Domestic Bloom, Part 1

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 99 VP - 5100 BP - 2 Achievs
Sam - 95 VP - 7700 BP - 2 Achievs
Claire - 87 VP - 8900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 86 VP - 6050 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 77 VP - 5000 BP - 2 Achievs
Liesa - 75 VP - 5700 BP - 3 Achievs
Norah - 74 VP - 4350 BP - 3 Achievs
Emily - 62 VP - 5600 BP - 2 Achievs (2 used)
Dawn - 60 VP - 8300 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 45 VP - 7775 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 42 VP - 7100 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 20 VP - 6800 BP - 1 Achiev
Laura - 18 VP - 6950 BP - 1 Achiev

Andy woke to the weight of her—Erin, fully entwined, one bare leg slung over his, the soft swell of her chest pressing flat against his ribs. Her face was jammed under his chin, so close he could feel the sweep of her lashes with every exhale. For a second, he let himself pretend that this was just a weekend morning, a regular bed, a regular life—no enchanted islands, no impossible rules, no camera feeds spooling his every twitch to a lurking audience.

Then she shifted, the muscles in her thighs flexing, and the illusion broke. Her skin was that impossible mint-green, smooth and dusted with the faint gold freckles that only caught the light if you looked for them. Her hair, wild and sweat-stiffened, stuck up in angles that would have been comic if she’d ever left him space to laugh.

She stirred against him, humming a noise somewhere between a yawn and a purr. “You’re awake,” she murmured, not moving.

“I’ve been awake for a while,” Andy admitted. “Didn’t want to disturb the wildlife.”

“Better not,” she said, her voice muffled. “I’m a protected species.”

He let his hand drift, skimming down the curve of her spine. “Endangered?”

She cracked one eye, pale with sleep and still a little bloodshot. “Critically. One left in the world. Maybe two if you count my evil twin.”

Andy snorted, remembering the web of yarn still dominating the living room, and the paper-doll “Erin” with its two beach balls for a chest. “Not evil,” he said. “Maybe a little unhinged.”

She grinned, but didn’t let go. “Good. That’s how I like my twins.”

He ran his palm up and down her back, letting the moment fill itself. After a while, she tilted her head up, lips grazing his jaw.

“Do you want to…?” she asked, the rest unspoken.

He answered by rolling her onto her back, gentle, careful not to startle. She clung like ivy, arms wound tight, thighs squeezing his waist. Her eyes were wide open now, clear and searching, the morning light from the window painting her face in stripes.

He kissed her first—soft, slow, savoring the taste of her. She kissed back, hungry but not hurried, letting the heat build on its own terms. When he slipped inside her, she gasped, the sound so genuine it made his chest ache.

She wrapped herself around him, all legs and arms and need. Every time he tried to pull back, even for a second, she reeled him in tighter. At first he thought she was just being playful, but then he realized she wasn’t playing at all. It was as if some ancient instinct had switched on overnight, and now she couldn’t stand even an inch of air between them.

After a few minutes of this, he paused, still buried in her. “You’re really into the clinging, today,” he said, voice soft.

She blinked, caught in the moment, then let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry. I think the plant DNA is working overtime. Maybe there’s some kudzu in the mix.”

“Kudzu’s invasive,” he said. “But I don’t mind.”

She stuck out her tongue. “You would say that.”

He moved again, letting the rhythm slow to a lazy tide. She met him thrust for thrust, but never let go, arms always locked, her gaze never leaving his. Her breath hitched with each movement, little gasps that seemed to catch in her throat. The mint-green of her skin deepened where their bodies connected, flushing almost emerald along her chest and neck. He could feel her pulse everywhere they touched—at her wrists, her thighs, deep inside where she clenched around him. When she came, it was quiet—no shouting, no thrashing, just a shiver that ran the length of her body, her eyes squeezed shut, her nails leaving a trail down his back, and beneath his palm, a fluttering heartbeat that seemed to sync with his own.

He followed soon after, the climax less a burst than a surrender, a long slow letting go that left him emptied in the best possible way. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them, breathing together, skin cooling, her lips pressed against his collarbone in something between a kiss and a sigh.

They lay there, tangled, sweat cooling, her breath slowing by degrees.

After a while, she propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a crooked smile. “See?” she said. “Clingy.”

He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “I don’t mind. It’s nice, actually.”

She let herself collapse onto his chest, cheek pressed to his skin, arms and legs thrown over him in a full-body embrace. For a while, neither spoke. Her fingers traced lazy shapes across his stomach, looping a circle, then a star, then his initials. She seemed to be thinking hard about something, and after a few minutes, she said, “It’s not weird anymore.”

He frowned, not sure what she meant. “What isn’t?”

“This.” She pressed her palm to his chest, then lifted it, staring at her palm. “Being like this. The skin, the… everything. After the Au Natural transformation, and then after the Green Thumb one, every time I looked at myself, I’d freak out. Now it just feels…” She trailed off, searching for the word.

“Normal?” he offered.

She snorted. “Not quite. But close.”

He ran his fingers through her hair, tugging gently at the ends. “You seem happier. Even with the weirdness.”

She nodded, face suddenly serious. “I am.” Then, quieter: “But there’s one thing that still freaks me out.”

Andy didn’t speak, only waited, letting the moment stretch. He could feel her breath stutter against his bare chest and the careful, uncomfortable way she was picking over the words she wanted to say.

“I don’t really have to eat anymore,” she finally admitted, voice so much smaller than before. “I go a whole week, sometimes, and I’m not hungry. Just thirsty, sometimes. It’s like the sun and the water fill me up, but…” She trailed off, her fingers tracing a spiral on his sternum, drilling it into his heart. “I haven’t had my cycle in weeks, Andy.”

That brought everything to a full stop. His mind immediately started churning, cataloging every detail from the past month, recalibrating all the little oddnesses he’d noticed and stuffed into the junk drawer of his memory. He tried to keep his face neutral, but she saw the change and flinched.

“You think…?” he prompted.

She made a face, equal parts horror and hope. “I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to be some mutant plant person who can’t even do the one thing I always thought I’d be good at.”

He reached up, thumb grazing the curve of her cheek, feeling the familiar heat under her unfamiliar skin. So much of her had changed, but she still made that same nervous grimace, the one that told him she’d been running disaster scenarios in her mind all night. He wanted to say something smart or comforting, but all he managed was: “Maybe there’s another reason,” and he said it softly, careful not to tip her over the edge.

She blinked, slow, then frowned. “Like what?”

He hesitated, then smiled, wry. “Erin, you do realize there’s a more common reason for missed periods, right? Even on crazy islands.”

Erin blinked. “What, like early menopause?”

He shrugged, then grinned. “I mean… it’s not impossible you could be pregnant.”

For a moment, she just stared at him, blank. Then her eyes went wide, and she laughed—high and wild, the sound bouncing off the walls. “Oh my God,” she managed, covering her face. “Why is that the last thing I thought of?”

He kissed her cheek, then her ear, then the slope of her jaw. “Because you’re you, and you don’t want to get your hopes up.”

She stared at him. The realization came in stages: first the skepticism, then a slow widening of her eyes, and finally her jaw going slack as the truth clicked into place. Her eyes widened, mouth opening and closing twice before she found her voice. ”Are you… Are you serious?” Her voice was a rasp now, as if the idea had scorched her vocal cords on the way up.

He nodded, suddenly shy, which was ridiculous considering how many times they’d held each other through every possible state of undress. But this was different. This was the kind of naked that stuck around. She laughed, but it was a broken sound, hope and terror fighting for control. She detached herself from his chest, rolled off to sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, and covered her face with both hands. “Holy shit,” she said, which was both an exhalation and a prayer. “Oh, wow. I didn’t even… I just figured it was the chlorophyll, or whatever.”

Andy sat up beside her, not quite touching, but close enough to remind her he was there. “It might be,” he said, trying to keep things balanced. “But also, it might not. I mean, how else would you even check, here? No pregnancy tests in the Commissary, right?”

She peeked at him through her fingers, eyes wide and shining. “What if I am? What if it’s, like, some weird hybrid baby? What if it has leaves?” She let her hands fall and looked at him, searching for a sign that he was joking, or afraid, or disgusted. “Do you even want that?” she said, and her vulnerability hit him harder than any argument or accusation.

He didn’t hesitate this time. He kissed her, soft and slow, his lips catching the start of her next question and dissolving it on his tongue. When he pulled back, she was still trembling, but now she smiled, shy and feral at once, her hands clutching his biceps as if he might evaporate if she let go.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, more to herself than him. “Andy, what if—”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” he said, fierce and certain. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it together.”

She shivered, then let herself collapse against him, her body suddenly lighter, or maybe just tired from the emotional whiplash. “I’m scared,” she admitted. “But it’s not the kind of scared I expected. It’s like…” She hesitated, searching for the right metaphor. “It’s like looking out at the ocean. It’s beautiful, but you know you could drown in it, too.”

He held her, hands weaving into her hair, stroking the back of her neck with a touch that was more comfort than seduction now. “I mean, we’ve survived weirder.”

She laughed, this time for real, and he could feel it reverberate through her chest, all the way down to where her heart beat against his ribs. “You realize that if you’re right, this makes you a total cliché, right? Plant lady gets pregnant, guy stands by her, cue the acoustic guitar and the slow-motion montage.”

He grinned. “Is the ‘plant lady’ part really a cliché? Either way, if the montage ends with you, me, and a little sprout in the garden, I can live with it.”

She groaned, but the sound was fond. “God, I hope it’s not literal.”

“I do, just a little,” he joked, and she punched him lightly in the side for it.

They just held each other for a time, the future pressing close, the world outside quiet and bright. After a while, Andy disentangled himself—carefully, so as not to break the spell—and made his way to the Suite’s kitchen. Erin followed, bare feet silent on the tile, her gait loose and relaxed. He glanced back once and caught her watching him with a look that was half affection, half pure hunger. The sight alone was enough to light up his whole body. He grinned and motioned her in, pretending not to notice the way she checked his ass as he reached for the coffee.

God, he loved watching her in the kitchen. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her, back when they were young and reckless and living on takeout. Even now, with the insane transformations, the body modifications, and the strange new realities of their lives, the core of her was still there: focused, precise, but never too serious to let herself enjoy things. She caught him staring and made a face, tongue out.

“Earth to Andy,” she said, waving a slice of mango at him. “You want to help, or are you just going to ogle me all morning?”

He grinned, leaned over, and stole the mango from her fingers. “Maybe both,” he said, and popped it in his mouth.

They moved through the prep like they’d never lost a day. Erin set water to boil, Andy lined up the eggs and bread; she chopped fruit, he grabbed the skillet. The choreography was flawless: when he went for the salt, her hand was already there, holding it out; when she stirred the oats, he whisked the eggs, their shoulders brushing at every pass, never a collision or a pause. Once, when he reached for the butter, she caught his wrist and pulled him in for a quick kiss, just because.

“I love this,” she said, once they were both elbow-deep in food. “I used to hate mornings. Now I’d kill to have one of these every day.”

He nodded, cracking an egg with one hand, the motion muscle memory. “I love it too. Never thought I’d say that about a kitchen.”

She gave a little snort. “You hated kitchens, back then.”

“I hated how I felt in them,” he said, honest. “Like I was just going through the motions. But when you were with me, it was different. Now I enjoy cooking, but I still enjoy it more when you’re around.”

She went quiet, but the smile on her face was the real thing, wide and a little wild.

By the time breakfast was done, the kitchen looked like the aftermath of a controlled demolition, but they’d made a feast: cheesy scrambled eggs, fruit salad heavy on the strawberries, hot buttered toast, and a pot of oatmeal big enough to feed a rugby team. Erin loaded two plates and carried them to the breakfast bar, Andy following close behind with coffee and juice.

They sat side by side, knees touching under the counter, their plates balanced on their thighs.

“You know,” Erin said between bites, “I thought about this a lot, in the last six years. If we ever got back together. What it would be like.” She scooped up a spoonful of oats, then caught herself smiling. “It’s better than I imagined.”

He tried to play it cool, but his heart thumped loud in his chest. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “You know what the best part is?”

He shook his head, curious.

“It feels normal,” she said. “Like, no matter how green I get, or how crazy things are out there, in here, it’s just…” She shrugged, searching for words. “It’s just us.”

He squeezed her hand, thumb stroking the soft skin. “That’s my favorite part, too.”

They ate, silent for a while except for the gentle scrape of forks and the occasional soft laugh when one of them made a mess. The conversation started in small pieces, at first, as if neither could believe it was really happening. They realized they had never talked about what they both did, after the breakup. So Erin described her post-breakup years with a kind of wry detachment, as if she were reviewing someone else’s life for a job she didn’t particularly want. She told him about the job at the conservation nonprofit—how, after a year of grinding out reports for an agency in Madison, she landed a gig with a group restoring wetlands around Chicago. “I spent three years in hip waders,” she said, rolling a piece of toast between her fingers. “Learned to love coffee, hate leeches, and almost drowned in a canoe more times than I can count.” She grinned at him, the old mischief shining through. “Did you know you can get trench foot just from standing in mud for eight hours?”

Andy snorted. “No, but it tracks. You always took pride in suffering.”

“Occupational hazard. Also, I was right. The new guy in charge? Total grifter. They caught him embezzling grant money and running a home brewery out of the office, but only after he bought a canoe with the company card and named it after his cat.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice. “I miss it, though. The field work. Not the cat.”

Andy sipped his coffee, letting her voice wrap around him. “I can’t imagine you anywhere but the field. You were always happiest when you were filthy and exhausted.”

She smiled, the heat creeping up her cheeks. “You’re not wrong.”

He told her about his own years, post-breakup: the app, Aural, and the small team he'd built. "Six of us crammed into this tiny office in Tribeca. Sleeping under desks during crunch time." He rubbed his neck, remembering. "We were so close to broke for so long that when the acquisition offer finally came through, right before I ended up here, I couldn't even process it. Just signed the papers and kept coding."

She arched an eyebrow. "So you weren't living the tech bro dream?"

"God no," he said, not quite joking. "The closest I got to luxury was my fire escape garden. Sometimes I'd sit out there with a six-pack and just watch the basil grow while my team texted me bug reports."

"Wow," she said. "So we both ended up chasing mud and plants."

He grinned. “Who knew we’d have so much in common?”

She stared at her hands, thoughtful. “I always thought you’d end up on the West Coast. San Francisco or Seattle. Somewhere with less snow and more weirdos.”

He shrugged. “I almost did. But the city felt like home. At least, until here.”

They let that settle for a minute, the silence comfortable and full.

“I can’t believe we’ve been on the island two months and this is the first time we’ve really talked about it,” Erin said, the words tumbling out before she could change her mind.

He nodded. “Weird, isn’t it? You’d think all the enforced togetherness would make it easier, but…” He looked away, not sure what he meant to say.

She finished it for him. “But it’s easier to just pretend it’s all a dream. That none of it matters.”

He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “It matters. I’m glad we’re doing this now.”

She squeezed back, then let go, wiping her palms on her thighs. “I wish we’d done it before,” she said, voice small.

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded, and they went back to eating, the unspoken things sitting between them like extra place settings at the table.

The next few minutes passed in the kind of peace that only comes from shared exhaustion. They talked about old friends, about whether Jessica still wore black eyeliner and whether Aiden ever figured out how to use a calendar. Erin filled him in on her brother’s disastrous attempt at marriage (“Lasted two years, ended with a pet custody battle and three broken windows”) and Andy confessed he hadn’t visited his parents in months, due to the sheer amount of work for the sale, resorting only to quick phone calls, not even FaceTime, and he wondered if they missed him.

“I’ll bet they do,” Erin said, finishing the last of her coffee. “Your mom always loved you. Even when you were a little shit.”

He laughed, not quite sure if it was true, but not minding. “What about yours?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “She’s fine. Same as ever. Probably redecorating the house for the third time since I left.” She set her mug down, then added, “I should call her. If we ever get out of here.”

He didn’t miss the edge in her voice. “We will,” he said, certain.

She looked at him, and for a second he saw the girl she’d been at twenty-three—the one who believed the world would never win against her. “You’re sure?” she asked.

He nodded, and for once it felt like a promise.

They lingered over the empty plates, neither quite ready to let go of the moment. Erin ran a fingertip around the rim of her mug, spinning it in slow circles. He watched her, the way the sunlight caught in the fuzz of her forearm, the faint shimmer on her cheeks.

Finally, she said: “About this morning. The thing you said.” She kept her eyes on the table, voice very low. “Do you really think it’s possible?”

He knew what she meant, but pretended not to, just to make her say it. “Which thing?”

She huffed, but the sound was fond. “You know.”

He reached across, covering her hand with his. “I think anything’s possible, here. And we’ve been very, uh, consistent.”

She looked up, and the hope in her eyes was almost painful. “I keep thinking about it. I know it’s stupid, but…” She trailed off, then tried to play it cool. “You’re not worried? That I might be… I mean, what if it’s true?”

He squeezed her hand. “I’m not worried,” he said, and meant it. “Are you?”

She considered, then shook her head, a slow, deliberate motion. “No,” she said. “Just… curious.”

He smiled. “Me too. You want to check?”

She snorted. “And how, exactly? Pee on a poppy and see if it turns blue?”

He grinned. “We could always ask Arabella. She’d know.”

Erin made a face, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t want to give her the satisfaction. She’ll probably make a big deal out of it. Or punish me for even thinking about it.”

He laughed, picturing Arabella in a lab coat, waving a wand over Erin’s stomach and reciting a fertility spell. “She’s not that bad.”

“You only think that because she’s got a crush on you,” Erin shot back, but there was no heat in it.

He shrugged. “She’s just a friend. But fine. We’ll figure it out on our own.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the future settling over them.

“You think it’d be weird?” she asked, finally.

“What?”

“If we had a kid here. On the island. Would it even be real?” She glanced at him, then looked away. “Or would it just be another part of the show?”

He thought about it, seriously. “I don’t think we have another nine months here. It took two months for four challenges - we’ll probably be done in two or three more. But even if we had a kid here? It would be real. How could it not be?”

She smiled, small but genuine. “That’s good. I want it to be real.”

He nodded, then tried to lighten the mood. “You know, if you are pregnant, the kid is going to be a total monster.”

She grinned. “Between the two of us? It’ll probably be born with a tattoo and a grudge.”

He laughed, picturing it. “And green skin. Don’t forget that.”

She poked him with her fork. “And boobs that defy physics.”

“Only if it’s a girl,” he said. “If it’s a boy, he’s doomed.”

They both started laughing, the tension breaking, and for a second it felt like nothing could touch them.

After a while, Erin stood, stretching her arms over her head, the green of her skin glowing in the morning light. "I should get going," she said. "The others are probably wondering if I ate you."

"Wait," Andy said, catching her wrist. "Before you go—I've been thinking. Would you want to test a twenty-four-hour upgrade on one of your transformations? Or I could change something with Coauthor?"

She hesitated, fingertips drumming against her thigh. "The Green Thumb, maybe? I'm curious what it does upgraded, but I don't want to buy a permanent one until I know it's actually good." She laughed, a nervous sound. "And if I end up rooting to the spot, at least it's only a day and you can't get rid of me."

He nodded, closing his eyes to focus and reaching out to touch her shoulder. When he opened them, her skin seemed to pulse with a deeper emerald light.

• Green Thumb [Upgrade] Perennial Bloom: Since she has now fully embraced her botanical nature, it only makes sense that she should always be in season. A few minutes of sunlight fully cleanse her of any fatigue or weariness. In addition, she can release a burst of pollen once per day, choosing between aphrodisiac or calming pollen. More pollen options may become available with further upgrades.

"Oh," she whispered, lifting her hands to the sunbeam streaming through the window. "It feels like drinking water after being thirsty for days."

"The sunlight will keep you from getting tired," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're going to be fine."

She nodded, confidence returning. "Thank you." She kissed him hungrily, then left the kitchen with a bounce in her step. Andy cleared the table, washed the dishes, and whistled a tune he couldn't quite remember.

Andy wandered the Suite with his coffee, letting the warmth of the morning settle into his bones. The kitchen still smelled of butter and mango, a little of Erin’s dew and a lot of the stubborn sunlight that poured through the southern window. Had it not been for the Suite’s stubborn resetting every day, it would have been years since he felt so at home in a space—even if this home was more a fever dream than an address.

He drifted to the bedroom, mug in hand, and dropped onto the edge of the unmade bed. The dent where Erin had slept was still there, the sheets imprinted with her shape and that faint, sweet scent that clung to her every surface. Across from the bed, hanging level with his line of sight, Katherine’s painting watched in silence.

He set his coffee on the nightstand and faced her full on. Katherine’s hair, impossibly long and black, pooled around her feet like liquid obsidian. Her pose was almost demure—arms crossed lightly over her belly, shoulders canted just enough to give the impression of motion, as if she’d been about to step off the edge of the painted world and onto his carpet.

He raised his hand in greeting, like an idiot. “Hey,” he said. “You holding up okay?”

Katherine lifted her hand in an echo of his wave, then let it drift back to her side, fingers splayed and elegant. She smiled.

“Sorry I’ve been busy,” he said, voice soft to avoid waking the ghosts of last night. “I meant to check in sooner.”

Katherine tilted her head, a silent invitation. He moved closer, close enough to see the faint brushstrokes that built her skin. Her eyes were fixed on him now, wide and bright green, the color sharper than any pigment could explain.

At the edge of his thoughts, he felt a tug of curiosity. Not sadness, not quite; more the polite ache of someone watching a party from the other side of glass.

“I’m not avoiding you,” Andy said, feeling suddenly like a criminal. “I just… things have been weird, with Laura back. And Erin. And the others. There’s a lot going on.” Katherine’s hands moved in a shooing motion. She cocked an eyebrow, a gesture so familiar and so human that Andy felt the prickle of shame. Then she pantomimed a small circle with her index finger, pointed at the door, and made a little walking motion with two fingers along the bottom edge of the frame.

“You saw Laura,” Andy realized, answering his own confusion. “Did she come in here to set up the prank?”

A gentle nod, so subtle he might have missed it.

“She’s relentless,” he said, a smile creeping in despite himself. “You’d like her, I think.”

Katherine pointed at herself, then at him, then pressed her palm flat to her chest. Her expression turned gently inquisitive.

“Am I okay?” he guessed. She made a slow, negative tilt of her hand. Not quite.

“I don’t know if I’m okay,” Andy admitted. He sat on the carpet, back against the bedframe, and let his gaze linger on the impossible woman in the frame. “Having Laura here—it’s like a dream. Sixteen years, and then one morning she’s just… alive again.” He stopped, breath catching. “It still feels fragile. Like if I let myself relax, I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone. Again.”

A wash of empathy hit him—a warm, slightly prickly feeling, like the memory of being held as a child. Katherine raised both hands, palms out, and mimed holding an invisible ball in front of her heart, then cradled it close, as if to say: Keep it safe. Keep her safe.

He swallowed, looking away. “I’m trying. But I don’t want the others to feel like I’m replacing them, or… that they don’t matter.” He gestured at the painting, then back to the suite beyond. “I’m afraid I’ll mess this up, and lose all of it. Again.”

Katherine pursed her lips, eyes bright with a mixture of pity and amusement. She pressed her right hand to her cheek, then stretched it out toward him, palm up—a silent, teasing slap: get over yourself.

He laughed, surprised. “Yeah. Okay. Point taken.”

She mimed writing with her finger in the air, then tapped the side of her head. A memory. Or maybe a message.

“You want to talk about what I promised.” He thought back, recalling the conversation they’d had when he first moved her here. “I said I’d find a way to help you. To set you free.”

She nodded, one sharp motion. Then she leaned forward, hands gripping the inside edge of the frame as if she might step through. The intensity of her gaze doubled; it made the air between them electric.

“I meant it,” Andy said. “If there’s a Gift, or an upgrade, or anything—if there’s a way, I’ll find it. Maybe some way to get you out of the Comfort dreamspace and into the real world. Maybe the capstone for Coauthor allows me to rewrite transformations. Maybe… I don’t know. But I feel we’re close now, Katherine. And if it turns out there’s no way to do so, you’re still part of this. I won’t leave you behind.”

The words hung in the room, solid as the frame itself. Katherine didn’t move for a long moment, her painted skin flushed with a faint, rising color—blush or hope, he couldn’t tell. At last, she slid her hand slowly along the glass, then pressed it flat to the inside, as if testing the reality of his promise.

Andy reached up and placed his palm on the cool glass, meeting her there. The sense of contact wasn’t physical, not really, but in the place behind his ribs, something moved: a surge of gratitude, a warmth that made his fingers tremble on the surface.

“I want you to think about it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “If you were free, what would you want? What would you do?”

Katherine closed her eyes, hand still pressed to the glass. She seemed to breathe, once, her body shivering just slightly with the **** of the question.

Then she opened her eyes, pointed at herself, at him, and drew a slow, deliberate circle in the air—him, her, together, in the same world.

Andy nodded, understanding. “You want to belong. With us.”

She smiled, small but unmistakable, the corners of her lips curving with a quiet joy. For a second, the longing and the hope in her eyes made him want to cry.

“You already do,” he said, and meant it.

She stepped back, letting her hand drop, and watched him with a gaze that was both serene and a little awestruck. As he stood to go, she stayed close to the inside of the frame, following his reflection in the glass, the faint blush still brightening her cheeks.

In the hallway, as he left the bedroom, he felt the echo of her hope trailing behind him, a silent promise that after fourteen years, maybe this time, the ending would be different.

Norah didn’t usually get nervous about staircases. In the corporate world, she’d navigated enough breakneck glass elevators and showy spiral stairs to make her immune. But the climb to the Sky Archive was another matter. Myra, following just behind, tapped her cane at each landing, the tip sending back sharp, steady pulses as if it was reading the terrain in Morse code. Norah hovered at Myra’s elbow, not touching, but close enough to catch a stumble.

She felt weirdly responsible. The urge to help was there, but Myra had already made it clear that she preferred to map things herself, thank you very much, and Norah respected that. Besides, Myra moved with the intent focus of someone who’d memorized every squeak and divot in the stone. The cane was less a crutch than a navigational beacon, a tool for emotional support, since her upgrade to Emotion's Map—three steps, pause, scan, then a turn, and another three steps.

“You doing okay?” Norah asked, keeping her voice low. There was something about the upper floors of the hotel that demanded quiet.

Myra smiled, a small quirk of the lips, and said, “I’m good. My upgrade allows me to see, just not the way you do. And I just want to see what all the hype is about. Chloe and Marissa both said the Archive is worth it, even if you don’t like books.”

Norah snorted. “I’ve hear Emi describe it. She said it’s like if a library and a greenhouse had a very dramatic baby.”

They crested the last step, and the double doors to the Sky Archive loomed ahead. For the first time, Norah noticed her own palms were damp. She wiped them on her skirt—she’d dressed up, just a little, for the meeting, which now felt both silly and inevitable.

The doors opened with a hiss. The space beyond was, if anything, more disorienting than Norah remembered. It wasn’t just the size—though that was impressive, with a main gallery that ran the length of a football field, then turned abruptly upward into a three-story atrium of glass and brass beams. The walls were glass, faceted like a massive hectohedron, but partially hidden at ground level by row after row of bookshelves. The morning sun didn’t just light the space; it dissolved the boundaries between inside and out, splashing colored shadows onto the glass floors and catching in the dust motes that floated like confetti.

It was a riot of clarity. The glass, the reflections, the sheen of the brass—all of it set off by the deep green of the potted ferns and the long, unruly vines that coiled around the railings. Books hovered midair, drifting from shelf to shelf on unseen wires, or perhaps just magic. The whole room was a living, breathing contradiction: ancient and futuristic, solid and ephemeral, reverent and wildly impractical.

Norah stopped in her tracks. “Whoa,” she breathed, forgetting herself for a second.

Myra, two steps behind, paused with her cane poised mid-air. “What is it?” she asked.

“No, just—” Norah fumbled, for once at a loss. “You’re going to want a description for this one.”

She glanced at Myra, who tilted her head, expression mild. “That bad?”

“It’s not bad,” Norah said, still staring up at the glass-and-brass labyrinth. “It’s—” She shook her head, almost annoyed at the difficulty. “It’s like the world’s fanciest science museum and a cathedral had a baby, and then someone filled it with every book ever written. There are plants everywhere, and the whole place glows. You can see clouds through the floors. Even the air is a different color.”

Myra gave a faint smile, her blind gaze tracking the shape of Norah’s voice. “It sounds amazing.”

Norah realized she was still standing in the middle of the entrance and cleared her throat, leading the way in. “Let’s find a spot. I think I see Claire near the big desk.”

Myra moved forward more confidently, her cane picking out the edges of the glass tile out of habit, although her emotional sight allowed her to see well enough around her. “Describe the colors for me,” she prompted.

Norah hesitated, struggling to translate the Archive’s shimmering chaos into words. “The glass is clear, but it throws rainbows on everything. There’s brass—old-fashioned, shiny, like those telescopes in old paintings. The books are all colors, but the sunlight makes them look sort of… gold-edged. The plants are wild; there’s this one tree growing up through the middle of the floor. Like, just growing through the glass, no soil, nothing.” She stopped, feeling ridiculous. “I don’t know how to do it justice.”

“It’s fine,” Myra said. “I can see most of it, except the colors and the light.” She stopped, turned toward a beam of sun that cut across the mezzanine. “Everything is sharper. Even the quiet.”

Norah nodded. “Yeah,” she agreed, softer. “You nailed it.”

They walked toward the center. The sun-washed main desk stood at the intersection of three grand aisles. Claire was there, perched on a wooden stool, notebook balanced on her knees and pen already poised. She looked up as they approached, her pale hair gleaming in the morning light.

Norah smiled, letting her voice carry. “Hey, Catgirl.”

Claire’s cat ears twitched in greeting. She nodded, then flipped a few pages in her notebook, tearing off a sheet and holding it out toward Norah and Myra.

Norah took it, scanning quickly, then read aloud: “'Good morning! Sorry, I was in a zone and didn’t hear you right away.'” She glanced at Myra. “Claire says hi.”

“Hi, Claire,” Myra said. “And don’t worry.”

Claire nodded again. She scribbled another note, this one longer, then slid it across the desk. Norah read: “'I’m glad you’re here. I was going to look for you after I finished this. Do you want a tour? Or are you on a mission?'”

Norah looked at Myra, deferring. “We’re here for both,” Myra said, a little sheepishly. “I’ve never been, and Norah said I should see it. But I also wanted to talk. Is it a bad time?”

Claire shook her head, then wrote, I’m trying to figure out where did all the plants come from. I have a theory that Erin made them sprout, but I need more evidence. Either way, I have hours to spare. She pointed at the far wall, where a table and two armchairs sat in a patch of sun, then led the way over.

They settled in: Norah and Myra side by side on the bench, Claire opposite, her notebook at the ready. The warmth from the glass ceiling filtered down, and for a long minute, no one spoke. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t really empty, but full of a quiet, mutual approval: this is good, this is enough.

Norah broke the spell first. “It’s better than I expected,” she admitted. “The light, the space. I get why you like it here.”

Claire ducked her head, self-conscious but pleased. She wrote, It’s the only place that feels both real and impossible at the same time. I like that.

Myra grinned when Norah read the message aloud, and her body language eased a fraction. “You seem at home,” she said.

Claire’s reply was immediate, almost automatic. In a way, it's better than home.

Norah read the note aloud for Myra, then added, “That’s kind of poetic, Catgirl.”

Claire blushed, then wrote, Thank you. She studied Myra, noticed how Myra’s eyes were fixed on her, and hesitated, then wrote, Can you see me?

When Norah read the note, Myra shook her head. “Not like sighted people. And I still can't read. But I have something else now. An upgrade.”

She lifted a hand, as if feeling the air around Claire. “I can see my surroundings, outlined by people’s emotions. It’s like… the outline of a person, but made out of color. Yours is bright blue. But the edges are brighter.”

Claire’s ears flicked forward in interest. She wrote, What does blue mean?

Myra considered. “Bright blue is the color of someone who’s calm, but thinking really hard. Like the moment before a test, or when you’re reading something you really love. But the edges get white when you’re happy, or pale yellow if you’re curious. I think a mixture of blue and pale yellow is your default.”

Claire nodded, then scribbled: That makes sense. I always feel curious, especially here.

Norah snorted. “Myra’s good at reading people. She always knows when you’re hiding something.”

Claire shrugged, then wrote: I’m happy you visited. I know it’s not easy to get around here. She tapped her pen on the page, looking between Myra and Norah, then wrote: Can I help with something?

Norah, never one to leave silence unpoked, decided to move things along. “So, we do have a reason for the visit,” she admitted, turning to Myra. “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

Myra straightened, suddenly nervous. “I can do it.” She faced Claire, folding her hands tightly in her lap.

“It’s about Andy,” Myra said, and instantly felt silly for putting it so bluntly. But she’d already started, and Norah’s “go on” was as gentle a nudge as she was going to get.

“I like him,” Myra said. “And I think I’m… ready? Or at least, I want to be. But I haven’t done this much, not in real life, not since—” She stopped, the sentence fragmenting. “I don’t know how. I’m worried I don’t know how to do this. Or worse, that Laura will hate me for it.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. “I know you’re close to Andy. And you have that thing—your transformation? You always know how he feels, right?”

Claire nodded, serious, then scribbled quickly. I know what he wants, but it’s not always the same as what he says. Sometimes he’s too careful with feelings. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

Norah read, then interjected, “That’s true. Guy is basically allergic to conflict.”

Claire’s next note was longer. He likes you, Myra. He’s just cautious, because he’s still figuring out how much he’s allowed to want. The thing with Laura is complicated, but she doesn’t own him. And neither do I.

Norah added, “And he’s not afraid of being hurt, either. He just has a guilt complex the size of a cargo ship.”

Myra listened, nodding, the anxiety in her chest smoothing out with each response. “I just don’t want to overstep,” she said. “I like Laura, even if she doesn’t like me much. And I don’t want to be the person who messes things up. I’ve done that too many times.”

Claire paused, then wrote, If you wait until everyone is comfortable, nothing will ever happen. Someone has to be brave first.

Norah snorted. “Catgirl’s right. If I’d waited for Andy to make the first move, I’d have spent the whole season in heat.”

Myra laughed, startled. “You?”

Norah grinned. “My game was literally just walking up and smushing my boobs on his arm. I had no moves. I still don’t.”

Claire’s next message came in all caps: DO WHAT FEELS RIGHT. Then, in smaller, neater handwriting: He likes when people are honest. He knows you like him. If you make it clear, he’ll answer. He just doesn’t want to push.

Myra sat with that for a while, hands folded tight. “Thank you,” she said. “That helps, actually. A lot.”

Norah watched, eyes narrowed. “You’re really into him, huh?”

Myra nodded, then shrugged. “I don’t know what it is. I just… feel better around him. Not fixed, not perfect. Just better. Like maybe I could have a life again.”

Norah didn’t respond right away, but the air between them felt warmer, less sharp-edged.

Claire scribbled: You deserve good things, Myra.

Norah read it, then looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly. “Agreed,” she said.

For a while, the three of them just sat there, letting the conversation fade, letting the sun do its slow dance across the glass and the stacks. There was nothing left to say, and that was fine.

Eventually, Claire stood, stretching her arms above her head. I should get back to work, she wrote, handing the note to Norah for translation. But I’m always happy to see you here.

Norah helped Myra up. “You good?”

Myra nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go ruin someone else’s morning.”

They made their way back toward the entrance, Myra’s cane tapping out the rhythm of the tiles, Norah hovering a safe step behind.

They returned to the hotel corridor just in time to see Emily, naked as ever, carrying an upright bass nearly her own height, her pink-streaked hair covering the essentials with comedic timing. She smiled at them, nodded politely, and kept going, the instrument nearly knocking a Mildred off her feet.

Norah watched her go, then turned to Myra. “Any idea what that’s about?”

“Not even a little,” Myra said, but she was smiling. “But she glowed happy.”

They stepped out into the hallway, the hush of the Archive trailing after them like an echo, and for a few seconds, the only sound was the tap-tap of Myra’s cane and the soft click of Norah’s heels.

“Want to get a coffee?” Norah offered, voice bright.

“Sure,” Myra said. “Let’s see if we can find one that doesn’t taste like seaweed.”