar and called it rustic. Maybe a lukewarm Gatorade if the girl is fancy.”

That drew a snort from Erin, which she tried and failed to mask by biting into a strawberry. She let the juice run down her chin before wiping it away with the back of her hand in a single, unabashed motion. “That tracks.” Erin flashed him a raspberry, then looked suddenly shy. “This was supposed to be… I don’t know. Impressive? I wanted it to feel special. I don’t do ‘special’ very often.”

He considered that, then gestured grandly at the arches, the riot of color, the picnic that was less lunch and more edible installation art. “You crushed it,” he said. “If this was a judging challenge, you’d sweep the scores.”

She glanced away, choosing to fuss with the thermos instead. “It’s not really about the food,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I just wanted a little control. Over something.”

After a few comfortable minutes, Erin broke the stillness. “Sometimes I feel like we’re living on borrowed time,” she said, her eyes set on a point somewhere in the middle arch.

Andy’s hands went still around his cup. “You mean here? Or everywhere?”

She shrugged, but the gesture lacked its usual bravado. “Here, mostly. But…” She trailed off, then gave a small, rueful smile. “I guess everywhere, yeah. I used to think if I planned for every possibility, nothing bad could surprise me. But it never works like that.”

Andy considered. Now that she mentioned it, he remembered all the times she’d done the same during their relationship: scheduled phone calls, backup plans, alternate routes. How had he never noticed, back then? “Were you always like this?”

Erin considered, then nodded, picking up the thread as if it were a familiar rope. “I used to drive my parents crazy. I’d triple-check the door locks—then, when they went to bed, I’d sneak back down and check again. One summer I filled an entire closet with canned food, just in case there was a hurricane.” She caught his eye, half-challenging him to laugh, but Andy just listened. “Whenever I went to a sleepover, I brought a bag with enough stuff for a week. My friends called it my ‘bug-out bag.’ Which, in retrospect, sounds way cooler than it was.”

Andy smiled. “Did you ever actually need it?”

“Nope. All it did was make everyone else feel unprepared.” She slumped a little, picking at the seam of the blanket with her thumb. “It’s not rational, I know. But it’s like, if I let my guard down, even for a second, something will come along and punch me in the heart.”

He studied her face, the way her eyes darted to the picnic, then back to him. “Did it work?”

She shook her head, quick and dismissive. “Not really. And it didn’t work with my parents, either. My dad’s fine, I guess. He just… never got used to the idea of having a daughter, so he put all his efforts into making sure I wouldn’t grow up afraid of mud or spiders. He thought if he toughened me up, nothing could hurt me. My mom wanted me to be the opposite. She had this vision of me—ballet recitals, hair ribbons, dresses with little sashes. Every time I cut my hair or skinned my knees, it was like I’d ruined her day.” Erin’s mouth twisted, but not with anger. “I spent most of my life toggling between ‘badass girl’ and ‘girly disappointment.’ Got pretty good at both, but I don’t think I ever figured out which one was real.”

Andy reached out, folding his hand over hers. “You’re both,” he said, meaning it. “You’re the only person I know who could pull off a picnic like this and also teach me how to punch someone in the throat.”

Her lips twitched, but the compliment seemed to land somewhere deep. “I did practice that on my brother, once. He still won’t eat pudding.”

Andy decided not to laugh too loudly, just in case she meant it as a secret. He poured her a cup of soup, careful not to spill, and pushed it toward her across the blanket. “You can talk about it, if you want,” he said, keeping his voice low, like he was speaking across a tent at midnight.

Erin’s gaze dropped to the seam of the blanket, her thumb worrying at a loose thread. “It’s dumb,” she said, almost pleading for him to let it go. “I’m too old for it to matter.”

He waited. With Erin, he’d learned that filling silences was like trying to dam a river: it only made things back up, not move forward. So he let the quiet fill itself, let the wind and the creak of vines settle onto them, until she finally exhaled and found the words.

“My dad wanted me to be tough,” she said, still refusing to look up. “He took me camping in the winter, even when I was six. He made me learn how to start a fire with wet matches, how to splint a broken arm with duct tape and sticks.” Her mouth twisted, and Andy couldn’t tell whether the expression was fondness, bitterness, or some alloy of both. “He thought it’d make me independent. Like if I could survive without anybody, I’d never be disappointed.”

She finally raised her eyes, but only to look past Andy, into the tumble of green and purple overhead. Her voice softened, as if she was afraid the wisteria might be listening. “Mom just wanted me to be normal. Or—” She stopped, rolling her eyes at herself. “Not normal. Girly. Pretty. Someone she could brag about to her sisters. She hated that I’d rather climb a tree than go shopping.” Erin’s hands balled, then relaxed. “It was like I was always disappointing one of them. Usually both.”

Andy’s fingers found her knee, gave it a squeeze. “You never told me all this, when we were dating. That sounds like a lot.”

Erin grimaced. “I didn’t like talking about it then. Still don’t, honestly. Also…” She hesitated, biting her lip, “I never felt as close to you back then as I do now.” Andy didn’t reply, because what could he say? He was fully aware of the kind of person he had been, during their first relationship.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” he said, in the end.

Erin shrugged, but it was the kind of movement that tried to shed a heavy coat and only managed to slide it partway down. “I don’t know. They’re happier now that they’re apart, I guess.”

Andy sipped his own soup, letting her words settle. There was a time, not so long ago, when he’d have tried to fix it—offered advice, or a joke, or some platitude about families being complicated. Now he understood that sometimes the only thing to do was carry the story with her, not try to make it weigh less.

“Does it bother you?” he asked, only after he was sure she expected the question.

She hesitated, drawing a slow circle in the moss with one finger. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice so soft the wind nearly stole it. “Mostly when I think about what comes after this. After the hotel, after the cameras. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Andy set his cup down with deliberate care. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make her retreat, but he also didn’t want to let her keep living in borrowed time. “You don’t have to wait for it anymore,” he said, leaning in just enough that she couldn’t mistake his intent. “You don’t have to carry all of that, either. Not by yourself.”

She went very still, like a deer caught by sunlight. Then, slowly, she let herself lean into him, her bare shoulder warm and solid against his chest. “It’s stupid,” she said, and this time her voice cracked just a little. “But I still worry I’m too much. That you’ll wake up one day and realize I’m a lot to deal with.”

Andy laughed, but it wasn’t sharp or dismissive. It was the kind of laugh that made space for both of them. “Erin, I’m here. I want to be here. With you.” He wrapped his arms around her, not tight, but not loose either—a perfect fit, like a promise made real.

She pressed her face to his shoulder, the trembling of her breath betraying how hard she was fighting not to let it out. For a long moment, she was silent, but Andy could feel the heartbeat of her anxiety—how it thudded against his ribcage, how it slowly began to slow.

When she lifted her head, her eyes were bright and a little wet, but her smile was genuine. She wore her vulnerability like a new tattoo: raw, obvious, but already a part of her. “I want to believe that,” she said. “I really do.”

He kissed her forehead. “You can.”

They sat, entwined, as the light shifted from gold to green and the scent of jasmine thickened. Andy could feel her relaxing, a looseness in her spine that hadn’t been there before. Eventually, Erin wiped her eyes—quick, almost embarrassed—then reached for another strawberry.

“I wasn’t planning on crying so early,” she said, her voice almost back to normal.

Andy grinned, biting into a piece of crusty bread. “It’s okay. But you have to admit, it’s kind of nice, not having to hide anything.”

She considered, then nodded, more solemn than the moment warranted. “Yeah. It is.”

They ate in silence for a while, the only noise the distant crush of surf and the busy, persistent life of the garden around them. Andy thought: This is all she’s ever wanted. Just a place to belong. Someone to hold her through the hard parts. He squeezed her shoulder, as if to ground her to the moment, and Erin let her head drop onto his arm with a sigh.

She let herself be held.

They lingered on the blanket, slow to clean up, both of them content to let the afternoon unspool. Andy drifted between sips of wine and mouthfuls of sourdough, watching the way Erin’s shoulders relaxed by degrees, as if the sunlight really did feed her. She seemed softer here, away from the others and the constant whir of the game’s machinery, but it was more than that—something in how she moved, how she met his gaze without apology, even in silence. Every few minutes, her hand would creep over, sometimes purposeful, sometimes as if it had a mind of its own—curling around his wrist, tracing the knob of his thumb, or drumming lightly on his jeans. It was only after several rounds of this that Andy realized it was no longer a test, not even a comfort—just her way of reminding herself he was still there, still real.

He caught her at it mid-drift, pinning her hand gently between both of his. “You’re awfully forward today,” he said, giving her his best mock-suspicious look.

Erin arched an eyebrow. “Is that a complaint?”

“Not at all.” He grinned, let her fingers slip free. “Just an observation. You used to practically bolt if I got too close.”

She snorted, plucking a grape from the cluster beside her and rolling it between her palms. “That was before I realized I actually like being touched.” She said it dryly, but there was a note of wonder under the sarcasm—like she still wasn’t quite used to the idea. “Strange what a little trauma and a radical body transformation or two can do for your intimacy issues.”

Andy tilted his head, faking a thoughtful look. “I’m not sure I would recommend it as a universal treatment.”

“Probably not for everyone.” She popped the grape in her mouth, chewed, then sucked the juice from her thumb. “But honestly? I think I needed a little nudge. It started with the upgrade for my first transformation, remember? It made your touch mildly arousing, too? And then… when I first changed, first with the nudity, then the plant thing, I thought I’d never get used to it. I’d catch my reflection in the faucet or the oven door and I’d freak out, like there was an alien in my bedroom.” She held her arms out, palms up—offering herself for inspection. The mint-green of her skin looked impossibly soft, almost fuzzy at this distance; the sunlight caught the faint gold of her freckles, turning them to dusted glitter. “Now it’s just… me. I don’t even notice unless someone else points it out.”

He reached over, brushing the tip of his finger along her forearm, home to a tiny constellation of paler spots. “I like it. The color. The freckles. All of it.”

She gave him a sidelong look—skeptical, but not unfriendly. “You’re sure you’re not just biased because you’ve got a sex plant for a fiancee now?”

He laughed, and she joined him, the sound coming easily. “That’s not it at all. I liked you before, too. But I like that you’re not hiding anymore.”

She didn’t look away, but she dropped her voice. “You know, I spent the first few days here absolutely terrified I’d be eliminated, and the second week terrified I’d win.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t know which would be worse. If I lost, I’d have to go back—try to explain to my friends, my family, that I came to a magical island and now I’m some kind of mutant sex bomb.” She paused, considering the phrase, then nodded. “And if I won, it’d mean some of the others, maybe most of them, would have been in that situation, instead. Meanwhile, I wasn’t sure if winning meant I’d ever get to be a real person again.” She scratched at her jaw, frowning. “Not just a fantasy. Not just a joke.”

Andy took her hand in both of his, squeezing. “You’re not a joke, Erin. You never were.”

She blinked a few times, then smiled, a little sheepishly. “I know. But it’s easy to forget, sometimes, when you’re living in a cartoon. Like, the other day Dawn and I found a vending machine in one of the corridors, that only dispenses edible underwear. I’m not even kidding. There was a strawberry thong in there with my name on it.”

He made a face. “Did you try it?”

She nodded, laughing. “It tasted like a Fruit Roll-Up, but worse. I gave the rest to Sam. She said she was going to use it, and I didn’t dare to ask her how.”

Andy tried to picture that and nearly choked on his wine. “And you say you’re not living in a cartoon.”

“Right? But the weird thing is, I’m happier here than I’ve ever been.” She shrugged, as if daring him to contradict her. “I mean, I have bad days. Sometimes I still wake up and panic, thinking I’ve turned into a houseplant and someone’s going to forget to water me. But most of the time it’s… good. I feel like I get to be myself, instead of just the version of me that other people can live with.”

He scooted closer, enough that their knees bumped and stayed touching. “You can be whatever version you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

She met his eyes, and something softened in her posture—shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching. “I’m still working on it,” she said. “But thank you.”

They fell quiet, the air thick with flower scent and an easy sort of hope. A breeze rattled the vines overhead, sending a few loose petals drifting down to land in Andy’s hair. Erin reached up and brushed one away, her touch lingering a half second longer than necessary. He caught her wrist, turning it gently in his palm, and pressed a kiss to the bright green skin just above her pulse.

She flushed, a fascinating blend of green hues, and didn’t pull away. “Careful,” she whispered. “You know what that does to me.”

He did. Every time, it was like throwing a match onto dry leaves. The blush would spread, her breath catch, eyes darken with that slow, greedy heat that made him forget words and the world around them.

He smiled. “Maybe I like watching you react.”

She poked him in the ribs with her free hand. “You’re a sadist.”

He considered this, then nodded sagely. “Possibly.”

She grinned, then rolled over so she was facing him fully, her cheek propped on her knuckles. “Do you ever miss the way things used to be?” Her tone was casual, but he could see the tension ripple through her, an anxious undertow just beneath the surface.

He thought about it. Not just the facts of their old life, but the feeling: the constant pressure to perform, to anticipate, to always be the first to spot a threat or a flaw in the system. The way he’d held himself just outside everything, afraid that if he let his guard down for even a second, he’d lose more than he could ever recover.

“I miss some of it,” he said, honest. “But the person you were then and the person you are now—” He shook his head, searching for the right words. “I think I like this version better. You’re still you, but you’re… brighter. More alive.”

She snorted. “Because I’m green now?”

He laughed. “That, and the fact that you don’t hide when you’re scared, or sad, or pissed off. You just let it out.”

Erin weighed that, then nodded. “I never really let myself do that before. I always thought if I showed how much I cared, I’d be weak, and make it worse. Like I’d just…add more noise to the world.”

Andy shook his head. “I like your noise.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes got that glassy shine again, and she reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear—her fingers trembling, just slightly. “You’re getting sappy in your old age, Andy.”

“Probably.” He kissed her again, this time on the cheek, just below the line of her jaw. “But for what it’s worth, you make it easy.”

She made a small, contented noise, then flopped back onto the blanket and stared up at the sky, arms flung wide. “If you ever decide to write a self-help book, you should call it ‘Making Peace With Your Fiancee’s Superpowers.’”

He laughed, scooting down beside her, their hands gravitating together in the space between their bodies. “Only if you write the foreword.”

She grinned, teeth bright, and laced their fingers together. “I’ll write it in green ink.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “If you haven’t noticed, I can’t stop looking at you.”

She let her eyes go half-lidded. “You know what happens when you look at me, right?”

He did. She’d told him, after the first transformation. Every time he stared, every time their eyes met, her body responded: nipples peaked, heat pooled between her legs, a flush running in a barely visible wave from her throat down to her belly.

She didn’t hide it, not with him. Sometimes, she seemed to enjoy seeing the effect it had on him.

He reached over, grazed his hand over her cheek. “If it bothers you,” he said, “I can stop.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t.” She took a breath, steadying herself. “I kind of like it. Actually.” She glanced up, making eye contact, and he saw the way it made her whole body tighten.

“You’re adorable,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “I did an experiment, last week,” she said. “I went a whole day without going outside. No sun, just to see if I’d, I don’t know, wilt or something.”

He laughed. “And?”

“I got a little sluggish, but mostly just… hungry. Like, physically.” She poked her belly, which was perfectly flat. “I ended up eating an entire loaf of bread. I think I burned more calories than usual, trying to compensate.” She sounded almost pleased with herself.

Andy smirked. “Guess we’ll need to buy greenhouse lamps for the house.”

She punched him, gentle. “You’re not as funny as you think.”

He caught her fist, curled his hand around it. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m funnier.”

She searched his face, something unspoken in her expression. “You remember that day, last round, when you said I looked good as a plant girl?”

“Yeah,” he said, the memory vivid. He’d meant it, but hadn’t realized how much it mattered.

“That was the first time I believed it,” she said. “That you actually liked me, like this. Not just… tolerated me.”

He leaned forward, kissed her hard. She tasted of brine and fruit and faintly of the herbs from the garden. When he broke away, she was flushed, her eyes bright with something deeper than arousal.

“You’re so damn hot,” he said. “I think maybe I’m getting overexposed to the transformations, but—”

She cut him off with a laugh, sharp and full-bellied. “You’re the only guy I know who’d say that and mean it.”

He let the joke settle, then asked, “Is there anything you still worry about?”

She hesitated, then said, “I keep wondering if I’m still human enough to have kids.” She said it lightly, but he heard the weight behind it.

Andy smiled, recalling the time she’d made the same joke, two weeks ago, when she was still learning her new body. “If it helps, I’m ninety percent sure you’re not a full vegetable. Even if you were, I’d still try to get you pregnant.”

She snorted, but then grew quiet. “I’m not asking for comfort, Andy. I’m good. Really. I just… keep thinking about what comes after this. After the show.”

He nodded, understanding. “What do you want it to look like?”

Erin was quiet a long moment, staring at the latticework of the arches above them. “I want it to be something I built, not just something I survived. I want to have a place, somewhere that’s mine. Ours. With everyone. Maybe I want kids. Maybe not. But I want the choice.” She looked at him, and her eyes were clear. “What about you?”

He answered honestly. “I want to be with you. I want what we had before, only, more honest, and with none of the mistakes I made the first time. And it’s going to be in the context of a harem, but I don’t mind. I want all the boring parts, too. Grocery shopping, fighting about the thermostat, you making fun of my shoes.”

She squeezed his hand. “You have terrible taste in shoes.”

He grinned. “So do you.”

She looked down at her battered hiking shoes. “Fair point.”

“So what does it look like?” Andy asked. “Your plan, I mean.”

Erin picked at a strawberry, then set it down, hands fidgeting in her lap. She looked at him, gauging whether he was joking, but his face was open and expectant. It loosened something in her, and she started to speak—not in the measured, careful way she used when sharing a secret, but as if the words were already lined up, waiting for release.

“After the show,” she said, “I figure there’s no way any of us can just go back to normal. Not with the bond, not with all of… this.” She gestured at her body, the blanket, the sunlight trapped in the arches. “So we need a place. A real place. I want it on the water, somewhere with seasons but not too much snow. Enough bedrooms for everyone. Enough bathrooms, too—Chloe will riot if she ever has to share again.”

Andy laughed, and Erin grinned, confidence building. “There’d be a garden. Not just for me. Dawn wants to plant fruit trees, and I think Emi would die if she didn’t have space for sunflowers. There’d be a kitchen big enough for all of us, and a porch, and maybe a dock for swimming. I’d build a greenhouse, too, for winter.”

She hesitated, then: “We’d need a nursery. Maybe two. I don’t know who else wants kids, but if even half of us do, it’ll get crowded.” She looked at Andy, eyes bright with something sharper than hope. “You’d teach them how to swim. I’d show them how to grow things. Marissa would teach them emotional maturity. Claire would help them with homework. Riley would beat up their bullies. Dawn would teach them how to cook. And so on. The rest, they’d figure out for themselves.”

He could see her picturing it, the whole weird, sprawling family. He tried to imagine it himself: morning routines that never matched, holidays with so many overlapping traditions they’d need a spreadsheet to keep up, a constant low-grade chaos tempered by the certainty that everyone belonged.

“Sounds like a lot,” he said, but the words came out reverent, not skeptical.

Erin didn’t miss it. “It is a lot. But I think that’s the point.” She grew thoughtful, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve got a list in my head, of who ends up as what. Wives, girlfriends, sex partners, friends. It sounds bad if you say it out loud, but—” She looked at him, daring him to judge.

He didn’t. “Claire’s got one too. Who’s in the wives club?”

She smiled, a little self-deprecating. “Me, Laura, and Claire.” She paused, then: “I’ve seen Claire’s list. She keeps it in her notebook, in calligraphy. She’s probably already penciled in Dawn and Emi, and underlined Marissa twice.”

Andy shook his head, grinning. “I don’t think it’s weird. It’s forward-looking, considering.”

Erin relaxed. “I guess I just want to know where everyone stands. I hate ambiguity.” She took a breath, eyes drifting toward the arches overhead. “Dawn will wake everyone up at sunrise. She’ll run breakfast, get everyone out the door. Chloe will bake cookies, hand out bandaids, smooth over every fight before it gets bad. Riley will take over the schedule, keep us from turning feral. Marissa will turn the back shed into a therapy office, or maybe a garden clinic. Liesa will—” She laughed, shaking her head. “She’ll fill the place with art and noise and whatever animal she decides to rescue that week. Emi will make up bedtime stories for the kids, Sam will entertain them with her jokes and her humor, and Norah will get us into trouble with the neighbors, but only because she’s bored.”

She looked at Andy again. “I don’t mind being naked,” she said. “I’ll just buy reality edits so no one else thinks it’s weird. But even if they did, I don’t care.” She hesitated, then added, “I’ll always be a little self-conscious, but I think I’ll get over it. Especially if I’m with people who don’t make it a thing.”

He reached for her hand, squeezing it tight. “I like that.”

She considered. “Maybe I’m just used to planning for disasters.” She smiled, softer now. “But this doesn’t feel like a disaster. It feels like… I don’t know. Like home.”

The word landed between them, heavier than it should have been. Andy realized, in that moment, that Erin’s vision was more than a dream. It was a blueprint—every part thought out, every weakness reinforced by a layer of hope and stubbornness. She wanted a family, yes, but she also wanted a fortress. Not to keep people out, but to keep them together.

It struck him how much she reminded him of Laura, in that way. The same need to make something that would last beyond them, to build a thing that could survive even when they couldn’t.

Erin’s eyes shone, as if she could see his thoughts written out in the open air.

They sat in the dappled sunlight, hands locked together, both of them pretending not to notice the way the arches seemed to close in around them, sheltering them from everything except the promise of what might come next.

Erin was the first to move. She shifted her weight, rolling to face Andy, her breasts pressed against the bunched fold of the blanket, her eyes clear and steady. He felt the hush between them deepen, a kind of gravity pulling them together.

He traced the line of her shoulder, then her jaw, then the vein that ran just under the skin at her neck. He kissed her there, slow, feeling the way her pulse kicked up under his lips.

She inhaled, shaky, and when he pulled back to look at her, her cheeks were flushed pale green, her pupils wide. “You sure?” he whispered, not because he doubted, but because it was ritual, the last permission before they crossed the line.

She nodded, then hooked a leg over his, her foot cool and bare, toes curling around his calf. “Please,” she said, and the word was so raw it undid him a little.

He kissed her again, mouth open, letting the taste of her—earthy, a little sour, mostly sweet—sink into him. Her arms wound around his back, nails digging in just enough to anchor, to prove she was there and wanted this.

They moved onto the blanket, Erin on top first, her knees bracketing his hips, her hands pinning his wrists above his head. She leaned down and pressed her chest to his, skin on skin, and Andy felt the impossible weight of her breasts settle against his sternum. He cupped one, marveling at the warmth, the softness, the way the nipple responded instantly to his thumb. She shivered, a little gasp escaping, and when he looked up, her eyes were fixed on his, daring him to look away.

He didn't.

She slid down, lining herself up, and when he entered her, she moaned—loud, unrestrained, the sound echoing off the stone. Andy gripped her hips, feeling the flex of muscle and the give of flesh. The warmth of her engulfed him, sending electric currents up his spine that made his vision blur at the edges. She rode him hard, with a rhythm that was almost ****, her thighs trembling against his sides, her fingernails leaving crescent moons in his chest. But every time he reached for her breast, cupping its perfect weight, or kissed her throat where her pulse hammered against his lips, or whispered that she was perfect, she slowed, savoring the moment, drawing it out. Her eyes would flutter closed then open again, as if she needed to confirm he was still there, still watching her, still wanting her.

The first time, they finished quickly. Erin came with a cry that started deep in her chest and broke into fragments as it escaped her lips, arching back so far Andy thought she might snap in two, her body a perfect bow of tension. He followed, barely able to hold himself together, the pressure building at the base of his spine before exploding outward in waves that left him gasping her name like a prayer. For a long minute after, they just lay there, panting, her hair tangled with his, the smell of jasmine so thick it was almost dizzying, mingling with the salt of their skin and the earthier scent of their joining.

After the aftershocks faded—little tremors that made Erin twitch and giggle against him—she rolled off him, but not away. She curled up at his side, head on his shoulder, her hand drifting up and down his chest, tracing invisible patterns that felt like promises.

“Again?” he teased, half-joking.

She grinned, but there was a wildness in it. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy.”

They kissed, slower this time, and Andy let his hands roam—down her back, over the swell of her hips, cupping the curve of her breast. She shivered again, then ground herself against his thigh, slick and hungry. He found her with his hand, teased her until she begged, then pushed inside. She was hotter, wetter, tighter than before, and this time when they came, it was together, her head thrown back, his buried in the crook of her neck.

They lay tangled, not exhausted—neither of them ever really got tired, not anymore—but sated. Content.

After a while, Erin reached for the basket, dug out a chunk of cheese, and fed it to Andy. He took it, then returned the favor, both of them laughing at the absurdity of a post-coital picnic.

They talked, low and intimate, about nothing in particular. About the future, about the house by the water, about what they’d name their hypothetical kids (Erin vetoed “Sprout” immediately, but warmed to “Fern” as a middle name). Andy asked if she’d ever want to live in the city again, and she said maybe, as long as they could sneak away to the wild sometimes.

Eventually, Erin shifted, propped herself up on one elbow, and looked down at Andy. Her breasts hung, impossibly round, nipples dark and hard as marbles. She saw him staring and grinned. “You want a closer look?”

He didn’t answer. He just reached up, pulled her down, and kissed her, tongue tracing the line from her collarbone to the tip of her breast. She gasped, then pressed them together, squeezing around his cock, trapping him between the two perfect orbs.

She started to move, slow at first, then faster, her hands pressing her breasts tight, the friction incredible. Andy thought he might lose it just from watching her, the way she stared down, eyes locked on his, lips parted, breath coming in soft pants.

He lasted longer than he expected, but when he finally came, it was with a **** that surprised them both—hot and fast, striping her chest, her neck, even her chin. She laughed, delighted, and used a finger to swipe a drop from her cheek, then licked it clean, eyes never leaving his.

She kept going, not stopping until he was hard again, then pressed her breasts together and let him fuck them, slow and steady, while she pinched her own nipples and moaned, the sound low and filthy.

When he came the second time, she trembled, her body shaking with the **** of it. He realized she’d climaxed again, just from the pressure and the attention, the act of being worshipped.

They collapsed together, giggling, limbs tangled. After a minute, Erin looked at him, eyes wide.

“If you keep going, I’m going to need a wheelbarrow to get home.”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

She kissed him, then nestled into his side, her head resting in the crook of his arm. They stared up at the latticework of flowers, the sun painting dappled patterns over their skin.

After a long silence, Andy said, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I love you.”

She smiled, content. “It’s okay if you love Laura more. I get it.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. It’s different. There’s no ‘better,’ there’s no ‘more,’ and there’s no ‘instead’. I’m starting to get some of the advice I received. The way I love you is different from the way I love Laura, but it doesn’t make you lesser. Just like the way I love Claire is different, but it doesn’t make her lesser either. You, Erin, make me want to be a better person. You were the first one here to whom I told Laura’s story, remember? That’s a gift, believe it or not.”

She considered, then nodded. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

He stroked her hair, breathing in the scent of sweat and jasmine and her. “I love you.”

She smiled, eyes shining. “I love you, too.”

They lay like that, a tangle of limbs and hope, the world shrinking to the space beneath the arches.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in a gentle haze, limbs heavy and warm, the air dense with jasmine and the slow collapse of sun. Erin combed the grass for fallen blossoms, then set about weaving them into a crown—her fingers all thumbs at first, but growing nimbler as she found a rhythm.

Andy watched, amused, as she tried to balance the weight of the petals, threading them together with strands of wisteria for color. She stuck her tongue out in concentration, then, when it was finished, plopped it crookedly on his head.

“Now you’re my flower king,” she declared, laughter bubbling up.

He went cross-eyed trying to see it, which made her laugh harder, the sound starting small and then rolling over itself until she was breathless, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, still giggling, but softer now.

Andy pulled her down beside him, curling her into the crook of his arm. They lay that way, staring up at the arches, the sky a slice of blue between petals and stone.

After a while, Erin spoke, voice a whisper against his chest. “I know it’s not real. The hotel. The game. But sometimes, I wish we could just stay here.”

He stroked her hair, feeling the heat of her scalp. “Me too,” he said. “It’s the first time in my life I haven’t wanted to run away from something.”

She was quiet a long time. Then: “I’m going to miss it, when it’s over. Even the weird parts. Even the parts where I was scared.”

He squeezed her hand, grounding her. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

She smiled, not looking at him. “I know.”

They watched the sky for a while, the sun dipping low, shadows stretching across the garden. Erin’s fingers twined with his, holding tight, and Andy realized that—no matter what came next—he’d remember this feeling for the rest of his life.

She turned to face him, eyes serious. “You believe me, right? When I say I want this?”

He nodded, no hesitation. “I do.”

She breathed out, relief turning her body loose in his arms. “Good. Because I don’t think I could stand another day of pretending I don’t.”

He kissed her, slow and deep, tasting salt and the faint bitterness of crushed petals. She trembled, just a little, but didn’t pull away.

For a long time, they stayed that way—wrapped up in each other, the world outside shrinking to a pinpoint. The arches overhead framed the sky, the sea glimmered in the distance, and everything else fell away.

When the light began to fade, Erin rolled onto her back, the flower crown askew in her hair. She reached up, straightened it, and laughed again, softer this time.

“I used to hate stuff like this,” she admitted. “Sentimental shit. But now I get it.”

Andy grinned. “You can be happy, you know.”

She considered, then said: “I think I’m starting to believe it.”

They lay there, side by side, fingers linked and hearts steady, as the sky turned gold, then violet, then the deep blue of evening.