Marissa's Night (V)

When the room finally emptied—dresses trailing, the last ripple of applause softening behind the closing doors—Marissa stayed.

She lingered at the grand piano, her posture easy, not guarded the way it was in the company of the others. She let her fingers hover over the lacquered black, sometimes drumming the edge, sometimes catching her reflection in the soft-lit lid and looking away. There was no music in the room now, just the faint scent of perfume, sweat, and the ghost-notes of all the songs she’d ever played.

Andy waited a respectful distance, finishing a conversation with Dawn and Liesa near the stage, before drifting up the aisle. Marissa didn’t acknowledge him at first; she seemed to be somewhere else entirely, watching her own hands as if they belonged to a stranger.

He stopped a few paces away and said, “You were incredible tonight.”

When Andy called to her, her shoulders straightened by a millimeter, but she kept her eyes down and let the silence carry for a beat. Then she turned, lips parting in a dry but genuine smile. “You too,” she said, her voice catching, fluted and faint, like the note of a wineglass after a toast. It was a voice he remembered from their earliest sessions, back in her office, when she would say, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

He crossed the space between them with careful steps, perching on the edge of the bench beside her. He kept his hands to himself, aware that she could bolt at any second, or lean into him, or—most likely—fold herself away, rigid as a starched napkin. “Are you okay?” he asked, gently.

She breathed out a jagged laugh, not as armor but as fact. “Do I ever look okay?” She looked down at her hands, which hung between her knees like a pair of delicate, uncertain birds. There was a tremor in them, not fear or weakness, but the kind of aftershock that follows an adrenaline crash. She opened her fingers wide, then closed them, almost testing their existence.

He took a moment to respond, choosing honesty over comfort. “No,” he admitted. “But you look like you’re on the edge of something.”

She shook her head, not to disagree, but to acknowledge the complexity of the compliment. She leaned in, lowered her voice as if the room could still be listening, “I spent years pretending none of this mattered. The music, the legacy, the hands.” She flexed her fingers, examining each knuckle, each slender finger. “I told myself therapy was enough. That if I could keep other people from breaking the way I did, I could forgive myself for letting my own gift rot.” Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and they were glimmering. “But it matters. More than I wanted to admit.”

The admission seemed to cost her: her expression pinched, her jaw tight. She turned her face away, but not before he saw the shine in her eyes. He wondered, briefly, who had ever held space for Marissa to just be sad. To not be the caretaker, the fixer, the ice queen with a thousand solutions and no problems of her own. She had always performed resilience, even when she was unraveling.

He wanted to say something, but she held up her palm, as if to signal “wait,” or “let me get this out.” “I used to practice until my hands went numb. My mother would sneak into the house after rehearsals and catch me playing. She’d say—"here she affected a gentle, mocking lilt—“‘Practice is for the untalented, Rissy. You don’t want to wear your artistry thin, do you?’” Her imitation was affectionate, but there was a bitter little kink at the end of her smile. “She wasn’t wrong. You can kill the joy of anything, if you try hard enough.”

Andy watched her, letting the story unfurl without steering it. The room around them was settling, too: the stage lights cooling, the bouquets shedding petals onto the sticky tables, the faintest echo of the song they’d just sung still vibrating in the air. For all the ostentation of The 88 Club, it felt like a confessional now, the kind that required only two people and a little bit of darkness.

“My hands,” she said, lowering them to her lap, “they were all I had left. And then I lost even that.” She looked at Andy, not pleading but wanting desperately to be understood. “You think you’re prepared for something like that—when you spend your whole life diagnosing other people’s losses, you think you’ll know how to handle your own. But you don’t. You just…you invent new ways to pretend you’re alive.”

Andy nodded, feeling the words burrow in. He knew what it was to be so far removed from your own pulse that you had to manufacture proof: the playlist, the annual pilgrimage, the rituals that kept the ghosts at bay. He said, “But you played tonight. And you were—” he stopped, considering whether to go for the cliché, then decided she deserved sincerity— “You were brilliant. I could barely remember where I was.”

She let the compliment settle, her mouth twitching into a half-smile as she wiped reflexively at her cheek, as though an errant tear might have sneaked out. “You know what else I remember?” she said, looking at the stage. “My mother hated applause. ‘If you’re used to praise, you’ll confuse it for love,’ she’d say. But you—” she turned to him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with something like gratitude—“you always clap for people, even when it’s awkward. You do it for them, not for yourself.”

He blinked, unsure how to receive the observation. It was true, though. In any gathering, Andy was first to fill the silence with a few hesitant claps, to make sure no one felt unseen. It was a small, silly thing, but in this context it felt profound.

She let the silence return, only now it was softer, less fraught. Then: “You fixed my hands, you know. Not just the joints, whatever it was. I can feel it all, now. You didn’t just restore them—you made them better. I could feel every key, every vibration tonight. There’s a kind of…clarity?” She flexed her fingers again, as if expecting them to suddenly fail her. “It’s like being able to breathe again, after years of gasping for breath.”

Andy nodded, letting the silence be a kind of comfort. He knew about things lost and returned. “I’m glad you have it back. You deserve it.”

Marissa’s lips trembled. She set her hands on her knees, then clasped them to steady the shake. “My mother was a pianist, you know. She was incredible—everyone said so. She wanted me and my sister to play, not just because it was proper, but because she said music was the only thing that ever made her feel safe.” She took a breath. “My sister never could learn properly, but I did my best. And before my mother died, I decided I wanted to be a composer. Then, after she died, I tried to keep playing, but it was like the piano became haunted. I’d sit down, but I couldn’t make the sound mean anything.”

She looked at Andy, for the first time since he’d sat down. Her eyes were huge and wet, but she wasn’t crying yet. “After she died, I hated the idea of being a prodigy, or a legacy. I didn’t want to be just another link in a chain of sad, talented women. So I stopped playing, except for myself and my sister, now and then. I did what I thought was right. I helped other people sing, and just…stored away my own songs for some later date. I told myself therapy would be enough. That if I could help other people, it would make up for letting the music die.”

The tears came, then, slow and silent. She made no move to hide them, just let them fall, streaking her cheeks in the muted light.

“You brought it back, tonight. For everyone,” he said, his own voice quiet and low enough to be mistaken for a prayer.

She shook her head, the movement loosening another tear. A laugh, brittle and full of static, vibrated in her chest. "Not for everyone. Just for me. I think I just needed to see if I could. If there was anything real left under all the layers and the scar tissue and the bullshit.” Her voice cracked; she didn’t flinch at it.

Andy nodded, feeling the raw honesty in her words as a kind of permission—an invitation to shed his own self-imposed solemnity. “You found it,” he said. “It was there the whole time. Just… waiting for you.”

That made her laugh again, this time with a trace of music in it, a sound not unlike the first striking of a tuning fork. She looked at him, really looked, as if she were memorizing the architecture of his face. “You’re very good at this,” she said, a gentle accusation. “You always know what to say.”

He shrugged, self-conscious. “I don’t. But I know what it’s like to feel like you need permission to be happy.”

She turned that over, then wiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing the tears into her skin. She didn’t seem embarrassed—more like she was collecting evidence, logging the event into some private ledger of hurts and healings. “My mom would have hated this place,” she said, shifting topics as if to test the air. Her lip quirked. “She’d say the lighting was too bright, the people too loud, and the glasses never clean.” She dropped her voice, covering it in a breathy mockery that was somehow affectionate. “But I think she would have liked the way you played, and maybe—” she hesitated, then pressed on, “maybe she would have liked the women here. The way they’re real with each other.”

There was a moment, then, where the conversation could have died—a gentle fade to black, the sort of exit Marissa would have preferred, under normal circumstances. But instead, she hesitated, and in that hesitation, Andy saw the tremor of a decision being made.

"Sorry," she said, softer. "I don't usually get this sentimental. I guess it's just the endorphins." She tried to make light of it, but her eyes betrayed her—red-rimmed, luminous, and fierce.

Andy smiled, but kept it small, contained. “I like this side of you,” he said. “The part that’s not always in control.”

She laughed, swatting at his knee. “Don’t get used to it. I’m probably going to regret all of this in the morning.” She stared at their joined hands, then curled her fingers more tightly around his. When she spoke, at last, it was like the unveiling of a monument—momentous, but somehow inevitable.

“I want you,” she said, so quietly that the words almost evaporated in the space between them. “Just you. Tonight.” She met his gaze, the tension in her jaw betraying her terror at what she’d just confessed.

Andy’s heart stuttered in his chest. He nodded, not trusting himself to say more, not needing to.

For a while, they just sat that way—side by side on the bench, hands entwined, both of them too full of feeling for words. The club around them was empty but not silent; the space vibrated with the aftershocks of applause, of pedals and laughter and the electric residue of long-held longing. The bouquets on the tables perfumed the air, their petals already wilting, a reminder that every night, even the best ones, were always already on their way to memory.

At length, Marissa shifted, unfolding herself from the bench with a dancer’s poise. She let Andy help her up, the movement an act of mutual deference. Together they walked to the exit, her stride growing more confident with each step, as if the act of moving through space was itself a form of healing. At the door, Marissa glanced back, one last time, at the stage and the silent, waiting keys. Andy followed her eyes, then reached and shut off the lights.

The elevator doors parted, spilling Andy and Marissa into the threshold of the Master’s Suite—and into the punchline of Laura’s eleventh prank.

The living room was transformed into a parody of a doctor’s office. The coffee table was draped with a makeshift “sterile field” of starched white towels, upon which seashells were arranged like medical tools. A portion of the couch had been converted into an exam table, courtesy of a stack of pillows covered in creased parchment. The air smelled faintly of rubbing **** and coconut, which Andy recognized as the aftermath of a prank gone well beyond the planning stage. Fluffy and the other plushies from yesterday’s prank sat on the coffee table like patients waiting for their turn.

On the far wall, a hand-lettered sign read:“Welcome to the Clinic of Second Opinions! Ask about our special on Soul-ectomy.

There were charts everywhere: one in careful, looping script diagnosed Andy with an “incurable case of too many girlfriends, prognosis: terminal”; another charted Marissa’s “explosive arousal syndrome, see also: permanent nipple prominence,” complete with stick-figure illustrations. In the corner, a bottle of “numbing gel” (which on closer inspection was just aloe vera) sat next to a toy stethoscope and a stack of fake prescription pads, each signed Doctor gotcha. Dr. L.

Marissa took one look and lost it. She doubled over, bracing herself against the doorframe, laughter coming in hard, hiccupping bursts that threatened to bring her to the floor. Tears streaked her cheeks as she gasped for air, pointing at the stick figures in disbelief.

Oh my god," she managed, "she got your…she even—" Another fit of giggles cut her off. Andy, grinning despite himself, stepped further in and surveyed the damage. The medical charts, the careful arrangement of "surgical tools," the meticulous attention to detail—all of it reminded him of how Laura used to line up her stuffed animals for "operations" when they were kids, how she'd made him play nurse while she diagnosed imaginary diseases with grave seriousness.

Laura had wanted to be a pediatrician—had spent whole summers with her toy stethoscope pressed to his chest, diagnosing him with "terminal silliness" and "acute friendship disease." She' d been so certain about it. "I'm going to be a doctor someday," she'd told him once, her thirteen-year-old face solemn with conviction. "Or maybe discover something nobody's ever seen before." Now her childish dream played out as an elaborate joke, the closest she'd ever come to the white coat she'd never worn. He swallowed hard, his smile faltering for just a moment before he reset it.

"Wine?" he called over his shoulder, setting down his concert vest as he moved to the kitchen.

“Please,” Marissa choked out, still giggling. She staggered in after him, wiping her eyes and shaking her head. “I swear, I heard the others, but I still was not prepared.”

Andy opened the cabinet and found the bottle of 2002 Pomerol. He pulled it out, watching Marissa's eyes widen in recognition.

"You kept it," she said, her fingers brushing against the label she'd once carefully selected. "I didn't think you'd—"

"Of course I did. I wanted to open it with you." He worked the cork free, poured two glasses. Their fingers met as he handed hers over, lingered a moment too long before he clinked his glass to hers. "To survival."

Marissa's laughter faded into a comfortable hush. She leaned back against the counter, swirling the wine and watching him with a look that had shed its professional distance—the therapist replaced by something warmer, something that made her eyes dance in the low light.

She took the glass, raising it in a small, private toast before sipping. "God, that's good," Marissa murmured, rolling the wine on her tongue. She looked at Andy with new appraisal, almost as if he was a vintage himself, aged better than she'd expected.

They drifted back to the living room, navigating the "Clinic" setup that Laura had engineered. At each step, Marissa found a new detail to set her off: the clipboard with Andy’s medical chart, or the prescription pad, where the top note read Dr. L: Patient must report for daily tongue inspection. The more she saw, the less she could keep her composure; at one point, she physically doubled over, tears of laughter shining on her cheeks.

Andy tried for a deadpan, which was ruined by the slow, involuntary grin working its way across his face. He’d never admit it out loud, but these pranks were quickly becoming his favorite part of the night. There was a comfort to it, like knowing someone cared enough to nudge him out of himself, even if it meant mild public humiliation.

He poured himself a smaller glass, then joined Marissa on the couch. She dropped onto it in a loose sprawl, one leg tucked up beneath her, the other dangling, her dress riding high but her modesty preserved by the luck of fabric and inertia. She set her glass on the armrest and immediately began to make a show of examining Andy, reaching for his wrist as if to check his pulse.

"Do you often experience feelings of being watched, Mr. Cooper?" she asked, affecting a serious tone that crumbled at the edges.

"Only when I'm surrounded by world-class talent," Andy replied, settling in beside her. "And the plushies, obviously."

She glanced at the plushies on the coffee table—Fluffy the bunny, and the new arrivals from yesterday’s prank. Marissa’s laugh had calmed, but a smile lingered in the corners of her mouth, and her body had lost its earlier, professional tension.

She set her hand on Andy's knee, then hesitated, as if catching herself about to cross a line. She withdrew it, but left her wrist close, a little challenge to see if he'd take the opening.

He did. He placed his own hand lightly over hers, just enough pressure to say I'm here, but not enough to require reciprocation. They sat in the hush for a while, the kind that only arrived when all other business was done. The lights were down low, and the chaos of the "Clinic" had receded to a background of silly signage and seashell detritus, like a party after all the guests had gone home. Marissa still rested her head on Andy’s lap, her legs stretched out and toes just grazing the coffee table.

Marissa rested her head on Andy’s lap, her legs stretched out and toes just grazing the coffee table. The lights of the living room were dimmed to a hush, leaving the world outside the suite distant and abstract, as if the entire universe were a dome of glass over the two of them. Marissa let herself go limp, the kind of surrender that only arrived at the border between sleep and honesty, and Andy stroked her hair, silent.

Lap pillow by the Master! +2 VP

After a few minutes, she spoke, her voice thick with the leftover echo of music and laughter: “You keep checking the door.”

Andy, who hadn’t realized he was doing it, blinked. “Habit,” he said, but it wasn’t quite true, and both of them knew it. Marissa rolled onto her back, head pillowed by Andy’s thigh, and looked up at him. “Is she okay?”

He weighed the question, then shook his head. “Not really. She’s been… off, the last few days. Not just tonight.” He paused, gathering his words. “She’s hiding something. She’s hurting. I think tomorrow, on her date day, I’ll have to dig it out.”

Marissa nodded, her expression unchanged, but the energy of the room shifted. “Can I tell you something?” she asked, and when he nodded, she continued: “The first time I saw her , after she came back… I thought I’d be relieved. Or jealous. Or even scared.” She closed her eyes, as if searching inside herself. “But mostly, I felt sorry for her. She’s in a place with twelve other women who—whether they wanted it or not at the start—are all fighting for the same thing. And she’s supposed to be the one who had you first, who knew you best. But she’s spent every day since then making herself smaller. Trying not to hurt anyone.”

Andy let the words hang, Marissa’s voice barely more than a vibration against his knee. He hadn’t thought of it that way, but it was true: Laura, in all her sharpness and fire, was always holding herself back. Like she was afraid to burn the other women, or herself, or maybe just the bridge that had brought her here.

Marissa turned her head, cheek pressing against the fabric of Andy’s jeans, and opened her eyes to look at him. “I know it’s not fair to ask. But do you feel the same way about her as she does about you?”

He answered without hesitation. “Yes. It’s not the same as before, but it’s not any less, just different. It’s…” He gestured helplessly. “It’s not like anything else.”

Marissa smiled, a little sad, a little fond. “It’s hard to compete with a soulmate.”

He shook his head, insistent. “It’s not about competition. It’s just—whenever she’s close, it’s like I can breathe easier. Like the pressure drops. And the same is true for her.” He met Marissa’s gaze, searching for understanding. “I think it’s the bond. I know exactly where she is, all the time, if I care to check. I know when she’s sad, or scared, or angry. And she knows the same about me. If I try, I can follow it to her—like a scent, or a string.”

Marissa considered that, then said, “You’ve always had it?”

He nodded. “As long as I can remember. My parents told me Laura’s family moved in when we were both about a month old. Her mother was… well. You know.” He didn’t need to finish; Marissa had heard the story from Andy before.

“Her father was a piece of work,” Andy continued. “He hated his life, hated that Laura took his wife’s attention, hated Laura for even existing. My mom said she felt bad for them—Laura’s mom was polite, always covered up, always made excuses. But my mom knew, even then.”

He smiled, faint. “She used to tell the story of how she invited Laura’s mom over for coffee, every week, and always offered to babysit. Sometimes Laura would stay at our house for two, three days at a time. Just… part of the family.”

Marissa’s eyes softened. “Is that when it started? The bond?”

Andy shook his head, smiling. “Apparently, it started even earlier. My mom swore that the first time she put Laura and me together, we fell asleep touching—like two cats in a sunbeam. She thought it was fate. She’d joke, ‘There goes your wife, Andy. Better get used to it.’”

Marissa laughed, a real one, not edged with sadness. “That sounds right.”

Andy nodded. “My Mom always loved Laura. Even when she got in trouble, my mom would say, ‘She’s just trying to find her place.’” He looked down at Marissa, seeing not the therapist, but the woman who understood what it meant to hold space for others, even when your own arms were tired.

There was a lull, then. Marissa let it linger, as if savoring the silence. Finally, she said, “You know, I’m not sure I ever believed in that kind of connection. I always assumed people just found someone, and over time, they sanded off the rough edges until it fit. But you and Laura… I think you both started with the same shape.”

Andy felt the compliment like a balm. He let his fingers drift down, tracing the line of Marissa’s cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes.

“Do you think it’s the same for her?” Marissa asked. “Does she feel safer when you’re around?”

He nodded. “Maybe even more than me. When we were kids, and she got upset, or when things went sideways, she always ended up at my door. If something happened at home, she’d just show up in our kitchen. Sometimes with her backpack, sometimes with a bruise.” He let the memory settle. “My Mom used to joke that she and I were two halves of the same thing. I think she got that from Plato.”

Marissa didn’t answer right away. She picked at a stray thread on Andy’s pants, worrying it between her fingers. Then: “It’s beautiful, you know. What you have. Even if it’s painful.”

Andy was silent. He wanted to say more, but found himself at the edge of what words could carry.

So he told her another story, softer this time: “When I woke up in the hospital, after she died, I knew it. A yawning emptiness, like someone turned off a radio I didn’t know was playing. It felt as if someone had taken out my heart and forgotten to tell me I was meant to die as a result. I screamed so much, I was hurting so much, they had to give me sedatives. I was out of it for most of the week, between that and painkillers. And before they could tell me she was gone, I told them I knew. I spent hours in the hospital bed, searching for her, trying to find her through that connection, hoping I could still sense her somehow, that I could make her know I was there in whatever afterlife she had found. Even though I knew, somewhere in my bones, that I wouldn’t find her.”

Marissa’s hand found his, squeezed it tight. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, not dismissing the comfort, but accepting it. “After that, I just… drifted. Went to school, did my thing, but there was always a part missing. Nothing else really worked. Even with Erin, I couldn’t let myself open. I drove her away because I couldn’t be with her the way she needed it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for something that didn’t sound like he was grading people. “When she came back, I struggled to understand my feelings. For her, for Erin, for Claire, for you… for all of you. It took me a while, and Sam, and Arabella, and a few others, to understand. It’s not about loving one more,” he said. “It’s just… when I’m with Erin, or Claire, or you, or Dawn, or everyone else, it feels like something we’re building. Like we’re figuring it out as we go, and it’s beautiful.”

He hesitated. “With Laura, it’s not something we’re building. It’s something that was already there. Like we inherited a palace before we could even talk. Before I knew what love even was.”

Marissa didn’t interrupt.

“Erin challenges me,” he continued. “Claire steadies me. You hold me up. Dawn brightens me. Every woman in the harem gives me something I need.” A faint smile flickered. “Those are different kinds of love. They matter. They’re real.” He exhaled. “But with Laura, there’s no version of me that doesn’t include her. Even the bad years. Even when I tried to move forward. She’s just… baked in.” He winced slightly. “That sounds dramatic.”

Marissa shook her head. “No. It's the truth.” She let go of his hand, only to run her fingers through her hair, gathering herself. She turned and sat up, cross-legged, so she was face to face with Andy. “Do you think that’s why Laura is struggling? That she’s afraid if she lets herself be happy, or on the other hand lets go of you, she’ll lose herself again?”

Andy nodded. “She’s always been scared of being replaceable. Of being just another sad girl who vanished and everyone moved on.” He paused, then added, “But I think she’s even more scared of hurting the people around her.” He looked down at his hands. “She thinks she broke me.”

Marissa’s expression sharpened slightly. “Did she?”

Andy didn’t answer immediately. He thought about the hospital. The sedatives. The years. “Losing her broke me,” he said finally. “Not loving her.”

Marissa smiled, understanding. “That’s why she’s been so careful with the other women. She’s trying not to take up too much space.”

He blinked, unsure how to respond. Marissa reached out and took his hand again, but this time the grip was less clinical, more… anchoring. She squeezed, then said: “Tell me something. If you could go back—if you could have her back, but lose everything else—would you?”

He didn’t answer right away. He thought about it, and then shook his head. “I don’t want to lose anyone. I want all of it. I want her, and you, and the others. I want the family we’ve built.”

Marissa smiled, this time with something like pride. “That’s the right answer.”

He grinned, sheepish. “Is it?”

She nodded, then leaned in, her lips grazing his jaw. “Yes.”

There was a long, soft hush, filled only by the faint tick of the clock and the sound of Marissa’s breathing. Andy held her, and she let herself be held, not because she needed it, but because—for once—she could.

They stayed that way for a long time: Marissa cross-legged and facing him, Andy’s arms around her waist, the hush of the suite a warm envelope around them. Eventually the wine ran out, the clock on the wall grew slow and syrupy, and the last vestiges of the prank—seashells, plushies, prank charts—faded to a suggestion at the edge of perception.

It was Andy who shifted first, tugging Marissa gently into his lap. She followed the cue without resistance, draping her arms over his shoulders, her face tucked into the angle between his jaw and neck. She was heavier than he’d expected, the softness of her body a surprise after so many months of only seeing her in the guise of therapist or challenge host. Her scent—perfume, shampoo, the salt of tears not quite dried—hung between them, intimate and right.

He kissed her, slow and searching, and Marissa let herself melt into it, all pretense gone. She slid her hands under his shirt, fingertips skating over the lines of muscle, then up to his throat, where she pressed lightly, as if checking for a pulse. Andy pulled her closer, one hand splayed at the small of her back, the other rising to cup her cheek.

She sighed against his mouth, lips parting, the sound almost involuntary. Her body, usually held so taut, now seemed to spill and collapse around him. She shifted, straddling him fully, her legs slipping to either side of his hips, her thighs warm and tense. She ground her hips into his, once, then again, and Andy gasped, the contact almost shocking in its directness.

She kissed him harder, teeth catching his lower lip, then broke away, eyes shining. “I want you,” she said, no trace of artifice left.

He nodded, lost for words, and let her pull him to his feet. She led the way to the bedroom, the door closing behind them with a quiet snick. The bed was freshly made, the sheets pressed and cool, and Marissa pulled Andy down onto it, their bodies sinking into the mattress in a tangle of limbs.

She shrugged out of her dress, exposing herself to him without ceremony. She wore nothing underneath—her skin still flushed from the evening, her nipples dark and hard against the tan of her breasts. She watched Andy undress with a hunger that was almost clinical, as if memorizing the sight of him for future analysis.

He reached for her, but she caught his hand and kissed each knuckle in turn, then pressed it to her chest, just above her heart. He bent and took one nipple into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue, then sucked gently. Marissa gasped, her fingers curling in his hair, holding him in place. He moved to the other breast, worshipping it just as thoroughly, then trailed his lips down her sternum, pausing at the dip of her stomach. She squirmed, the muscles in her belly clenching with anticipation.

He slid lower, his hands urging her thighs apart. She opened to him, her sex glistening, the scent sharp and sweet. He licked her, once, slow and deliberate, then again, the flat of his tongue pressing against her clit. Marissa arched her back, the sound that left her mouth half-moan, half-laughter.

He licked her again, then circled her clit with his tongue, teasing her, alternating light flicks with longer, firmer strokes. She writhed, her hands gripping the sheets, her hips lifting off the bed to chase his mouth. He slipped two fingers inside her, finding her already soaked, and curled them just right, drawing a **** whimper from her throat.

“Andy—” she managed, her voice hoarse, “don’t stop. Please. Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He worked her with tongue and fingers, pushing her higher and higher, until she broke with a cry, her whole body shuddering as the orgasm crashed through her. She bucked against his mouth, nearly sobbing with the release. He eased off, but kept licking, gentle now, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from her.

Master ate her out! +3 VP
Master brought her to orgasm! +2 VP

When she finally went limp, he crawled up the bed and kissed her, his mouth still slick with her. She tasted herself, and grinned, then pulled him on top of her, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“I need you inside me,” she said, the words raw, urgent.

He lined up and pressed into her, slow at first, letting her adjust to his size. She was hot, wet, gripping him tight. He started moving, thrusting slow and deep, then faster as her body welcomed him. She met every motion, her hips rising to match his, her arms and legs holding him so close he could barely breathe.

He changed angle, finding the spot that made her gasp and cling to him, and focused there, driving her wild. She started to tremble, the first signs of a second climax building already. He reached between them and rubbed her clit, and the effect was immediate—her eyes rolled back, her mouth open in a silent scream, and she came again, harder this time, her nails raking lines down his back.

He was close now, the heat building in him impossible to ignore. He held back, wanting her to come one last time, so he slowed, then sped up again, using everything he’d learned about her body tonight. She arched up, sobbing with need, and begged, “Please—Andy—let me—”

Edging by the Master! +2 VP

He let go, thrusting hard, and felt himself tip over the edge. He buried himself in her and came, the **** of it wringing a groan from deep in his chest. He kept moving, riding the waves of pleasure, until Marissa came again, crying out his name, her whole body quaking with release.

They collapsed together, sweaty and exhausted, his weight pinning her to the bed. For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Marissa, her cheek pressed to his, whispered, “Thank you.”

He stroked her hair, his heart still racing. “You don’t have to be strong every moment,” he said. “You can let yourself be carried, sometimes.”

She smiled, faint but real, and closed her eyes. “I want to remember this,” she murmured. “All of it.”

He held her until her breathing slowed, then rolled to the side, keeping her close. She burrowed into his chest, her legs tangled with his, her arm heavy across his stomach.

In the other room, the prank seashells rattled faintly in the AC breeze. Laura’s charts rustled, the memory of laughter and care a soft promise for tomorrow.

Marissa, eyes already closed, sighed, “Tell her I get it, now.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I will.”

Then he, too, let go, and let the hush swallow them both.

Andy lay in the dark, Marissa’s slow breathing a metronome at his shoulder. The world outside the Master’s Suite had contracted to a single room, then to the two of them in a loose, damp knot, and finally to the thrum of his own pulse in his ears. But his mind, never great at shutting down, wandered the island.

He replayed the song in his head, the way Laura’s voices had braided through the air, how the women at the tables had leaned into the music like sunflowers chasing light. He thought about the way even the most skeptical—Riley, Norah—had stilled, letting the notes dissolve old hostilities for a few minutes. It was as if the sound itself was a spell, holding them all together just long enough for the possibility of peace to be real.

He catalogued, with the obsessive clarity of insomnia, the sanctuaries the women had carved for themselves across the island, so far:

The Forest of Beginnings, where Emi once wandered in a sleepwalker’s spiral, the glassy trunks catching her six-armed shadow in infinite refractions. Andy could picture her at the pool in its heart, eyes wide as she watched the stars move in impossible constellations, as if they were rearranged just for her. The Forest reminded him of those early mornings in Illinois, the ones where dew still hung on the leaves and the world felt new—except this time, it was explicitly for her, a sanctuary built from her dream-logic and longing. When he had first seen it, he had realized that the HH didn’t just take; it gave, too, if you learned how to ask.

Myra’s House of Quiet Waters, a bathhouse so still it felt like a liminal space between worlds. The gold lines in the basalt floor, the way sound deadened at the threshold, the hush so deep he felt his own pulse slowing to match it. Myra, always craving permission to let go, found peace there—her senses overwhelmed not by pain, but by the softest possible versions of light, touch, warmth. Andy remembered the time he’d sat at the edge of the pool while she told him about her old life: the schedules, the self-sacrifice, the relentless drive to be needed. The water in the House asked nothing from her; it held her up and let her drift.

The Verdant Arches belonged to Erin, though she’d never admit it out loud, and claim she had just found them. The way she’d re-wilded the crumbling stone circle, fusing earth and vine until the old geometry grew alive again, wasn’t just an act of restoration—it was a statement, a refutation of decay. Andy had loved watching her there, naked and mint-green, always with one foot in sunlight and one in the shadow of some unfinished thought. The first time he’d followed her into the ring, he’d been struck by the way the air thickened, the light pooling around her in an aura, and the sense that she was, in that place, truly herself. Not the ex-girlfriend or the angry girl, but just Erin, growing.

The Sky Archive was Claire’s, obviously—every detail announced it. The perfect order, the stacks rising toward infinity. But it was also the only place Andy had ever seen Claire let her guard drop completely. She’d taken him to the balcony, pointed out the distant islands, and explained how you needed to want to see, to be able to see those islands. He remembered the feel of her hand in his, the soft tick of her tail around his ankle as they read questions and answered them. The Archive wasn’t about answers; it was about the comfort of endless questions.

Chloe’s Home of Held Tomorrows, a Victorian fever dream of every domestic fantasy Chloe had ever suppressed. A kitchen always warm, a nursery always prepared, endless rooms for every flavor of future. Andy felt the weight of her wish there, the ****, delicate hope that one day she’d be enough to deserve all this comfort. When he had visited, Chloe gave him a tour with the pride of a child showing off a new science fair project; by the end, she’d cried, then laughed, then cried again. He hadn’t told her, but the nursery was his favorite room. After her revelation, there, it felt like a promise no one could break.

The Tavern of Second Chances belonged to Emily, which made sense. Even after everything, she wanted to believe that nothing was truly lost, that every screw-up could be forgiven if you just asked nicely. The first time Andy had walked in, the air hit him like nostalgia—mulled fruit, wood smoke, and the faintest trace of something sweeter, maybe hope. Emily had poured him a drink from behind the bar, helped Laura support the weight of her distress and showed her that there was always a second chance, if you wanted it. The furniture didn’t match, the lighting was too yellow, but none of that mattered. It was a place to start over, as many times as it took.

Norah’s Hearth of Gathering was a paradox. On the surface, it was all soft lighting, plush chairs, a fire that never went out. But under that, it was a fortress. Andy knew that every detail, every “casual” arrangement, had been plotted out to the inch. Norah needed to feel safe before she could even think about comfort, and the Hearth gave her that. There he had seen Norah truly relaxed, talking about her family and her childhood. She never said so, but Andy suspected the warmth of the fire reminded her of the old apartment, the one she used to share with her sisters before everything got complicated.

Riley’s Walk of Remembrance was more than a path; it was a stitched-together history of every loss she’d ever refused to forget. The docks on the river, the stone bench, the Cathedral cave, and finally the marker for her son, John. The first time Andy walked it with her, Riley had just let him follow, stopping when she needed, lingering at each landmark like it was a prayer bead. Andy remembered the roughness in his throat at the end, when Riley turned to him and talked about her son, how she had broken. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t, not all the way at least, but it seemed beside the point.

Liesa’s Atelier of Palimpsests was a monument to unfinished business. Rooms that rearranged themselves, light that never stayed put, paintings layered with the ghosts of old intentions. Andy knew Liesa had always struggled with the idea that nothing was ever finished—every drawing a draft, every feeling a rehearsal for the next. He liked that about her. The Atelier was messy, but alive. It made Andy wish he could leave something behind, too.

The Chapel of Small Kindnesses was Dawn’s, even if she tried to say it was for everyone. The whole space was made from air and light and the gaps between—nothing heavy, nothing sharp, everything stitched together by gentleness. Andy remembered sitting on the bench with Dawn, just watching the sunlight slant through the branches, the way it made her bunny ears glow. He hadn’t spoken, but what he had wanted to say was, “You made me believe in kindness again, Dawn.” He just didn’t want to embarrass her.

Although Marissa had created two places for herself, Andy realized now that The 88 Club was truly her Sanctuary. Soft lighting, quiet, warm in a stately way, it represented Marissa’s face to the world, but at its heart sat the piano which, he now knew, represented Marissa’s spirit. He had watched her play that piano many times, but last evening had been transcendental. He hoped she realized now, how important she was to everyone. And how she needn’t fear being ****.

Andy could imagine a future where all of them might coexist, not just as contestants in a sex game, but as a family. He could see it—movie nights in the Hearth, Chloe and Dawn making pancakes in the big kitchen, Riley and Norah playing chess in the Tavern's back room. Myra would float in the pool, finally at peace, while Emily poured drinks for everyone, insisting each new concoction was "the one." Erin would bring fresh flowers from her arches, weaving them into everyone's hair whether they asked or not. Claire and Emi would huddle in the Archive, arguing about the taxonomy of folklore monsters while Sam described their stats in Pathfinder. Marissa would still be the therapist, sometimes, but maybe she'd play piano in the Club, just for fun. Liesa would paint it all, never satisfied but never stopping. Laura could find her place with all of them, and find the family she had always wanted.

He tried to hold on to the image, but the memory of the last few weeks pressed at the edges—strange events that made no sense, even by HH standards. The egg in Laura’s hand, that time in the kitchen. The way it had reconstituted itself in her hand. Or the plants striving to bloom to draw Erin’s attention as she passed. That moment when light had pooled around Dawn and her eyes had looked aglow. Abuela’s visitation, during Dawn’s last date night. The night Claire and Andy had danced on the balcony and strings of lights had appeared out of nowhere at the mention of Prom.

He thought about the song at the Club, about how it had braided the women together for an hour. It made him wonder if that’s what the magic—or whatever it was—wanted. For the fractures to mend, for something larger to emerge from the little sanctuaries. Or maybe it just wanted to see if they’d notice.

Marissa shifted in her sleep, curling toward him, her face open and young. He ran his thumb along her hairline, remembering the way she’d played the piano, how alive she’d looked. He wanted to keep her safe, all of them, but tonight the thought had teeth.

Because tomorrow was Laura’s day, and Andy could feel the reckoning building like a pressure front. If the HH had rules, he’d never found them, but he knew the rhythm of stories. After the peace, always the test. After the lull, the storm. Whether it would be tomorrow, or it waited in the future, he would find out soon.

He lay awake for a long time, tracing the patterns on the ceiling, listening to the suite settle. In the silence, he could almost hear the island breathing, the shifting of stones and roots beneath the surface. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see the way it all connected: the sanctuaries, the harem, the flares of magic that kept breaking the script.

He wondered, not for the first time, if the next day would break him, or make him.

When sleep finally took him, it was thin, laced with the memory of music and the whisper of leaves.