Sam's Night, Part 2

When Liesa and Sam peeled off for the Consort’s bedroom—hands twined, voices trailing laughter down the hallway—Andy found himself alone in the living room with Laura, two bodies occupying the same corner of the couch. She’d stopped mirroring herself, letting her bodies fall into slightly mismatched poses, like two sisters who’d just learned to sit in the same room without fighting over the remote. He could feel the energy from the game night still fizzing in the air, the aftershocks of a day that had run on secrets, dice, and the peculiar thrill of not knowing what the next hour would bring.

Laura’s right body tucked her legs under herself, hugging a pillow to her chest. The left one kicked its feet up on the ottoman, toes wiggling absently in the air. Both sets of blue eyes fixed on him, and for a second, Andy felt like a bug under a microscope—studied, but not unkindly.

He dropped into the armchair across from her and let the silence hang, listening to the way the Suite shifted as night settled in. The hum of the fridge, the faint whirr of the air system, the occasional laugh muffled behind Liesa and Sam’s closed door. It felt less like a television set and more like a real home than it ever had.

“So,” Laura said. She let the word hang, as if daring him to fill it.

He tried, but the day was too big to reduce to a single opening. He settled on, “You okay?”

Both Lauras nodded, but neither offered more. It was an old trick: wait for him to talk, and if he didn’t, weaponize the silence.

He found himself smiling. “You’re so much more patient than me,” he said.

Her left body grinned. “That’s not true. I just have twice the patience now.”

He laughed, and it broke whatever spell she was weaving. The right Laura rested her chin on the pillow and watched him. “It was a big day,” she said, almost cautious.

He nodded. “I liked it,” he admitted. “Game night, I mean. Even with Tracy and the muffins and, you know, flying haunted underwear.”

Both Lauras laughed, but there was something a little off in the harmony—a trace of nerves, maybe. Or something she was working up to.

He waited, but she didn’t follow up. So he did.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

This time, she took a while to answer. She closed her eyes, then opened them, and her gazes found Andy’s, steady, ****. “You’re going to think it’s dumb,” she said, both voices low.

He shook his head. “Not possible. Try me.”

She looked away for a second, collecting herself. “I just…” She let out a breath in stereo. “I keep waiting to wake up. Or for someone to pull the plug and say, ‘Sorry, you don’t get to keep this part of your life.’” She swallowed. “But then, I sit here and watch you, and it’s like—everything I missed, I get to have all at once. I don’t want it to end.”

Andy was quiet, letting her fill the space. The blue of her eyes was a little lighter tonight, reflecting the memory of the ocean outside. “I know it’s not normal. I know you have other people, and I’m supposed to be okay with that. I am, mostly. But today was… a lot.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Especially the part where you’re getting married. Again,” she said. There was a smile, but it was crooked.

He made a helpless gesture. “I distinctly remember you volunteering.”

Laura’s smiles vanished, replaced with something almost bashful. “If I didn't, it would have looked like I was above it, or like Inanna’s wedding made me better. I don’t want them to think I’m a—” She stopped, searching for a word, then she filled in, softer: “A bitch?”

He grinned despite himself. “You can be mean, but you are the least bitchy person I know.”

She blinked. “You were not in my middle school class.”

That broke the tension, at least a little. The right Laura shifted on the couch, drawing her legs up and leaning against the armrest. “I don’t actually care about the wedding part,” she admitted. “I just wanted to be included, I guess. I want to show I belong.”

Andy reached for the words, but they tripped over themselves on the way out. “You always belonged,” he said, a little too quickly, then added, “I think you’re the reason we are here.”

She shrugged, but her face was softer. “I’m not. It’s you.”

The conversation circled, but didn’t land. Andy recognized the maneuver—Laura was keeping her real question in reserve, circling it like a shy cat.

He decided to help her. “You want to talk about what happens next?” he said.

Both Lauras hesitated, then nodded, in sync. “Yes,” she said. “I want to know how it’s supposed to end.”

He thought about it. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

“I think I figured out the rules,” Laura said, and the right body’s voice got that sly, confident note he’d always loved. “Or most of them, anyway.”

He sat up straighter, curious. “You want to share with the class?”

She grinned. “You’re the class, Andy.” She took a deep breath—both bodies, at the same time. “It’s a game. You know that. But it’s not just about who gets the most points, or who you marry. It’s about…” She hesitated, then said, “It’s about how fast you’re willing to let it end.”

He frowned. “Explain?”

She bit her lip, then reached for the remote, muting the low, endless noise of the living room’s smart speaker. “Erin told me. They get points for anything, but it’s double if it’s the first time someone does it. All the, uh, sexual stuff. All the cuddling. Anything that’s new.” She met his eyes. “And right now, at least half of the girls are close to one hundred points.”

He felt his stomach drop. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

She watched him, unblinking. “So if everyone decided to go for it, you could end the whole thing in one more round.”

He sat with that. “Maybe.”

She gave him a look. “Do you want to?”

Andy realized he’d never actually let himself think about it in those terms. “Part of me does,” he said. “But part of me… I don’t know. I like being here.” He looked at her, both of her. “But you’re right. We could. If we wanted.”

“Do you?” she asked again, more softly.

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “I think…” He stopped, tried again. “The HH gave me something I thought I’d never get back. You. But it also gave all of them something—Erin and Claire, Dawn, Emi, Myra, everyone. Even Sam. They’re all better off, I think. So I want to finish it. I just wish there was a way to do it without hurting anyone.”

The left Laura watched him, reading the whole script on his face. “You’re worried about the transformations.”

He nodded. “Some are… not fun.”

She considered. “Do you think Arabella would make it worse if we tried to rush the endgame?”

He honestly didn’t know. “I don’t think she would want to. It’s pretty clear she’s invested in us. But she’s still reporting to someone.”

Laura said, softly, “I don’t think she wants to hurt anyone. Not anymore.”

He looked up, surprised. “What makes you say that?”

Laura shrugged. “I talked to her today. Alone, after the announcement.” She hesitated, then, “She seemed… tired. Like someone who’s had a really long shift and just wants to finish her work and go home.”

Andy let himself picture Arabella in that way—not as a game show host, but as someone who was just as much a part of the game as any of them. It was almost comforting.

“She told me once that The HH is about healing,” he said. “And she wasn’t lying. But you remember what she said in Warrenville, to my parents. ‘There’s more for them to heal from'. I don’t know what she meant by that.”

Laura smiled, both bodies at once. “She’s good at her job.”

He grinned. “Yeah. Even if her job is to make my life really, really weird.”

She let out a laugh, and the sound was real, not ****. The left Laura scooted to the edge of the couch, then reached out a hand for him. He took it, without thinking.

“Let’s promise,” she said. “That we’ll finish it, but we won’t lose ourselves in the process.”

He squeezed her hand. “Deal.”

They sat there for a long moment, letting the agreement hang between them. The only sound was the ocean, through the open window, and the almost imperceptible hum of Katherine’s painting watching from the corner of the room.

Eventually, Laura said, “Do you want to bring this point to everyone?”

Andy smiled, a real smile. “I think I will.”

She let go of his hand and stood, both bodies together, and she looked whole. “Then come on,” she said with a smile, holding out both hands. “Let’s make some memories to remember this time by.”

He stood, taking both of them in his, and let her lead him down the hall toward the bedroom.

They left the lights off as they crossed the suite. The moon hung fat outside the window, a dusty white circle in a velvet sky, and the only illumination came from the slow crawl of cloud-shadows over the balcony. Katherine watched them from her frame, but tonight she seemed less a sentinel and more a guardian angel—her green eyes gentle, her painted hand raised as if in blessing.

In the bedroom, Laura paused. Her two bodies drew close, and for a moment, Andy thought she might try to talk herself out of what they were about to do. Instead, she smiled, soft and certain, and pulled him into a long, slow kiss. The sensation of being kissed by two Lauras at once should have felt overwhelming, but somehow it was just right—one set of hands tracing his jaw, the other skimming down his back, both with the same tender, deliberate pressure.

He pulled her close, or rather, both of her, and then let go. She took the cue. The two Lauras drew together, touching forehead to forehead, then stepped apart—and where there had been two, there was only one. It happened almost too fast for the eye to catch: the left Laura closed her eyes, a shimmer passed over her skin, and then she merged with her twin.

She grinned, catching his look. “You like this better?” she asked, voice smaller, somehow more intimate.

He shook his head. “I like you, any way.”

She blushed, radiant, and the moonlight etched every soft line of her collarbone and the L-shaped scar along her jaw. “You’re very good at saying the right thing,” she said.

He shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

They undressed with the kind of reverence that people develop only after surviving together the most bitter of seasons. For Andy, there had always been a strange, tense beauty to the rituals of intimacy, but with Laura—this Laura, who seemed at once impossibly fragile and mythically resilient—every motion felt like a rediscovery of what it meant to be alive.

He paused, letting her take the lead, letting her hands wander up under the edge of his shirt. She ran her palms over his ribs, mapping the muscles, the places where his body had healed and the places that still bore the evidence of old wounds. When she reached the scar across his thigh, the narrow line that was all that was left of the cut he had suffered when diving into the river, during the Garden of Glass, she stopped. Her thumb pressed gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to say: I see you. I remember.

He looked into her face, searching for some sign that she was only doing this out of obligation, or nostalgia, or some painful sense of destiny. But there was nothing of the sort in her eyes. She was present, more fully than he’d ever seen her. As a child, there had always been a part of Laura that was already somewhere else, thinking ten moves ahead, keeping her defenses up. That Laura was gone. This one was entirely here.

She slipped her hands around his hips, drawing him against her, and the heat of her skin made him shiver. They stood in the dim light for what felt like hours, neither wanting to break the spell. Then, with a laugh—half joy, half disbelief—she stepped back, peeled off her dress, and dropped it on the floor. The scar along her jaw caught the light, a silver L, stark even against her pale skin. He remembered when she’d gotten it, crying and lying about having fallen from her bike.

He remembered how, even back then, he knew this was not right, and he had wanted to punch her father, make him feel every moment of every hurt he had caused Laura and her mother. He remembered cleaning the wound for her with hands that shook, terrified of hurting her more, and the way she’d squeezed his arm and said, through her tears, “Don’t worry, Andy, I’m tougher than you think.”

They moved to the bed together, falling into it with a kind of **** grace, and the sheets tangled around their legs. Andy ran his hand up her back, then down, tracing the space where her spine curved. it was a gentle S-curve, elegant, almost feline. She arched into his hands, her eyes fluttering closed, as if every inch of contact was a blessing.

He studied her face, the way her lips parted ever so slightly, the way her hair fell across her shoulder in messy, inky waves. He kissed her, slow and deep, and as he did she reached down and took his hand, guiding it along the line of her hip, then up to her breast. She was warm, and soft, and alive in a way that made his chest ache with gratitude.

They didn’t bother with words. There was no need for them, not in this space, not after so much had already been said—and even more had been left unsaid in the years between. She moved over him, gentle and sure. When he touched her, she trembled, the muscles of her thighs tightening around him. When he slid inside her, he could feel her heart racing under her skin. She gasped his name, once, and the sound was so raw that for a split-second he worried she might break. But she didn’t. She rode the shudder all the way through, then collapsed onto his chest, her hair cascading over his face and shoulders.

He wrapped his arms around her, one hand cupping the back of her head, and just held her there for a long time. She was shaking, but it wasn’t fear or sadness—it was the aftershock, the kind of tremble that comes from letting yourself be loved after years of forgetting how. He let himself drift, listening to the rhythm of her breath, and for the first time in months—maybe years—he felt a kind of peace settle in his bones.

When her breathing slowed, she kissed his neck, then his jaw, then his lips. She tasted like sea salt and the memory of oranges. He laughed, because it was funny—because it was perfect, and he’d never dared to hope for something like perfect.

She pulled back to look at him, chin resting on his sternum. “You’re thinking too much,” she said. “I can hear the gears grinding.”

He smiled, sheepish. “Old habits.”

She poked his cheek. “You should try being present. It’s very in right now.” She said it with that trademark Laura deadpan, but he could see the warmth behind it.

He ran his finger along the length of her arm, mapping the lines of muscle, the scatter of tiny freckles on her shoulder. “I’m trying,” he said.

She rolled onto her back, bringing him with her, so now he was above her. The shift put her face in shadow, but he could still see the bright blue of her eyes, reflecting the streetlights from outside. She reached up, threaded her fingers through his hair, and tugged him down for another kiss. This time, her hands roamed, pulling him closer still, as if she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.

He kissed her, and the kiss went on and on, until he forgot about his own body altogether and lost himself in the feel of hers. He wanted to memorize everything—the dip of her clavicle, the way her breathing quickened as he traced circles on her stomach, the small scar on her knee from that soccer game in seventh grade. He wanted to memorize her laughter, the way it burst out of her in bright, unrestrained peals, the way she sometimes snorted when she tried to hold it in. He wanted to memorize the way she cried, without shame or apology, when something moved her.

At some point, the two of them shifted again, and Andy found himself lying on his side, cradling her from behind. She pressed herself against him and, after a moment, relaxed completely into his arms. This, too, was a luxury he had never really allowed himself: to just be, in a bed, with the person he loved, without the clock ticking down or the threat of morning coming to end everything.

She turned her head and spoke, her voice so low he barely heard it. “You ever think about what would have happened if you’d told me, back then?”

He knew what she meant. He let the silence answer for him, then said, “I was scared. I didn’t think I was allowed. I didn’t want to lose what we had.”

She reached down, found his hand, and laced their fingers together. “Me neither. But we wasted so much time.”

“No,” he said. “We’re here now.” It was a cliché, but it felt real as he said it. “That’s all that matters. We’re here.”

They lay in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the hotel around them—the faint hum of the air conditioner, the muffled crash of waves against the rocks outside. He wondered if the rest of the world was sleeping, or if everyone else in The HH was awake, caught up in their own strange dramas.

Laura’s breathing slowed, and he thought she might have drifted off. But then she turned in his arms, so she was facing him, and looked at him with a new intensity. “Can I show you something?” she asked.

He smiled, a lazy, post-everything smile. “Anything.”

She hesitated, and Andy could feel a shyness in her that was rare, even for her. She rolled to her side, propping herself up on an elbow, so they were almost eye level. The sheet slipped down her body, exposing the gentle slope of her chest, the curve of her ribcage. She looked at him, searching his face for something—permission, or maybe absolution.

“Do you ever get lonely?” she said, and this time her voice was tentative, as if she was afraid to ruin the magic by naming it. “I mean, when you’re not with anyone. When you’re alone.”

He thought about all the nights in his apartment, the years before that—how he’d never really gotten used to having people in his life, no matter how many followed him from city to city or job to job. He thought about how he’d built a life around the idea that he was fine on his own, and how much of a lie that had turned out to be.

“Sometimes,” he said. “But less now.”

She nodded, as if this confirmed a theory she’d been working on. “Good. I still don’t remember what happened to me, after the river. It’s all blank until fragments about Emi and the library, and then I woke up here. But I know I was lonely, in there. I think I spent years just… waiting for you.” She let out a small, sad laugh. “Before I died, I used to dream about you, some nights. And when I woke up, I’d be so angry. Not at you, just—at everything. Because it wasn’t real. But now it is, and I’m scared it’s going to disappear again.”

He stroked her hair, slow and lazy. “It’s real. You’re real.”

She considered him for a second, then grinned. “I want to make it more real.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How?”

She pulled herself upright, kneeling over him. The sheet slipped down her body, pooling at her hips, and she was suddenly all at once thirteen and thirty and every age in between—a girl who’d survived so much, and a woman determined not to miss another second. She leaned in, kissed him hard, and for a moment he thought she might try to merge them both, erase the space between them completely.

She didn’t. Instead, she drew back and said, “Can I show you my favorite thing about the new bodies?”

He nodded, curious.

She smiled, secretive, and then—in a move that looked both practiced and a little shy—she split. One of her immediately curled up against Andy’s side, her skin warm and alive. The other leaned against his other side, just as real and solid as the first.

She grinned, secretive, and then—in a move that looked both practiced and a little shy—she split. One Laura immediately curled up against Andy’s side, her skin warm and alive. The other leaned into his other side, just as real and solid as the first. For a moment, both pairs of blue eyes met his, and the effect was vertiginous: he felt doubled himself, each shoulder bracketed by a Laura, each hand claimed by one of hers.

He blinked, trying to re-center his perspective. “You’ve been practicing,” he said, a little awed.

The Laura on his left (her hair mussed, lips still pink from kissing) beamed at him. “You’re the only one here who can keep up,” she said. “And apparently, I’m the only one who can keep up with you.”

Her rightward twin snuggled closer, pillowing her head against his chest. “You don’t mind?” she asked, both voices echoing together, a stereo effect that made Andy’s spine fizz.

“Not even a little,” he said, pulling both of her—of them—closer.

They stayed that way for a while, just breathing each other in, letting the moment solidify into something real. He’d wondered, ever since her return, whether Laura would be able to keep up with this world, the harem, the madness. Tonight, for the first time, he realized: the world would have to keep up with her.

Andy found it shockingly easy to lose track of time in the Suite. Maybe it was the way the air always hovered at a perfect seventy-four degrees, or the way the clocks seemed to migrate from room to room as if avoiding commitment. Maybe it was just being here, in this weirdly real version of the afterlife, with Laura. Two Lauras, now, whose default state seemed to be either curled up in a ball together or gently vying for the prime snuggle position under Andy’s arm.

They lay side by side, skin damp and cooling in the salt air, and Andy felt a contentment so deep it bordered on vertigo. For a while, they didn’t talk. Laura traced lines on his chest, idly, as if searching for the narrative that would make sense of everything. Andy closed his eyes and let himself drift, feeling her every breath.

“Can I show you something?” Andy said, suddenly bashful.

Both Lauras perked up. “What is it?”

Andy hesitated. He took a breath, then said, “It’s easier if I just do it.”

He sat up, untangling himself from the Lauras, and stood at the foot of the bed. The moonlight caught him in profile—tall, a little awkward, hair still a mess from Laura’s hands. He closed his eyes and focused.

It was like flexing a muscle, or finding a note in a song you hadn’t sung in years: at first there was resistance, a low buzz of anxiety, but then the world seemed to double. For a split second, everything was out of phase—two heartbeats, two lines of sight, two voices at the back of his mind.

And then there were two of him.

To Laura, it happened in an instant: one Andy at the foot of the bed, then two, side by side, a man and a woman that looked similar enough they could have been twins. The right-hand Andy—her Andy—stood exactly as before. The left-hand Andy was… not Andy, not exactly. She was taller than average, with shoulder-length brown hair, striking green eyes, and the kind of face that would be called handsome if it weren’t so overtly, confidently feminine. The Andi self wore the same sweats as Andy, but on her, they fit differently: she was shorter, more athletic, a little less broad in the shoulders, the effect both familiar and shockingly new.

Laura stared, open-mouthed, at the two of them.

Neither Andy nor Andi said anything at first. They just smiled, the same crooked smile, and waited for Laura to process.

When she finally found her voice, both Lauras spoke at once: “Oh my God. You didn’t tell me you could do that!”

Andy grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to freak you out.”

The Andi self sat on the bed, knees up, and leaned forward. “I’ve been able to do this since the round before you returned,” she said, voice musical and entrancing, more so than Laura expected, but still with an unmistakable hint of Andyness.

Laura’s left body reached out, touching Andi’s shoulder, as if to make sure she was real. The right Laura did the same to Andy. Both bodies looked at each other, then at him, then at her, then back, as if trying to puzzle out whether they were seeing double or just dreaming.

“You’re both you?” Laura said, blinking.

“Yeah,” Andy and Andi said in unison.

“Is it tiring?” She asked, gently, mindful of the growing pressure she felt each time she merged.

“Not at all,” Andi said. “But it’s not like your transformation, not really. I don’t feel uncomfortable as a single body.”

Laura’s faces broke into identical grins. “You’re a dork,” the right one said.

“Yeah,” Andy admitted, “but now you know all my secrets.”

They sat there for a while, Laura’s two selves scooting in until she could wrap an arm around each Andy. It felt right, somehow. Like this was how it was always meant to be.

After a few minutes, Laura’s curiosity took over. “Can you both do things? Like, different things, at the same time?”

Andy nodded. “It’s not hard. I can keep them separate for as long as I want. They don’t even have to be in the same room, though it feels better when they are. There’s a 100-foot limit, though.”

Laura considered, then grinned. “That’s wild. I wish I could do that. My stupid transformation makes my head hurt if I do two things at once for too long.”

Andy smiled. “You already can, a little. Yours is more limiting, because it’s a transformation, not what Arabella calls a ‘Gift’.” He glanced at her faces, shy. “I wanted to show you tonight, because… I wanted you to have all of me. Not just the old me.”

Laura reached out, brushing her fingertips along Andi's jawline. "You're beautiful like this too," she said, studying the feminine features with genuine appreciation. "It's strange—I've never looked at women this way, but it's still you in there. Same eyes." Her other hand squeezed Andy's. "I love all of you. I always have."

The room fell quiet again, but this time it was the silence of contentment, of something that didn’t need to be filled.

Andy scooted up beside her, draping an arm over both Lauras. Andi did the same from the other side. It was a little awkward, all four bodies fitting on a king bed, but they managed.

Laura looked from Andy to Andi and back again. “So what now?” she asked.

Andi grinned. “Now we see what happens next.”

For a while, nobody moved. The world outside the window was utterly quiet—just the low drone of distant surf, the rhythm of four heartbeats settling into a new baseline. Laura, doubled and luminous in the moonlight, looked from Andy to Andi, then back again, her faces caught in identical, uncertain wonder.

She blinked, trying to make sense of the picture: Andy, her Andy, as solid and real as he’d always been, now split in two. The Andi self was at once wholly other and exactly the same—the same crooked smile, the same way the green eyes crinkled at the edges, the same warmth when she reached out and set her hand over Laura’s. Laura found herself not merely unafraid but almost giddy.

“It’s really you,” she said, both voices soft, but then a small laugh escaped. “It’s like getting two slices of cake instead of one.”

Andi burst out laughing. “Now you know how I feel with you, all the time.” Andy looked at Laura, then at Andi, then back, as if trying to figure out whether he was supposed to feel embarrassed. But Laura’s faces told him everything: not just approval, but a kind of delight that made her eyes shine. It wasn’t that she was drawn to the novelty—she just loved him. So when there were two of him, she loved both, instantly and absolutely, because that was the kind of logic her heart ran on.

Both Lauras moved at once. The right one turned to Andy and pulled him down for a kiss, slow and certain. The left one did the same to Andi, who gasped in surprise before surrendering, lips meeting with a hesitant joy that quickly became confidence. There was a ripple of laughter, as if neither of them could believe how naturally it all fit.

They drew back, both Lauras looking at Andy/Andi as if something monumental had shifted.

“You’re both… the same,” Laura said. “But different. But the same.”

Andy nodded. “That’s how I feel, too.”

Laura laughed, shaky and breathless. “I think I like it,” she said. “I like both of you.”

Andi brushed a lock of hair from Laura’s face. “I’m glad.”

Andy tried to speak, but Laura’s right body shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Don’t think,” she whispered. “Just be here.”

Andi, on the other side, was already locked in an embrace with Laura’s left self, her arms winding around Laura’s waist, fingers splaying up her spine with a certainty that belied how new this all was.

They all tumbled backward onto the bed, Laura’s two selves sandwiched between Andy and Andi, the four of them forming a knot of limbs and warmth and breath. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. There was no jealousy, no competition, just a sense of wholeness, as if every missing piece had finally slotted into place. It was still just Andy and Laura, only doubled.

Andy, who had never been especially coordinated, found that doubling did not improve his odds of staying upright. He rolled with it, laughing as both Lauras tackled him and her at once, the tangle of hair and hands and laughter feeling more like home than anything he’d known in years. Andi was smoother, more agile, but she met her match in Laura’s ponytailed body who seemed determined to test the boundaries of every new sensation, every possible point of contact.

When they came up for air, Laura’s faces were flushed, both with exertion and with joy. She looked from one Andy to the other, then pulled them both close, as if she were afraid they might vanish if she let go.

“This is weird,” she said, her voices so perfectly synchronized they sounded like an echo. “But it’s the good kind of weird.”

Andy and Andi both smiled, the same soft, grateful smile.

“It’s our weird,” Andy said.

It was a slow, unfolding miracle—the way they learned to share a single bed, a single space, a single thread of want. Laura’s two bodies, as always, worked in perfect harmony: if one traced her fingers down Andy’s sternum, the other mapped the same line on Andi’s. If one curled against Andy’s side, the other pressed close to Andi, so both of them always felt the same warmth, the same pulse of contact. But of course, Andy’s body was very different from Andi’s, and where Laura’s fingers encountered muscle on Andy’s chest, they encountered something altogether different on Andi’s.

For Andy and Andi, who had never significantly explored Andi’s femininity (other than fondling and touching with Chloe, and the occasional exploration under the shower, but that hardly counted), it should have felt awkward, perhaps even uncomfortable, but it didn’t: this was Laura, and Laura loved Andy in any form. It felt… right, to experience that.

Andy and Andi, meanwhile, made no attempt to disguise their unity. When one kissed Laura, the other watched, eyes half-closed in pleasure, as if savoring a flavor from both sides at once. It was strange, sure, but also effortless—there was never a moment of awkwardness, never a clash of limbs or a collision of needs. Instead, the four of them seemed to operate on some new, secret protocol, a logic of bodies that allowed for endless permutations without a single step out of place.

The first time Laura’s right body kissed Andi, it was with a kind of shy experimentation, as if checking whether the rules still applied. The answer was clear: while her lips were perhaps softer, Andi responded with the same careful, deliberate tenderness that Andy always had, the same instinct to cup Laura’s cheek, to stroke the hair behind her ear. When the left Laura kissed Andy, she found no difference—the same taste, the same gentle insistence, the same little catch of breath.

It was like looking in a mirror that reflected not just the surface, but the whole of who they’d always been.

Soon, the exploration became bolder. Laura laughed and Andy had to ask, "What?" Laura giggled with both mouths, then explained in perfect unison, "I want to know if you taste the same," and then simultaneously licked Andy and Andi's necks for comparison.

Andi laughed, voice like bells, and countered with, "I think you'll have to try harder to tell," and Laura took the challenge, making a game of it. Andy simply let themself be mapped, kissed, cataloged through both bodies, the process both hilarious and—surprisingly—deeply arousing.

When the first clothing came off, Laura removed it with ceremonial care. Working in perfect unison, both bodies unbuttoned Andi's shirt, fingers moving up the row of buttons like a choreographed dance. Andy watched, entranced, as his other self was slowly revealed: the athletic frame, the way his female body blushed in patches when touched. Laura took special delight in tracing every new line, every unfamiliar curve, cataloging each difference and similarity with scientific precision.

“You’re beautiful,” she said, both voices trembling.

Andi smiled, shy for the first time. “So are you.”

Andy/Andi drew both Lauras in at once. One pair of arms wrapped around Laura’s waist, pulling her in tight, while the other cradled the back of her head, threading fingers through the wild mess of her hair. Andy kissed her, deep and hungry; Andi did the same, but with a lightness, a playfulness, that made Laura giggle mid-kiss.

Andy thought it would be awkward, but it was perfect. They weren’t competing—they were harmonizing, trading off, the same mind in two bodies, working together to draw every possible sound from Laura. One hand traced down her spine, the other stroked her thigh, and every time Andy felt Laura shiver, Andi felt it too.

Laura’s bodies began to lose track of themselves, switching places, her lips on Andy’s, then on Andi’s, then on both at once. She was gasping now, clutching at their shirts, tugging them closer. She wrapped her legs around Andy’s waist, pulled Andi’s head down to her neck, and moaned as their hands found her in perfect counterpoint.

The rest of the layers fell away with less deliberation—Andy’s shirt, then Andi’s bottoms, then all at once the entire bed was awash in skin and heat and the unmistakable electricity of being seen, utterly and without reservation.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then Andy’s left hand found Laura’s right, and Andi’s lips found the other Laura’s neck, and in a heartbeat, the four of them became a single, seamless tangle.

There was no choreography, no plan—just the constant, wordless negotiation of touch and need. Sometimes, one Laura would pull both Andys into her arms, holding them tight, letting their hands roam as they pleased. Sometimes, Andy and Andi would mirror each other, both kissing a Laura, both pressing her between them, so she was wrapped in warmth from every side. When Laura's fingers traced the soft curves of Andi's breasts, Andy felt a phantom echo of the sensation—familiar territory made utterly new through his female form, even as Laura’s other self stroked Andy’s chest. Laura's exploration between Andi's legs sent shivers through both bodies, Andy experiencing through their connection what it meant to be touched as a woman even as Laura licked his shaft.

But always, always, it was perfectly in sync. Even their breathing matched.

The pleasure, when it came, was amplified: every caress doubled, every moan echoed, every shiver reflected back in stereo. When Laura's right body arched in climax, the left felt it too, the sensation surging across the tether and lighting up both at once. Andy had never seen anything so beautiful—two Lauras, heads thrown back in unison, eyes closed, hands locked together. Andi watched as well, her face flushed with the lingering sensation of Laura's intimate touch in places Andy had never been touched before, before pulling Laura's left body down and kissing her so deeply it made Andy shudder.

When Laura came, it was like the world had split in two. Both bodies convulsed, both voices cried out, and Andy/Andi held her tight, not letting go until the shudders faded and the tears dried.

The second time, Laura's left self straddled Andy while her right self guided Andi to lie back. Andy gasped as Laura lowered herself onto him, her movements deliberate and knowing. Simultaneously, Laura's other self cupped Andi's breasts with reverent curiosity, circling each nipple before lowering her mouth between Andi's thighs. The sensation of being both penetrated and tasted crashed through their shared consciousness—Andy feeling the wet heat around him while also experiencing the entirely new sensation of a tongue against unexplored flesh. Their shared mind couldn't distinguish which pleasure belonged to which body anymore. Laura had never eaten a woman out, and had only had sex with Andy a few times, but she somehow knew what to do, as if their unique bond extended to knowing what each other would feel pleasurable. When both Andi and Andy climaxed, it was like an electrical current completing a circuit—Andy's release triggering Andi's first female orgasm, which echoed back to intensify his own, creating a feedback loop of pleasure that left them both trembling.

They collapsed after, the four of them a single, braided mass of skin and limbs and afterglow. No one spoke for a long time. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said in the language of bodies.

Laura, breathless, said, “Can you… always do this?”

Andi smiled. “Whenever you want.”

She laughed, a little wild. “I think I might get addicted.”

Andy kissed her forehead. “Me too.”

They stayed that way for a long time, not talking, just holding each other. The world outside could have ended and they wouldn’t have noticed.

Sam, in the kitchen, was pouring herself a glass of water when she heard it—the unmistakable sound of four people making a complete and happy mess of the Master bedroom. The first time, she thought it was just a fluke—maybe Andy snoring, or the echo of a movie left on low volume. The second time, she caught the cadence of voices and the unmistakable staccato of bed springs, and she nearly spat out her water.

She grinned, wide and involuntary, and set her glass down with a little more **** than necessary. “Go get ’em, tiger,” she whispered, then rolled her eyes at herself for being corny in an empty room.

She tried to be mature about it. She really did. But every time she closed her eyes, her brain served up a fresh reel of the action: Andy and Andi, working in perfect sync; Laura, doubled, orchestrating the whole affair; the tangle of limbs, the shouts and laughter, the sense that no one in there was holding anything back.

Sam wasn’t jealous, exactly. She’d had her own share of wild nights—though never with herself, which, on reflection, sounded kind of awesome. But there was something so right about it: Andy, always too closed off, finally letting himself split wide open for someone. Laura, denied all those years, getting not just a second chance, but a double helping. It made her want to stand up and cheer, or maybe just bring them a Gatorade and a congratulatory donut in the morning.

The laughter and moans from the bedroom had started to blend together, a rising and falling wave of pleasure so intense it could have passed for a soundscape on a lo-fi YouTube channel: “Focus Music for Polyamorous Ghosts.” Sam laughed out loud at her own thought, then tiptoed down the hall toward the ridiculously luxurious Consort’s Bedroom, where she found Liesa sitting on the edge of the bed, legs tucked up, sketching with a tiny graphite pencil onto a hotel notepad.

Liesa’s eyes snapped up when Sam entered. “You hear them?” she whispered, her accent curling around the words like velvet.

Sam nodded, dropped onto the bed next to her. “I think the whole building does.”

Liesa grinned, soft and slightly wicked. “Is nice, no?”

Sam wrapped her arms around her knees and watched Liesa sketch for a minute, the lines quick and sure, capturing the curve of a shoulder, the length of a leg. She recognized Andy’s profile, then Laura’s, then—surprise—a sketch of Andi, Andy’s female form, mid-laugh and wild-eyed.

“You think about what it would be like, to have that?” Liesa asked quietly. “To be two, I mean. Or even three?”

Sam shrugged. “Sometimes. But I think I’d just use it to get more work done. Or run two D&D campaigns at once.” She smiled at Liesa, then brushed her hair behind her ear. “You want to try to sleep through it, or…?”

Liesa closed her notepad, the air suddenly electric. “I am very awake,” she said, voice husky. “And I want you to stay with me, if you want.”

Sam didn’t hesitate. She slid closer, cupped Liesa’s cheek, and kissed her. Liesa tasted like spearmint and red wine, sweet and a little bit dangerous. Her lips were soft but insistent, and within seconds the sketches and pencils tumbled to the floor, forgotten.

Sam climbed onto Liesa’s lap, straddling her, and the two fell back into the mattress together, the world outside shrinking to the boundary of the bed. Liesa’s hands moved with the certainty of an artist, mapping the terrain of Sam’s back, the curve of her waist, the shape of her ribs. Sam shivered under her touch, the sensation magnified by the faint moans echoing through the wall from next door.

Liesa’s fingers slipped under the hem of Sam’s shirt, tracing her spine, and Sam arched into her, sighing. She felt the heat rising, the slow-burn need that always seemed to blossom when Liesa was near. She pulled her own shirt over her head and tossed it aside, then did the same with Liesa’s, leaving them both half-naked, skin pressed tight.

“You are so beautiful,” Liesa murmured, and the words made Sam blush, because she knew Liesa meant them, every time.

Sam responded by biting lightly at Liesa’s collarbone, then working her way down, slow and teasing, until she found the nipple and sucked it between her lips. Liesa’s hands dug into Sam’s hips, holding her steady, grounding her in the moment.

They moved together, a slow and deliberate dance, Sam licking and biting her way down Liesa’s stomach, Liesa trembling under her touch. Sam slid off her own jeans, then reached for Liesa’s, but Liesa stopped her, hands gentle but insistent.

“I want to taste you,” she said, and Sam felt the world stutter, just for a second, at the promise in her voice.

They shifted, Sam on her back, Liesa on top, but Liesa hesitated—just long enough to look Sam in the eyes and say, “May I?”

Sam nodded, unable to find the words, and Liesa dipped her head, tongue finding its way between Sam's thighs with unerring precision. That first contact—a practiced, artful stroke that made Sam's toes curl and back arch—was just the beginning. Liesa worked with the confidence of someone who had been studying this particular art for centuries, each flick and swirl perfectly calibrated to Sam's responses. She licked slow at first, then faster, humming softly in the back of her throat, the vibrations sending cascading shivers through Sam's whole body.

Sam let her head fall back, surrendering completely to the pleasure. Liesa's hands were everywhere at once—caressing her hips, her breasts, her shoulders—never stopping, never letting her drift too far. It was grounding, the way she always knew what Sam needed, even before Sam herself did. With each pass of her tongue, Liesa's own breath quickened, her transformation allowing her to taste Sam's rising pleasure as if it were her own. She moaned against Sam's flesh, the sound half-muffled but unmistakably ecstatic. When Sam's climax finally crashed through her, Liesa shuddered in perfect synchrony, her body pulsing with an orgasm that mirrored Sam's exactly—connected by an invisible thread of shared sensation that left them both gasping.

Sam returned the favor, guiding Liesa’s hips to straddle her face, then wrapping her arms around the other woman’s thighs and pulling her down gently. Liesa’s pussy was warm, wet, and slick with anticipation; Sam licked a slow circle, then dove in, savoring the taste and the way Liesa shuddered at every touch.

The rhythm built, each girl working the other higher, the noise from the Master bedroom fading as their own took over, a new pulse of laughter and need. It was not frantic—it was loving, practiced, a celebration of every little difference between them.

Liesa came first, a low, keening moan that vibrated through Sam’s lips and tongue, her whole body trembling as the orgasm tore through her. She collapsed onto Sam’s chest, gasping, and Sam kissed her softly, holding her close until the shudders faded.

Then it was Sam’s turn, and Liesa, never one to rest, slid down between Sam’s legs again and finished her off with quick, clever fingers and a tongue that moved in exactly the right way. Sam bucked under the touch, hands fisting the sheets, and when she finally came she cried out Liesa’s name, loud and clear.

Afterwards, after Liesa put on underwear to lessen the arousal, they lay together, skin sticky and breath coming fast, the sound of Andy/Andi and Laura’s laughter still echoing from the other side of the wall.

Liesa rolled onto her side and traced a finger along Sam’s arm. “It is like a family, now,” she whispered. “All of us, together, even when we are apart.”

Sam smiled, spent but happy. “Yeah,” she said. “I think that’s exactly what it is.”

They drifted off to sleep, tangled together, while the sounds of love and laughter from the Master bedroom played them a lullaby.

In the hush that followed, the room felt as if it had inhaled and then forgotten to let go. Laura’s bodies, limp and sated, were draped on either side of Andy and Andi, their hair tangled together across his chest and shoulders. For a few perfect seconds, nobody moved—not even to shift a leg or scratch a nose. The only sound was the distant, rhythmic breathing of Sam and Liesa through the thin hotel walls, a gentle counterpoint to the chaos that had just taken place in here.

Andy became aware, gradually, that both his bodies were still present, still alive in the world. It was a strange sensation, like being two notes played in perfect harmony, and he found he could feel Laura’s heart beating against each body’s arms at once, a double thrum that resonated somewhere deeper than muscle or bone.

He reached for Laura with one hand, then the other, and she grinned, both faces turned up to look at him in the dark. She traced his cheek with her right hand, ran her left along Andi’s collarbone, as if verifying that both were really, truly here.

“You don’t have to stay split if it’s weird,” Laura whispered.

Andi smiled, shaking her head. “It’s not weird. But it does feel better when I’m one.”

“Show me?” Laura asked, her eyes wide.

So Andy let it happen. He exhaled, and the two selves drifted together—an easy, painless fusion, like the twining of two river currents back into one. His voice, when it returned, was a little hoarse but steady. “There,” he said, and the word seemed to settle the air.

Laura beamed. She stretched her arms, gathering both of her bodies on either side of him, pulling them in until she was practically wrapped around him like a living cocoon. “That’s better,” she murmured, both voices layered but soft. “Feels right.”

They lay like that for a long time, the salt-crisped sheets cooling under their skin, the world beyond the bedroom reduced to a gentle blur. Andy let himself relax, not thinking about what would come next or who might be listening, just breathing in the miracle of having Laura alive and doubled in his arms.

Eventually, Laura’s left body started to hum—a song Andy didn’t recognize, but one that felt like a lullaby from another world. The right body played with his hair, absently twirling it between her fingers.

Andy didn’t want to ruin it with words, but he felt a need to ask. “Are you… happy?” he said.

Laura blinked. “I think so,” she said. “It’s hard to believe I ever wasn’t, now.”

He kissed her forehead, one body, then the other. “You can always tell me if you’re not.”

She nodded, and in perfect stereo, said, “You too.”

They drifted, half-awake, half-dreaming, until Laura’s right body rolled onto her back and gazed at the ceiling. “You know what I want?” she said.

Andy smiled. “Tell me.”

“I want to do this again,” she said. “A lot. But also, I want to see the rest of the world. I want to have a family. I want to watch you get old.” She paused. “I want to be here long enough that I get tired of you.”

Andy laughed, and so did both Lauras. The sound echoed, bright and full.

“Is that weird?” Laura asked, suddenly shy.

Andy shook his head. “It’s perfect. But you may be in for the long haul. A side effect of the Achievements is that we’ll all live at least a millennium, I think.”

Laura’s eyes went wide, then narrowed in suspicion. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” Andy grinned, “Arabella’s word on it.”

“God,” Laura said, “you’re telling me I should expect a thousand years of… this?” She gestured to his body, and he nodded. Laura’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, woe is me. However will I cope?”

They made love one more time, slower this time, with the patience of people who knew they’d have years to do it again. Andy lost himself in the feeling of two pairs of hands, two mouths, the way both Lauras moaned his name and shivered under his touch. There was no hurry, no need to impress—just the simple, fierce joy of being alive and together.

Eventually, the Suite remembered it was night. The aftershocks of pleasure and laughter faded to a hush, the walls resuming their ordinary role as keepers of secrets. Beyond the bedroom, the world was silent—no sounds but the hum of the air system and, from the far end of the suite, the gentle, even breathing of Sam and Liesa, long since collapsed together into sleep.

Inside the master bedroom, the light was a silken blue, the moon’s reflection broken by the slow movement of bodies pulling close for warmth. Laura was doubled, as she often was these days when she felt safe, one body curled against Andy’s chest, the other wrapped tight around his back. Between them he was bracketed, cocooned, his own skin humming with the spent electricity of the night. They’d given up on the covers—at some point in the tangle, the sheets had ended up on the floor—but the heat of their bodies was enough.

Andy could still feel the ghost of Andi, a memory that lived in his muscles, the way her arms had moved, the way her laugh caught in the throat. But now he was only Andy, or at least, the version of himself that made sense to Laura: tall, solid, the chest she remembered from a thousand afternoons of play and a million imagined futures.

The Laura at his front pressed her nose to his sternum, breathing in and out, a steady counterpoint to his own lungs. The Laura at his back dug her knees into his thighs and, when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, pressed her lips to his shoulder, a fleeting touch that lingered after it was gone.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to break the spell.

For a long while, the three of them lay like that, letting the fatigue settle in, letting the adrenaline drain out of their bodies. Andy listened to the silence and thought about how, in all the stories he’d read or been told, this was the part where someone would sit up in bed, light a cigarette, and ruin everything with a clever quip. He wasn’t clever. He just wanted to memorize the moment.

He looked down and found one of Laura’s hands tracing the tendons of his arm, a slow, thoughtful line that paused at the wrist and then started over. Her other hand, from the body at his back, was busy with his hair, twirling it into tiny knots, then letting them fall loose again.

He tried to picture what it must have been like for her—fused into a single perspective for so many years, then suddenly given permission to double, to surround, to belong. In her presence, the room had a kind of gravity. He wondered if she felt it, too.

The two Lauras shifted, almost in sync, and then one of them—he thought it was the right—propped herself on an elbow, gazing down at him. The blue of her eyes was impossible to read in the dark, but he could feel the weight of her attention.

She didn’t speak. She just watched him, waiting.

He reached up, cupped her cheek, let his thumb follow the contour of her jaw. She leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed, and the other Laura pressed in from behind, arms tightening. He felt the shape of them, the difference and the sameness, and was struck by the thought that maybe he had always been waiting for this, too.

He let his hand fall to her neck, then down to her shoulder, and she caught it, fingers tangling with his. She pressed her palm to his chest, then slid it down, slow and deliberate, until her hand rested over his heart. The other Laura mirrored the motion from behind, her hand snaking around his side, meeting its twin at the center.

He swallowed, suddenly aware that every inch of him was alive with sensation, a low, persistent buzz that hadn’t faded since the last round of lovemaking.

Laura’s right body smiled, then bent down and kissed him—not urgently, but with the slow, patient certainty of someone who knew she’d have all the time in the world to do it again. She tasted him, lips parting, tongue gentle, then pulled away just far enough to brush her nose against his.

The left Laura nuzzled the back of his neck, then let her head rest there, breath warm and tickling. She squeezed him, just a little, and he felt her heartbeat through the length of her body, perfectly matched to his own.

He exhaled, a long, slow release, and in that breath he felt every regret, every what-if and could-have-been, leave him. He was here, now, and so was she. Both of her. He wondered if it was possible to feel homesick for a future that hadn’t happened yet.

The Laura at his front slid her hand up, cupping his face. She studied him for a long moment, then spoke—just above a whisper. “Do you want to?” she asked.

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. He nodded.

She rolled on top of him, straddling his hips, her thighs warm and soft against his skin. The other Laura pressed in from behind, her hands tracing his ribs, her mouth against his ear.

It wasn’t urgent this time. There was no race to the finish, no frantic need to consume each other before the clock ran out. It was slower, deeper—a mapping of new territory, a savoring of every possible permutation.

The Laura above him leaned down, her hair falling around their faces in a curtain of black silk. She kissed his eyelids, then the tip of his nose, then the hollow of his throat. She moved down, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint edge of sweat and aftershave, and he felt every inch of it like a confession.

The Laura behind him let her hands roam, exploring the places the other couldn’t reach—his back, his shoulders, the arch of his hips. She pressed herself close, the heat of her body a perfect counterpoint to the cool of the room.

Andy’s hands found the Laura above him, one on her waist, the other splayed over her back. He could feel the tension in her muscles, the way she shivered when he touched her, the way she seemed to relax into his grip.

She guided him inside her, slow at first, and the world collapsed to a single point of contact. The other Laura, pressed to his back, slipped her hand around, finding his chest, then his jaw, then his mouth. She kissed him from behind, her lips hot and demanding, her other hand threading through his hair.

They moved together, a rhythm as old as the river that had nearly taken her from him, as new as the body she now wore. He lost track of who was in front and who was behind; he lost track of which hands were his and which were hers. He only knew that he was loved, and loving, and that nothing had ever felt this real.

When the climax came, it wasn’t explosive. It was a wave, slow and overwhelming, a crest that built and built until it had **** but to break. Both Lauras shuddered, their bodies trembling against his, and Andy felt himself slip under, carried away by the undertow of their joined pleasure.

After, they collapsed together, a knot of arms and legs and tangled hair. The Laura at his front curled into his chest, her head tucked under his chin. The one at his back spooned herself around him, holding him tight, as if afraid he might drift away.

He didn’t. He couldn’t have, even if he wanted to.

For a long time, they just lay there, the only sound the slowing of their breaths, the quiet hush of the world outside. He listened to the twin heartbeats, the way they rose and fell in tandem, and felt the last pieces of himself finally settle into place.

He thought about the past, and how much time he’d spent running from the future, afraid of what might come next. He thought about the people he’d lost, and the ones he’d found, and how every version of himself—every possible Andy and Andi—had led here, to this bed, to this impossible, perfect moment.

He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. He didn’t care.

The Laura at his front stirred, blinked sleepily, and reached up to brush the hair from his face. She kissed him, once, soft and lingering, then let her head fall back to his chest.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she murmured.

He smiled, feeling the words anchor him. “Not a chance.”

The Laura at his back squeezed his waist, the promise of her arms a benediction.

Andy let his eyes close, let himself float. In the darkness, he saw the faces of everyone he loved: Sam and Liesa, asleep just down the hall; Erin, Claire, Dawn, Emi, Chloe, Norah, Marissa, Emily, Myra, even Riley, all of them out there, waiting for the next sunrise. He saw Arabella, somewhere beyond the walls, watching with her wry, secret smile. He saw the future, open and unthreatening, for the first time in his life.

And he saw Laura, doubled and whole, watching over him as he drifted into sleep.