Her Night, Part 1

The Master’s Suite was too clean. Laura could feel it as soon as she stepped through the double doors, both bodies moving in mirrored, bare-foot rhythm. No matter how many times Andy or the service Mildreds or the random drift of the island tried to make it lived-in, the place always reset to a kind of magazine-perfect neatness that put her on edge. It was like the Suite was waiting for someone to get comfortable and ruin it, and Laura was always happy to oblige.

Today she was dressed for mischief: black athletic shorts and a faded T-shirt—two of them, actually, both with a fraying band logo she couldn’t remember ever hearing. Her hair was in matching ponytails, and she still had streaks of sunscreen on both noses from the hike. There was nothing queenly about her today, nothing performed. It was as close to authentic as she could get.

She hadn't had a chance to ask for Mildred's help today. Which was a pity, because the weird housekeeper seemed to really enjoy pranking Andy, nearly as much as Laura did, although her repeated suggestions to leave a dismembered carcass bleeding in the bed, implying it would be a hilarious joke, had been a bit much. And Laura didn’t have much time—Andy was probably still talking with Sam downstairs, and he’d said they’d meet in the Lobby once they wrapped up. She knew he secretly enjoyed her pranks, so he would give her a little time. Not too much, but some. She didn’t focus on where he was through the bond, too concentrated on making the most of the time she had. She had to move fast. Thankfully, there were two of her.

Today’s theme had come to her halfway through the hike: a sampler platter of the kind of dumb pranks she used to pull on him when they were kids. Nothing elaborate. Nothing that required real setup. Just the kind of petty chaos a twelve-year-old girl with too much imagination and access to a kitchen had unleashed on an unsuspecting best friend, and would once again unleash on same best-friend-turned-newlywed-husband.

Now that was something she still could not believe.

She took inventory with both sets of eyes. Every cushion lined up. Every towel folded, corner perfect. Even the kitchen knives gleamed in their block, untouched. Laura’s faces split into the same wide grin.

She got to work.

First, the shoelaces: one Laura knelt beside the foyer bench, untangling the laces from Andy’s favorite sneakers and replacing them with long black licorice strings she’d filched from the kitchen downstairs, and lenghts of cooked spaghetti she had smuggled earlier as well. The noodles slid through the eyelets with ease, limp and glistening.

“Perfect,” she whispered. The mental strain of running both bodies at once was real—her vision doubled, her hands sometimes forgetting which was which—but she needed to use both due to timing, and the challenge made the payoff sweeter.

Next, the living room: one self snuck behind the couch and nudged every pillow half an inch off center, tilting them in such a satisfyingly unordered way she knew it would bother Andy without quite being able to put his finger on what it was. The other self scattered a pouch of sand dollars and conch fragments under the rug. She’d been saving them since the first beach walk, biding her time for a worthy occasion. The weirdness of pranking in stereo made her want to giggle.

She grabbed a pen from the desk and tucked it horizontally through the handles of the cabinet doors under the TV stand. Not really locked, but unless he noticed before he tried to open them, it would be awkward. Then she swapped the plugs of two of the lamps, ensuring the wrong switch would turn them on. When they were eleven, that prank had driven him nuts.

She moved to the kitchen. The fridge had been restocked: a new wedge of cheese, three different kinds of yogurt, a carton of eggs with each shell stamped in blue ink. Laura selected two spoons from the drawer, crossed them in an X, and balanced them precariously on the lip of a container. The act was so silly and so pointless that she had to pause, both faces flushing with the effort of not laughing aloud. Then she swapped the labels of the front yogurt cups, carefully peeling them halfway and pressing them back down crooked. Now chocolate would claim to be strawberry.

Next she unscrewed the salt shaker, removed the salt, and filled it with sugar from a packet. Not enough to ruin anything—just enough to confuse the first bite of whatever he seasoned. She opened the sugar bowl, dumped the sugar into a cup she carefully hid in the back of the cupboard, and replaced it with the salt from the shaker. After that she opened the utensil drawer and flipped half the forks upside down. A pointless little rebellion against order.

“I am the Phantom of the Suite,” she muttered under her breath, both voices combining in a low, gleeful harmony. “Master of Chaos, Queen of All Prankery.” She made a mental note to write that on the bathroom mirror later, in soap. “Twelve-year-old Laura would be proud.”

Before leaving the kitchen, she opened all the drawers and attached a strip of clear two-sided tape across the inside edge. Trying to open them later would make the person feel resistance before they suddenly popped open. And with Andy’s strength, if he pulled too hard, he would just pull the drawer out, maybe falling on his ass. She grinned to herself and made a mental note of asking him for something in those drawers later in the evening. Then she took a piece of paper and scrawled:

Like old times. Phantom gotcha!

By now, the strain was beginning to show. But Laura pressed on, determined.

She moved to the dining nook and placed small spiky shells under one leg of each of the chairs, ensuring they’d stick to the bottom with their nail-like spikes. She grinned. Andy hated uneven chairs.

She stopped briefly at the bathroom sink and dabbed a thin smear of toothpaste along the underside of the faucet handle—another childhood classic. Invisible until someone grabbed it. Then she grabbed the bar of soap and smeared her message on the huge mirror while her other self made sure the hand towels were good and smeared in slippery soap.

The best prank was always the last one. She moved to the bedroom, her two bodies entering in staggered step. She started draping scarves over the reading lamp, creating a lurid, carnival-light effect. The colors stacked on each other—purple, orange, pink—until the room glowed like a cheap circus tent.

She was just about to drape the last scarf—a gaudy, iridescent pink number borrowed from the depths of Norah’s closet—when her right set of eyes slid sideways, catching on the painting above the dresser. It was the only thing in the Suite that never moved, never changed: a black-haired, green-eyed woman frozen in a hands-on-hips position, unapologetically nude, her gaze bright and hard as gemstones.

The painting was beautifully done, if rather tasteless, but Laura didn’t trust it. There was something alive in the brushstrokes, a secret just behind the surface. Her left body hovered a little closer, right one holding the scarf aloft. The face in the painting seemed to follow her, but that was just good technique, right? She made a face at it—crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongues.

The painting didn’t flinch. Neither Laura did.

She finished knotting the scarf, then reached for the next one. Only when both of her sets of hands were busy did the painting change: the woman’s head twisted, just a few degrees, but enough to make the hair shift and the collarbone flare with tension. The eyes snapped into focus, boring straight through Laura’s doubled skulls.

Then the painted woman seemed to jump at her, her lips pursed and rounded in a perfect, exaggerated “Boo.”

Laura screamed in stereo. Laura’s right set of hands jerked upward, flinging the scarf into the air. Her left body, caught mid-lurch, stumbled backwards and tumbled into the ottoman. The pouch of shells slipped from her fist, scattering a spray of sand dollars and conch bits across the bedroom rug. Both mouths opened and let out a perfectly synchronized, glass-shattering shriek.

The scarf landed on her head like a shroud.

It took a full two seconds for Laura to register what had happened, and another two to realize she was on her back, staring up at the ceiling, with both bodies’ arms flailing like overturned beetles. She sat up, untangling herself, and glared at the painting, which was once again the model of composure—though the faintest hint of a smirk lingered on the painted woman’s mouth.

The echo of Laura’s stereo shriek was still bouncing off the windows when the closet door exploded open and Andy tumbled out, doubled over in helpless laughter. He staggered forward, one hand on the closet jamb and the other clutching his side, tears streaming down his face.

“Oh my God—” he gasped, half-breathless, “you should have—your faces—” He broke down again, cackling so hard he nearly toppled onto the bed.

Both of Laura’s selves stared at him, identical pouts blossoming on their lips. For a long second neither said a word—then both stamped their feet, hard, in unison, sending a ripple through the rug and a fresh spray of shells across the floor.

“You liar,” she said together, voices perfectly in phase. “You said you were going to see Sam!”

Andy could barely get his words out. “I did—I did see Sam. For, like, thirty seconds. And then I came back and hid here to see if you’d fall for it.”

Laura crossed her arms, both sets, and leveled her best ****-glare at him. “You coordinated this? I’m never trusting you again!” But the corners of both mouths twitched, the traitor muscles unable to hold the scowl for long.

Andy wiped his eyes, tried to catch his breath, and finally stumbled forward to gather Laura up—one arm around each waist, steadying her as she stood. At first Laura tried to resist, then she caved in, and within seconds she was giggling in stereo, leaning into his chest, still panting from the scare.

“You got me,” Laura admitted, two voices blending into one. “You actually got me.”

Andy grinned, proud. “It was a team effort. But I think we both know who the real MVP is.”

He gestured toward the painting, and Laura’s faces sobered instantly.

For a heartbeat, she stared at the portrait with new eyes. “Is that—” she started, then looked at Andy, “is it like a TV? Or a camera thing?”

Andy shook his head, the smile fading to something more serious. “No. That’s Katherine.” He glanced at the painting, then back to Laura. “She’s—she’s an eliminated contestant. Fourteen years ago. She’s alive, kind of, but she can’t leave the painting. She can see and hear, but she can’t talk, or move outside the frame. She’s stuck there, all the time.”

Laura studied the painting, suspicion draining into fascination. The woman in the frame looked like she might step down from the wall at any moment and join the conversation, if only the oil and canvas would let her.

“She can hear us?” Laura whispered, as if afraid to spook the painting.

Andy nodded. “Everything. She’s really smart. When I first got here, she was the only one I could talk to. She helped me through a lot.” He hesitated, then added, “I added her to the harem, a couple of weeks ago. Because I love her, and because she doesn’t deserve to be left here, when we go.”

Laura looked from Andy to the painting, then back again. “No one does,” both voices echoed, their faces now turned perfectly identical in thoughtfulness. Then she frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me this the first day I was here, when I said she looked like a porn painting? You said she was art!”

He hesitated. “Katherine normally doesn’t want people to know what she really is. She’s asked me to keep her secret, and I’ve tried to do so to the best of my ability, with everyone.” The subtext was clear: asking for help was the only agency she still retained. “A few of the girls figured it out over time. Emi, Claire. She revealed herself to Erin when Erin lost the ability to wear clothes. But Katherine likes to choose who knows. She hates being exposed.”

Laura felt her chest tighten. The fact that Katherine had winked at her, communicated at all—it was a sign of trust. Her heart fluttered. “So if she let me in…that means she trusts me.”

From the wall, Katherine’s expression shifted—a lift of the chin, a glint of mischief in the green eyes, a slow, deliberate wink that was so out of place it almost derailed Laura’s composure all over again. Katherine waved with a grin.

“Oh my God,” said Laura, one hand flying to each mouth.

Andy chuckled. “She likes to mess with people. It’s… her thing.”

One Laura crept closer to the painting, eyes huge, while the other still clung to Andy. “Doesn’t it drive her nuts? Being stuck? How does she not go crazy?”

Andy’s face softened. “She’s strong. She never complains. But she hates pity, so don’t let on too much.”

Both Laura’s selves nodded, back in sync. She looked up at the painting, then said, “Hi, Katherine. I’m Laura. I’m glad you’re here.”

In response, the painted woman tilted her head, her gaze flickering from one Laura to the other, then to Andy, then back. She didn’t smile, exactly, but the line of her mouth softened, and she dipped her chin in acknowledgment.

Laura leaned in, whispering, “Thank you for being here. For helping Andy. I’ll come visit sometimes, if you want.” She straightened, then turned to Andy. “I have a keycard now. So I can get in even if you’re not around.” Laura elbowed him, gently. “That’s fair, right?”

Andy grinned. “That’s fair.” He watched the painting with a mix of awe and gratitude, then looked at Laura, seeing her empathy shine through both faces.

The moment hung there, strange and solemn, until the left Laura’s stomach growled, loud enough to be heard in every corner of the Suite.

Laura blushed in stereo. “Sorry. I haven’t eaten since the beach. I think if I don’t eat something soon, I’m going to start chewing on you.”

Andy laughed, relieved. “Let’s not test that theory.” He wrapped both of her selves in his arms, hugged them close, and let the world reset around the three of them.

When he pulled back, he said, “How about I make you dinner? Like before. Like the first night you came back.”

Both faces brightened. “If you burn anything, I’m pranking you again,” she warned.

Andy nodded. “Deal.” He turned to the painting. “Katherine? Would you like to join us?”

Katherine's eyes met his, warm but resolute. She shook her head gently, then gestured toward Laura with a subtle tilt of her chin. Her painted lips curved into a knowing smile as she made a small shooing motion with her hand.

“Okay,” Andy whispered, understanding in his eyes. ”Thank you.” As they left the bedroom, Andy looked over his shoulder at the painting. Katherine’s eyes met his, and she smiled.

Laura and Andy gathered the scarves and headed for the kitchen, the only mess in the Master’s Suite now the memory of the prankster being finally pranked.

After cleaning the various messes Laura had left behind (Andy chuckling the whole way, making Laura feel happy), dinner prep should have been chaos, but it was more like a dance. Laura’s two bodies orbited the island, swapping places at random, sometimes on purpose but often just because her attention slipped and they would fall back into sync while one still had a task. The result was a kind of stereo slapstick: Loose-Hair Laura diced peppers in random chunks while Ponytail hovered, and Laura, mentally strained by moving the two bodies separately, tried to remember if she was supposed to wash them first. Every time Andy reached for a bowl, he’d find one Laura already holding it—except for the times he’d have to pull one out from under the other’s elbow, apologizing as their arms tangled.

Laura was great at baking, but as for cooking... She had watched people cook before, but the actual doing was new. She could follow instructions, but the improvisational part—the knowing what a thing should smell like, the way to judge if the pan was hot enough, the trick of not crying when slicing onions—was a mystery. The strain of moving her bodies separately didn’t help, so she’d relax her attention from time to time, letting them both fall back in sync. Andy never seemed bothered; he moved in easy, efficient arcs, handing off tasks to whichever Laura was least likely to drop it.

They were making chili, because that was what Andy always made when he didn’t know what else to do. It was the recipe from his mom, heavy on cumin, sweet with just a hint of brown sugar. Laura added a whole can of corn, because she liked the color, and Andy only shrugged, saying it was probably an improvement.

For a while, they talked about nothing. Laura described the best pranks from her life (“The time I put salt in my dad’s coffee and he actually liked it,” “The time I rigged your mailbox to shoot out confetti and the neighbor called the cops”), while Andy countered with stories of his own—though his tended to end with some kind of apology or property damage.

As the chili simmered, Andy’s energy shifted. He grew quiet, not tense but slower, like someone shifting down a gear to keep from stalling out. Laura noticed, but neither said anything until the kitchen was full of the smell of garlic and tomatoes, and there was nothing left to do but wait.

Ponytail Laura set her spoon down, brushing a lock of hair from her face. Loose-Hair Laura mirrored the movement, then she leaned in close to Andy, in sync, her voice soft. “What’s wrong?”

Andy hesitated, staring at the pot. “I have to tell you something,” he said, “and it’s not bad, but it’s… big.”

Laura stared, the weight of his words pressing her into perfect stillness.

Andy drew his breath in and out, slowly, as though steeling himself for a punchline that would hit like a brick. “Chloe is pregnant,” he said, the words flung into the kitchen with a **** that made the air shimmer.

At first, Laura simply blinked. Both of her blinked, out of sync, like two cameras exposed to a blinding light. She could not catch the sentence, couldn’t **** it to settle. It rebounded off the inside of her skull and left only confusion in its wake.

“I—what?” she said, her voices overlapping in stereo, but neither tone matched the shape of her disbelief. Both Lauras reached behind themselves and sat, hard, on the nearest stools. One missed the seat and had to scoot back up, but the other landed perfectly, hands splayed on the edge of the counter.

Andy’s mouth drew into a line. He braced himself on the counter, like a sailor preparing for a squall. “She found out two days ago. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it. She didn’t want to tell anyone until she was sure. I just—I just wanted you to find out from me.”

“She is… pregnant,” Laura repeated, tasting the syllables. She stared at Andy as if the answer would reveal itself in the cracks of his face, or perhaps in the way his fingers curled and uncurled against the counter. She could not place this in the narrative of her own life, let alone the weird, looping narrative of Harem Hotel.

Andy nodded, and the motion was so slow it felt like he was moving through water. “It happened before you came back. Before… us. Before I even knew this was possible.” He shrugged, helpless. “It just took a while to show up.” He glanced down. “I didn’t know how to say it. It’s not exactly a normal conversation.”

Laura chewed on this, literally and metaphorically, for several seconds. She watched Andy’s face, his fingers, the way his shoulders hunched just slightly when he braced for impact. Both of her stared at him, this time with their heads tilted at slightly different angles. “How do you feel about it?” she asked.

Andy blinked. “I… I don’t know. I mean, at first I was terrified. It’s not like I planned any of this. But now…” He looked up, met both her gazes. “I’m happy. I want it. I want to do right this time.”

Laura let the words settle, both sets of eyes scanning his face for any sign of a lie. She found none.

She tried to picture Chloe: round-bellied, soft-voiced, maternal in a way that was both perfectly fitting and deeply alien. She tried to picture Andy as a dad, and that too made a kind of sense, even if the word “father” still made her skin prickle. “So, you’re going to be a dad,” she said, her voices smaller than she meant, as if the words could shrink themselves and crawl under the table.

Andy’s expression was hard to read. It was equal parts terror and awe, with a current of determination running just under the surface. “Yeah,” he said. Then, softer, “I guess I am.”

Laura thought about what that meant—not in the way adults talk about “responsibility” or “the future,” but in the way a child tries to imagine the adult they’ll someday become. She considered this, searching for the right words—or the right feeling—to put around the strangeness. The truth was, she’d never thought about babies, not really. She’d never pictured herself as a mother. The word was too heavy, too risky. In her own childhood, mothers were the ones who failed to protect, who cried in locked bathrooms. But the island had changed her. Andy had changed her.

Laura’s two selves dropped into a hush. Not a silence—just a hush, a gathering inward, as if she needed to make herself smaller to fit this new world. She glanced at Andy, then at the chili simmering on the stove, then back to Andy. Her mind skated in strange directions. She remembered her own mother’s hands, thin and trembling, and the way her father used to shout like he was trying to shake the walls down. She thought of all the times “family” had meant “danger,” or “loss,” or “leaving before the candles burned out.”

She tried to imagine herself with a child. Tried to see what that would look like. Would she protect, or smother, or run away at the first sign of trouble?

She wanted to ask Andy, but she didn’t know how to phrase it. Instead, she just blurted, “Do you want more?” and immediately wished she’d bitten her tongue. Both Lauras recoiled, mortified, as if they’d just screamed a secret across a crowded room.

But Andy did not flinch. He just looked her in the eye—both pairs—and said, “I do. Would you?”

It was enough to send both Lauras into a fit of giggling. The laughter was half shock, half relief, as if the world had not shattered but merely remade itself in a funhouse mirror.

“I might,” she said, and to her stunned surprise, it was true. She could feel the idea rooting itself somewhere deep, far beneath her scars and doubts, a pale, fragile thing that wanted to grow.

They sat in a pause that was not awkward, but full. Laura drummed her fingers, one pair on her thigh and one on the counter, trying to process the fact that the future was now a highway with strange new exits and scenic overlooks. Andy seemed content to let her wander, his own face slack with wonder.

They ate in silence for a while, but it wasn’t tense anymore. Just the sound of forks, the hum of the fridge.

Finally, Laura spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I never thought about having kids,” she said. “When I was little, it wasn’t even a thing. My mom always said motherhood broke the heart, and my dad…” She trailed off, then shook her heads. “He once said I was a cosmic error.” She winced. “Let’s just say that unlike most girls, it never crossed my mind. It never seemed to matter.”

Andy reached across the table and took Ponytail Laura’s hand, her fingers curled around his. He watched her, eyes steady. “Does it matter now?”

Both of her looked at him, and for the first time, there was something like hope in her faces. “Maybe,” she said. “I never wanted to be like them. But you’re not like them. You’d never let me screw up.”

There was a beat, a mutual acknowledgment of the impossible, and then Andy reached for her hands, taking one from each body. “You’re not like them, either, Laura. You’d be a great mom,” he said. “I mean it.”

Laura laughed, surprised by how much she wanted to believe it. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Andy smiled. “Nobody does.”

Laura spoke, her voice low and sure. “We’re okay,” she said, “I’m happy for Chloe, and for you. I know how much she wanted this. And… I think I want this, too. It’s weird, but not bad-weird.”

Andy never loved Laura more than that moment. He had dreaded her jealousy, he had feared she would be angry, or upset, or fall back into the sadness that had haunted her since her resurrection. But he studied her eyes, both sets, and found only acceptance.

When the chili was done, they ate straight from the pot, passing the spoon back and forth, Laura savoring each bite like it was the first time they’d ever tasted food.

Afterwards, Laura leaned her heads on Andy’s shoulders, her voices sleepy. “I think I want to try,” she said. “Someday.”

Andy kissed her forehead, both of them. “Me too.”

They finished their dinner in the quiet, their hands never quite letting go, their thoughts already reaching forward to whatever came next.

After dinner, they curled up together on the couch, both Lauras flanking Andy so tightly he could barely move. The TV flickered in the corner, but neither of them was really watching; Laura’s right body had her feet tucked under his thigh, while the left leaned against his shoulder, humming softly as she scrolled through her phone.

They talked about the news. At first it was the way you talk about news that’s too big and too strange to hold—the way you handle a puzzle piece that might not fit, turning it over and over, laughing because you’re afraid to do anything else.

But then Laura pivoted, as she always did, from theorizing to cataloging, to the practical. What if the house (wherever they ended up living) had to be retrofitted with extra-wide doors for the inevitable influx of hybrid kids? What if, someday, they hosted the best Halloween parties on the block?

They spent the next ten minutes inventing increasingly elaborate offspring for the rest of the harem: Dawn’s would have bunny ears and an unbreakable hug, Riley’s would only ever nap and draw comics about their own existential dread.

They ran with it. Norah’s child would be born knowing Excel and with a PowerPoint presentation in hand. Liesa’s would sculpt sandcastles so realistic they’d get cited for building code violations. Marissa’s would psychoanalyze the lunch lady and get the principal to quit smoking.

“Emily’s?” Andy asked, riffing now.

“Emily’s would be nude,” Laura answered without missing a beat, “but only because clothing is a social construct.”

They didn’t stop there. They speculated about the logistics of multi-childbedrooms, the politics of shared birthdays, whether they would simply build a new wing as soon as the next “crop” arrived. They wondered aloud which kid would be the first to get suspended, and whether any of them would ever sleep through the night.

“Do you think they’ll be friends, or rivals?” Andy asked, the question sudden and almost too sincere compared to the rest.

Laura looked at him, both of her faces briefly solemn. “They’ll be siblings,” she said. “All of them. Even if they hate each other for a while, they’ll come back around. That’s how it works, right?”

Andy thought about that, and found he liked the sound of it. He pictured a house full of competitive, semi-feral boys and girls—some human, some not—rearranging the furniture, inventing new holidays, and never letting a single day go quietly. He pictured Chloe as the one organizing bedtime, Dawn as the nighttime reader, Norah inventing a house currency system for chores and privileges.

He saw Laura as the ringleader, the instigator, and couldn’t help but smile. He tried to say this, but Laura was already a mile ahead. “What if they’re all girls?” she mused, her eyes shining. “I mean, what are the odds? What if it’s just you and a horde of daughters?”

Andy gave her a look of mock horror. “I’d never win an argument again. They’d eat me alive.”

“The others already do,” Laura said, poking his ribs. “But you love it.”

He let himself laugh. “Maybe I do.”

Laura’s mind was going far afield now, bending the future into shapes that had once been unthinkable. She imagined herself in that future, and for the first time, it didn’t feel like a **** sentence. It didn’t even feel like a risk. It felt like a story she could shape. She pictured herself watching over those children, keeping them safe, teaching them to steal extra dessert, scaring off boys with elaborate pranks. She wondered if she’d be the sort of mother who volunteered at school, or the kind who let her kids skip for mental health days.

She wondered if she’d be the one they ran to when they needed comfort, or when they needed a partner-in-crime.

The thought was so new and so bright it startled her.

Andy noticed. He reached for her hand—both hands, really—and just held them, thumb tracing circles on the back of her left palm.

“Do you ever wonder,” Laura asked, when the laughter faded, “what you would have been like if you’d had kids before this? Like, before you came here?”

Andy looked at her, and for a moment his face went so still she couldn’t read it at all. “I used to. I thought I’d be a terrible dad. I figured the best thing I could do for any future child was to keep my distance, not mess them up.”

Laura shook her heads, the movement small and tight. “You’re wrong, you know. You’d be the best.”

He smiled, eyes soft. “Now, maybe. I hope so.”

She thought about her own father, the man who had called her a cosmic error, who had left her mother in a cloud of scared silence. She had lived so long in fear of repeating that cycle, of loving someone only to ruin them. But here was Andy, shuffling the cards of fate, choosing her again and again.

She could imagine, for the first time, a child who didn’t have to flinch at the dinner table, who didn’t have to peek through doorways before entering a room. She could imagine building something that lasted.

The more they talked, the more real it felt—not just the hypothetical baby, but the entire future. The harem as a weird family. The idea that every person in it would be a permanent fixture in their child’s life, whether they liked it or not. That those children would never want for love or chaos or a second opinion.

And Laura in the middle of it, an aunt, a mother herself, holding a child that was born of her love and Andy’s. She could almost envision it, a tiny baby girl they would both adore. Laura was surprised to find that she wanted this. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but the wanting was there, warm and alive and terrifying.

Andy saw it, because of course he did. He’d always been able to read her, even when she split herself in two.

He squeezed her hands. “You’d be a great mom,” he said, and this time, he meant it so hard it left no room for doubt.

Laura smiled, soft and small, her two bodies leaning into him as if he were the only **** holding them together.

She could have said a dozen sarcastic things. Instead, she let the moment stand.

Andy’s eyes lingered on hers—on both—like he was memorizing her face, or maybe just making sure she was real. This was the first night since her return that Laura truly believed she was. That she was really wanted, not as a relic or a curiosity or a haunting, but as a partner, a future, a person who could change shape and still be loved, a person Andy would want to build a life with.

“I’m going to be the worst influence,” said Laura, her eyes glinting. “I will teach them all my pranks.”

“And I’ll teach them how to defend against them,” Andy countered.

Laura poked him in the ribs. “As if you’d ever try to outwit me.”

He smiled, but his face was soft. “I’ll always try.”

A silence followed, but it wasn’t a bad one. They sat together, the world outside going dim, the windows reflecting them as if the Suite itself wanted to show off.