Where the Embers Burn

Andy cut sideways from the rim of the fire, not back into the density of the crowd but down the slope where the sand spilled out flat and the torches were spaced wider, pooling the night in stripes between their warmth. He could see the drinks table from here—impossibly tidy, refilled and restocked every time he glanced over, as if a team of silent ghosts kept it dressed for inspection—but there was only one figure behind it. Sumiku, easy to pick out even at a distance, her small silhouette bracketed by the golds and oranges in the air, every motion as precise as if she were being timed for it.

Except she wasn’t working. He realized, as he closed the gap, that Sumiku wasn’t alone; Dawn was perched on the sand at her left, and Emi a shade closer at her right, both of them laughing quietly over something that lived only in the triangle between their bodies. Sumiku had a cup, the kind of heavy glass they used for the real stuff, held rigid and upright in both of her lower hands. She wasn’t even pouring for anyone. She was just sitting there, letting the conversation go.

Dawn caught his approach first. She didn’t do anything as showy as a wave; she just looked up, caught Andy’s eye, and gave a subtle eyebrow flick in Sumiku’s direction before saying something under her breath to Emi. Emi turned, smiled when she saw Andy, then gently patted Sumiku’s upper arm, as if to warn her that a surprise boss fight was approaching from behind. Dawn and Emi both got up, Dawn brushing the sand from her knees, and with a line about “fetching more wood before the wind picks up,” they peeled off toward the half-lit stack by the path.

Sumiku turned at the motion, her head snapping around at just the right moment to catch Andy as he arrived at the edge of the circle. She fell on her knees in a single, seamless movement, the old bow already half-started before Andy reached out and caught her left wrist. “No,” he said, soft enough that only she could have heard it over the background noise. “Not tonight, or… or ever. Please.”

The touch alone was enough: Sumiku froze for half a second, registering the request if it had rewritten the gravity in her bones, then let herself in a proper kneel beside him. Her wings, usually cinched so flat against her back he almost forgot about them, relaxed a centimeter or two. Andy let go of her wrist and sat down on the sand, cross-legged, taking care not to crowd her out. She watched him, hands folding over the cup until it looked like a shrine.

They didn’t speak right away. The fire was just loud enough to fill the gap, and Andy found himself grateful for it. He didn’t need to perform, here; Sumiku would wait as long as it took. He found a rhythm in watching the glass in her hand—how her top set of fingers tapped a quiet circle against the rim, then stilled every time his gaze landed on them.

After a minute, he said, “I owe you an apology.” He kept it flat, a line drawn out slow. “I thought I’d have more time today, and I didn’t. I should have come to find you, after… this morning.”

Sumiku’s reply was immediate, but not rushed. “This one considers the day a blessing beyond all prior hope,” she said, her voice formal but with a warmth that caught in the center of it. “The Master’s obligations are manifold. To be overlooked in the first day of freedom is to be honored that the Master freed her, not neglected.” She made a tiny bow of her head—just enough to count, not enough to be showy. “If anything, this one is—” She hesitated. “—relieved.”

He looked at her, unsure what to do with the last part. “You’re relieved that I didn’t… what, assign you chores?”

Sumiku made a noise, low and not quite a laugh, but real enough to show. “Amaterasu-no-Ōkami told this one that there is no precedent for a Master who restores a woman from elimination after so long. She said that there is no precedent for that Master to then treat her as if she is owed even more. To not be relieved would be—” Her eyes flickered up, then down. “—unseemly.”

He let himself smile. “It’s a new world. We make it up as we go.”

She considered this, rolled it around, and then a thread of amusement creased her mouth. “This one believes the Master will do well in such a world.” The line was so straight Andy nearly missed the way she said it, not a single tick of irony. “Especially if he can remember to eat.”

The huff of a real laugh caught him off guard. “If I forget, I’m told there’s a new law in the house: the punishment is three extra portions for breakfast.”

Sumiku tilted her head, not understanding at first, and then her whole expression broke open, a real smile lighting her up. The glow in her eyes—always faint, even in the best light—sharpened a full shade brighter. “This one approves of justice.” The phrase was flat, but the smile remained.

Andy’s own smile lasted longer than it should have. He watched her for another breath, then let his own curiosity drift back in. “Where’s your naginata?”

Sumiku blinked, caught by surprise. “It is safe. The Lady Amaterasu-no-Ōkami said she wished this one to match her new sisters in all things.” Sumiku looked down at her hands, then back up, earnest. “This one now possesses an Inventory, the same as the others. It rests there, until needed.”

He thought about that for a second. “Did you name it?”

Sumiku’s answer was so fast it had to be rehearsed. “This one did not, for the weapon came with a name of its own. Hinode-no-Saku.” She pronounced it with care, as if the syllables were too important to rush. “It was a gift from Amaterasu-no-Ōkami herself. This one is not worthy, but—” she paused, not quite bashful, “—she wields it with gratitude.” Her hands, unconsciously, went to her lap, folding over each other. “This one… missed it.”

Andy didn’t say anything for a while. The weight of it—not the weapon, but what it meant to her—settled in a way that didn’t need words. He wondered, for a second, what it felt like to lose the one thing that made you yourself, then get it back after centuries. Maybe it was a kind of homecoming.

“What did you do with your day?” he asked, softer now.

Sumiku traced the rim of the glass, her voice going introspective. “The first part was simple. Dawn-san and Emi-san offered to show this one the proper way of a group meal. To sit at the table and be waited on was… strange.” She hesitated, then looked up, searching his face for something. “Not unpleasant. But strange.” She watched him for a reaction, then went on: “This one tried very hard not to spill anything, or to offer help, but was told repeatedly it was against the rules.”

Andy could see it, her hands twitching every time someone set a plate in front of her. “Did you hate it?”

“No,” she said, quiet but certain. “It felt like a festival, or a holiday, even though there was no calendar to mark it.” She sipped, then added, “This one suspects she will get used to it, if allowed to remain.”

He nodded. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Sumiku smiled, a flicker of disbelief, and Andy wondered how long it would take before she believed it for real. “Thank you, Master.”

They watched the fire together for a few seconds, comfortable.

Sumiku spoke first this time. “This one is also grateful for the time with Katherine-san.” The words were careful, as if she was weighing each one for value before giving it away. “She was the first to say welcome, after you.”

Andy felt something in him loosen. “She likes you,” he said, and could hear how strange that sounded even as he said it.

Sumiku nodded, certain. “She is… very alive.” Her tone made it a compliment, somehow.

He laughed. “She really is.”

Sumiku hesitated, then tried, “Is it true, then? That she is also not in danger anymore?”

He watched the fire, then looked at her. “I found out for sure only about an hour ago. I think… yes. The jam held. She’s here to stay.”

Sumiku’s relief was palpable, her wings flexing again behind her. “This one is glad. She deserves it.”

Andy looked at her, and wondered what it felt like to watch people come and go for three centuries, powerless to change it. He didn’t know how to ask, so he just let the thought sit.

Sumiku broke the silence first. “How many more sisters remain for this one to meet?” The word “sisters” came out a little awkward, but Andy could tell she was trying to use the right one.

He counted in his head. “Ten, unless you met more during the bachelorette. Including—” he hesitated, then added, “Laura, the woman who looks like a miracle.”

Sumiku absorbed the names, then said, “This one looks forward to the next day, then.” She didn’t ask about the miracle.

He smiled, then tilted his head. “If you could try anything now, what would you want to do?”

Sumiku didn’t answer right away. The question, real and direct, seemed to catch her off guard. She stared at her hands, then at the fire, then at him.

Finally: “This one would like to see what else is in the world.”

It was simple, unguarded. Andy let the words echo, then nodded. “We’ll do that,” he said. “Anything you want.”

Sumiku looked down, her fingers turning the glass once in her hands, and he could tell the words meant more than she wanted to show.

The next question was hers: “Do you wish this one to fight, tomorrow?” Her tone didn’t shift, but the words landed heavy, and for the first time Andy remembered how much of the morning had been about fighting—her promise to protect, to defend the new sisters, to pay the price of being brought back.

He shook his head. “You don’t owe anybody anything tomorrow. You’re not here to earn a place. You already have one.”

Sumiku didn’t argue—she didn’t even nod. She just looked at Andy with the solemn, unreadable grace of someone who’d never heard the idea before but already agreed with it. For a second, he saw what the Arabella must have seen in her, before the world had bent her out of shape: this was a person whose sense of duty didn’t hinge on threat or reward, who could absorb any logic of the world and then make it her own.

The first time she’d ever spoken to him, back in the Hall of Curiosities, she’d promised to stand and protect the other women in the harem, even though he had not asked her to do so.

He let the silence stretch, watching the way her hands moved—how her fingers adjusted around the cup, how her lower arms braced against her thighs, how she never once leaned away from him but never crowded in, either. Her wings, though, were different: the longer they sat, the more they eased out, just a shade, a sign of relaxation he only noticed because it wasn’t there at first.

Sumiku broke the quiet with a question that cut right to it. “Will the Master be fighting as well?”

Andy nodded. “No matter what.” He looked at the fire, then at her. “But you really don’t have to, you know.”

The next answer came out in one clean line, as if she’d been waiting for the chance to say it: “This one will not watch her sisters fall.” She didn’t shout it, didn’t raise her voice. It was just the truth, aired and left to cool.

He wanted to say something else—something that would give her permission not to be a weapon for a world that had used her up once already—but he couldn’t find the right words. He just nodded, once, and they both let it sit.

Sumiku considered him for a long moment, then asked, plain and unhurried: “Does it trouble the Master, that this one cannot refuse him? That whatever he commands, truly commands, she has no power to say no?”

He didn’t look away from her. “Yeah,” he said. “It does.” She nodded once, as if that were the only acceptable answer, and said nothing more about it.

He tried a different angle: “Do you have a favorite thing, from today?”

Sumiku considered, her head tipping slightly as if she needed to check every minute for one that was better than the rest. “The swimming, perhaps. Katherine-san suggested it.” Her eyes went brighter as she remembered, and she added, “This one did not remember the weight of wet hair could be so pleasing.”

Andy smiled, picturing it: the dragon girl in the water, hair plastered down her back, grinning in the moonlight like a kid on summer break. “It suits you,” he said.

She accepted the compliment with a tiny, formal bow of the head, but her eyes said more. “Thank you, Master.”

He tried again: “You know you can call me Andy, right?”

Sumiku’s answer was as certain as gravity. “This one is unable. It is not permitted by her transformation. She apologizes for the inconvenience.” Her words were careful, gentle. “It does not trouble this one. She has known worse.”

He felt himself tense at the reminder. “I’ll try to get it fixed, if you want.”

She shook her head, fast. “No. This one would rather keep it, if it pleases the Master.” She hesitated, then, almost bashful: “It is not a burden to remember who has given her a life again.”

He watched her, not sure what to say. In another world, another time, maybe he could have reached across the divide and just touched her hand, but here—now—he settled for letting the silence work in her favor.

She broke it, gentle: “What is the Master’s favorite thing, from today?”

He tried to think, but the question hit something he wasn’t ready for, and he found himself laughing, soft and a little helpless. “Honestly? Just… having everybody here. All together, even if it’s messy.” He didn’t say why it was his favorite, or how it helped with what was coming the next day—he let her fill that in.

She watched him with the same gentle patience, then said, “It is a rare thing, to have so many who care.”

Andy’s heart did a strange, tight thing. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

They sat together, not speaking, until the fire drew itself up for a breath and two shadows broke off from the woodpile up the hill: Dawn, balancing an armload of driftwood, and Emi, trailing behind with a bundle of kindling in her upper right and a bottle of something in her left. Both of them glanced over at Andy and Sumiku, Dawn smiling sly, Emi open and soft as always.

Dawn didn’t say a word—she just raised an eyebrow at Andy, as if to ask, you good? He nodded, and she nodded back.

Sumiku didn’t stand, didn’t bow again. She watched them pass, then folded her lower hands in her lap and sipped her drink.

Andy waited until the moment passed, then got up from the sand, brushing it from his palms. Before he left, he pressed his hand gently to Sumiku’s shoulder—a gesture that startled her, but didn’t scare her. “If you need anything,” he said, “come get me.”

Sumiku bowed her head. Then, just before he could step away, her voice came again, quieter than before: “Master.” He turned. She was looking at her cup, not at him, her lower hands folded around it. “After tomorrow—when the fighting is done—this one would ask for some of the Master’s time. If it is not too much.” She paused. “This one does not yet know him well. She would like to.”

He looked at her for a moment, the fire small and steady between them. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that too.”

She nodded once, and said nothing else.

He walked back toward the main fire, the noise and the laughter, and left Sumiku there at the edge, her wings soft and loose, a cup in her hands and nothing else.

---

He found Katherine at the rim of the fire, standing a half-step outside the main crush of chairs. The light played along her hair, the black glossy in the fire, her whole posture perfect in the kind of stillness only she could manage. Andy angled his body so she’d see him approach, then touched her shoulder in a soft, deliberate way—like he was asking permission. She didn’t flinch. Instead, her eyes darted up to his, then flicked out past the circle, down the slope toward the dark.

He followed the look. She wanted out, at least for a while.

He led, careful not to outpace her, until the sand dropped away toward the edge of the waterline, a strip of cold black glass running between the sky and the world. There was a second fire down here, much smaller, more a lamp set into the driftwood than a true pyre. It was set up a dozen feet from the actual sea, and only one person sat by it.

Eden was impossible to miss, even with her back turned. The sweep of midnight hair, the cocktail dress catching the gold from the flames, the way her whole body leaned into the wind, as if she dared the cold to make her flinch. Her legs, folded beneath her, were bare but for the impossible six-inch shoes; she made them work, somehow, even in sand.

She looked over as they came. No arms—nothing to reach for them with—but her whole posture said I see you. Katherine closed the last steps herself, stopping behind the log Eden sat on, hugging her and pressing her forehead gently to the curve of her sister’s shoulder. For a moment, nothing else in the world moved.

Eden breathed out, a long sigh, and let Katherine’s presence in. She tilted her head until her cheek lay against the crown of Katherine’s, then held there, a single, perfect touch.

Andy waited, giving them time, but when Katherine straightened and stepped aside, he knelt down so his eyes were on level with Eden’s. “Can I talk to you?” he said, voice soft.

Eden’s eyes were huge in the half-light, their color impossible to name. She nodded once, a sharp, not-quite-wary movement, and angled her body so she faced him head-on.

Andy drew in a long breath. “Weeks back, you told me you would want to join the harem, just not yet. And at the panel, yesterday, I was asked who I would add to the harem, and I said you. I don’t want you to feel like this is an obligation. You don’t have to. You can just… come back with us, no strings attached, if you prefer. So I wanted to ask you again, tonight, with no one watching and no pressure.” He let it hang. “Do you still want that?”

Eden’s response was sharp: her chin jerked up, and the weight of her body shifted. She narrowed her eyes, then—somehow—managed to make a single, armless gesture that said, you’re kidding me, right?

She didn’t need arms to gesture, he realized. Her whole upper body was one clean arc of skepticism.

Andy tried again. “It isn’t like last time. Or the time before. You’re not being asked to bind yourself to anything. If you want to keep working in the Hollow Garden, you can. I don’t expect you to be tied to me, or anyone, if you don’t want. It’s not… about service. Or obligation. It’s just family, if you want it. No strings.”

Eden processed this. She let her breath out, slow, then turned her face so the wind could get at it—like she was searching the air for hidden terms.

Katherine circled to her side, resting her hand at the nape of Eden’s neck. The pressure was light but constant, a reminder she was there.

Eden rocked forward, her whole body in motion. Her eyes flicked from Andy to Katherine, and back again, then she rolled her head, slow, before returning to Andy.

He nodded. “That’s it.”

She held his gaze, perfectly still, for a count of five. Then she leaned in, closing the gap so their knees nearly touched. She pressed her forehead to his, not hard, but enough to make the heat from her skin pass between them. She didn’t blink. She just held him there, then, when she was ready, turned her face so her hair draped over his head and Katherine’s shoulder at the same time.

Andy smiled. “That’s a yes?”

Eden nodded, one sharp dip.

He sat back on his heels. “Do you want to just come back with us? Or do you want me to formally add you to the harem?”

Eden’s lips made a wry, sideways shape. She looked up at Katherine, who made a little squeeze at the back of her neck, then back to Andy. She leaned hard to her left, her shoulder coming up almost like a shrug, but the tilt of her body and the look in her eyes said it clear as language: yes, she wanted to belong.

Katherine’s hand slid from Eden’s neck to her shoulder, fingers tight. For a second, Andy thought he saw her trembling, but then realized it was the wind, or maybe just the weight of the moment.

Andy reached for his watch, already open to the harem interface. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Once I do this, you’re stuck with us.”

Eden’s mouth went wide in a silent laugh, the kind that needed no sound at all. She bobbed her head, faster this time.

He tapped the smartwatch screen, found her entry, and made the change.

Eden’s body went rigid for a second. Then she exhaled, long and shuddery, and looked at him with something softer than before. “Does it feel different?” he asked.

She shook her head, no. But her eyes said yes.

She moved in, fast, and kissed him. It was clumsy—the shoes, the balance—but she did it anyway, and for a second, he caught a whiff of her perfume. Katherine hugged them both at once, her hair curtaining around them, and Andy put his arms around both, just to hold the moment.

They sat like that, the three of them, until the sound from the fire changed—a new beat, a voice above the rest. Andy broke the circle first. “We should go back,” he said, voice husky. He helped Eden to her feet, and Katherine steadied her from the other side. Eden almost fell in the sand, but Andy caught her at the waist, and together the three of them moved back up the beach, toward the main event.

It wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t even loud. But as they walked, the light from the fires caught the edge of Eden’s face, and Andy saw she was smiling, a real one, not for the crowd, not for him—just for the fact that she’d said yes, this time.

---

Erin had long ago given up on the idea of blending in. She’d started the night among the chairs near the fire, then drifted out until the noise of it was something she could tune out, not a current she had to swim. The sand back here was cold, but her skin didn’t mind, and the old driftwood log she’d claimed as a seat fit her shape as if it had been grown for the purpose. The tea in her hand was cold, or it had been, but she’d stopped sipping it at least an hour ago.

She noticed Cammy before she heard her. The other woman was built for quiet, all low centers and padded tread, but the way she carved her path through the dark was less stealth, more confidence that wherever she landed, she belonged. Cammy flopped onto the sand beside the log, balancing a plate of leftover finger food in one hand, and dropped the whole thing in the narrow patch of light like she was challenging the sun to object.

“Felix is enjoying wearing pants,” Cammy said by way of greeting, her voice pitched up so it’d cut through the night but not reach the main circle. “Had to get the others to agree to it.” She gave Erin a sly look, then picked up a grape tomato and popped it into her mouth.

Erin cracked a smile, dry and fast. “Let me guess. He couldn’t wait to put them on?”

Cammy snorted, then, not to be outdone, fired back: “If you’re in a room where a vote can get you naked, you have to learn to take your victories.” She licked her fingers, then added, “I was rooting for him. No way is my boyfriend showing off in front of that many people.”

Erin raised her glass. “You’re already a winner.”

They sat, picking at the plate and trading small, sharp observations about the party. Neither bothered to say what they were really doing—watching the shifting alignments, keeping score of who was sitting with who, which pairs held through the night and which collapsed under the weight of free booze and less free time. It was a spectator sport, and Erin was good at it. Cammy, though, played on a different level.

After a lull, Cammy fixed her with a look that was all directness, no irony. “You know, you’re the least self-conscious woman here. Even with the skin.” She said it like it was a fact of chemistry, not a compliment.

Erin shrugged, a little. “Modesty is a hard sell when you’re basically a photosynthetic strip show.”

Cammy grinned. “You could still wear a hat.”

Erin did not dignify the suggestion with a smile, but she let her chin rest on her palm, tilting it so the faint glow from the bonfire caught the pale green of her skin. “Sure,” she said, “if I want to be mistaken for garnish.”

Cammy grinned. “With your luck, someone would try to eat you. It would be tragic. You’re way above average, by the way. Even with the—” she waved a hand, “—experimental botany thing.”

Erin’s lips twitched. “Thanks. My self-esteem was in a bad place until you showed up.”

Cammy leaned back on her elbows, angling her face toward the sky. “I’m just saying, you’re not hiding from anyone. Some of these girls spend all night adjusting their dresses like it’ll matter tomorrow, but you don’t even blink. I like that.” She looked over, honest. “No drama, no games.”

Erin shrugged, a gesture that moved up through her neck and into her shoulders, the faintest ripple of leaf-green under the firelight. “It’s not bravery. It’s just easier than pretending. I could take a note from your playbook, though. You look like you’ve been doing this since the dawn of time.”

Cammy grinned, taking it as a win. “You do pick it up fast when you’re always the odd one out.” She hesitated, then, voice going a notch lower. “Was it always like that for you, or just after the… change?”

Erin considered, then said, “I’ve always been a little weird. Now I’m just… more so.” She let the line sit, then, because it wasn’t the real question.

Cammy saw it, too. She watched the fire for a moment, then said, “You know, I saw you watching them earlier.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the fire, toward the loose tangle of chairs where Andy sat not far from Laura’s doubled form. “You fine with that, or is it just what you tell people?”

Erin’s posture shifted, just a shade more rigid. “It’s what I tell people because it’s what’s true.” The words came out flat, precise, the way she said them in meetings when she wanted to end the conversation.

Cammy didn’t challenge it. She just nodded, then bumped her shoulder gently into Erin’s. “Okay,” she said. “If you want, I can take the next watch. That way you’re not the only one keeping tabs on who’s getting cozy with who tonight.”

Erin’s eyes flicked over, surprised, and for the first time since the start of the conversation she actually looked at Cammy, not through her. “You sure you can handle the workload? Looks like you’ve got your hands full already.” She gestured at the plate, at the grape tomatoes lined up like dominoes.

Cammy smirked. “Don’t worry, I multitask.” She paused, then, with a careful kind of curiosity, asked, “You ever get sick of being the grounded one?”

Erin thought about it. “Not really. It’s better than being the one everyone has to rescue.”

Cammy nodded, thoughtful. “I get that.”

They let the quiet stretch out again, not awkward, just easy. It was a relief, in a way, to sit beside someone who didn’t need a dozen words to make the point.

A sudden spike of noise came from the drinks table—a laugh, louder than the others, followed by Herman’s voice booming out, “All right, everybody, eyes this way! I have an announcement, and it’s not about the whiskey shortage.”

Cammy shot upright, then onto her knees in the sand, craning to see over the crowd. Erin turned, too, but stayed put on her log, head tilted just enough to catch the next words.

---

Felix kept to the outermost radius of the fire, just far enough that nobody would draw him in by accident. He liked the edge—the air less cooked, the talk more scattershot, easier to drift in or out with nobody watching.

He spent most of his time watching the people who did belong in the center, anyway. He watched the way Cammy flopped down beside Erin and how the two of them didn’t even bother pretending they weren’t keeping tabs on the whole party, as if it was their job to audit the fun for anyone getting off-script. He watched the blue-haired Sam, who had a kind of magnetic pull over every seat she landed in, never alone for more than thirty seconds before somebody found a way to wedge in next to her. He watched Andy—sometimes talking, sometimes quiet, but always in the middle of a knot of voices.

But mostly, he watched for her.

When Riley finally broke away from the crush around the drinks table, it took him a second to register her. She looked so different from the tape—none of the feral fire, no edge to her mouth. He might have missed her entirely.

Now she just looked tired in the kind of way that didn’t fade with a good night’s sleep. She carried herself easy, no sign of nerves, and the set of her jaw said she’d come to terms with whatever the last months had thrown at her.

Felix spent a solid three minutes working up to it. He started twice, both times stopping short when he realized he was about to blurt her name in front of a group she was laughing with, like an idiot. He paced the line of the fire once, found her again standing alone, and finally—when the third chance came—he cut the gap and just went for it.

“Riley,” he said.

She turned and looked at him full in the face. He’d never been on the receiving end of that before; it felt like getting caught cheating at cards by a blackjack dealer who’d seen every move in the book.

He hesitated, the intro half-loaded in his mouth. “I’m—”

She smiled, small and lopsided. “Felix. Yeah, I know. You’re taller than I pictured.”

He blinked, then let out a laugh, a real one. “You too,” he said, even though she wasn’t. “Uh. Sorry, is this weird? I mean—” He tried for a second start. “I wanted to say thank you for the second letter. The first one, too. But especially the second.”

Riley’s eyes went softer, a little. She didn’t say anything, just let him finish. She had the energy of someone who would wait him out all night, if that’s what it took for him to land the point.

Felix tried to find the rest of the sentence, but it had already run away, so he shrugged and looked at the sand. “It was a good letter,” he said. “I’m not great at this.”

“Most people aren’t,” Riley said, and he could tell she meant it as comfort, not a dig.

He was about to try again when the universe cut him a break: Chloe arrived, cradling a baby in one arm, her other hand free. Felix had read about JJ—he’d read every single word Riley ever wrote about him, including the half-hidden lines that made it clear how much of her world ran through the kid’s tiny veins. But he’d never seen him in the flesh before.

Chloe didn’t pause, didn’t say hi or make it a moment; she just shifted the fussy kid into Riley’s arms like passing a baton, then leaned in and kissed Riley quick on the mouth. “He’s fed. I need both hands for a plate before it’s all gone,” she whispered, and Riley nodded, never breaking stride. “Thank you,” she said. “I got him.” She watched Chloe cut a quick, easy line through the crowd toward the food, then turned back to Felix, the baby settling instantly against her shoulder.

He couldn’t look away from the kid. He was perfect—tiny, adorable, and asleep again inside thirty seconds.

Riley followed his gaze. “He just had his meal,” she said, a note of fondness in her voice Felix had never heard from her before. “It knocks him out cold.”

Felix nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he just watched JJ, feeling the old jealous ache replaced by something he couldn’t quite name. He felt his hand move, a muscle reflex, wanting to reach for the small fist curled under Riley’s chin. He stopped himself, then balled his hands in his pockets.

“You look like you want to hold him,” Riley said. “You can, if you want.”

Felix shook his head. “Not ready for that kind of power,” he said, and it was the first time he made a joke in her presence that didn’t land wrong.

Riley let it ride. “He won’t remember,” she said. “But I will.” She glanced over at Chloe, then back at Felix. “The second letter was for you. But it was for me, too.”

Felix didn’t get it at first, then he did. “Because you wanted to believe it?”

“Because I had to,” Riley said. “It wasn’t just your season. It was the fact that you gave a damn enough to ask.”

He nodded, not trusting words.

She bounced the kid a little, then went on, “The anger is the thing. You know that, right? It’s the only thing they can’t take from you. But if you hold it too long, you get stuck. You lose yourself, or you break somebody else.” She said it flat, the way only she could, no pity in it.

Felix winced, his mind a million miles away for a moment, then risked a look at her face. “You seem… better,” he said, and he meant it.

Riley’s mouth turned up a little, not quite a smile. “I am.” She didn’t say the rest: I hope you will be, too. It was there in the way she glanced down at JJ, then back up at Felix.

Her eyes followed his for half a second—out past his shoulder, to where Cammy was holding court near the drinks table, gesturing with a grape tomato. Riley didn’t say anything about it, didn’t ask. “For what it’s worth,” she said instead, “everything I told you about the anger still stands. I’m not walking that back.” She gave him a quick smile. “Now sit down before somebody votes on it,” she said.

He did. He found a seat on the edge of a driftwood bench, the sand already warm from a dozen other bodies. The firelight caught his skin, his bare chest; he’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing a shirt, but it didn’t matter now. He looked at Riley, and for the first time since he’d walked up, he didn’t feel like he had to explain himself.

The baby slept, and the fire burned, and for the first time in a long time, Felix felt like he was part of it.

---

Norah could always tell when something was actually happening, and not just happening. The real noise was never at the center of the room, but at the edge, right where the crowd thickened into something with purpose. That was where she found herself now, half a drink in hand, working the perimeter until she heard the laughter swell, then braced her shoulder through a gap to see what all the fuss was about.

It was an arm-wrestling contest, or something like it—two of the Hotel’s bulkier exports squared off over a driftwood plank balanced between barrels, knuckles already whitening from the grip. One of them was Mark Garret, which made the other a sure thing; she’d read enough of the season recaps to know what the guy could do. But the other, the woman, was something else—she’d gone full beast mode, easily topping six and a half feet, thick through the arms and shoulders in a way that made her tank top look like a remnant from another, more optimistic time.

Norah put her chips on the woman before the match even started.

They were already locked in when she got there, every muscle in Mark’s forearm standing out so hard it looked carved. The woman’s face was set in total calm; her only tell was the way she flicked her eyes sideways, taking in the crowd with the lazy confidence of someone about to pull off a minor miracle.

The match nearly went to Mark twice. Both times, Norah caught it—the slight relaxation in his shoulder just as he had her pinned, the almost imperceptible release of pressure that let her recover center. The third time, he didn’t even pretend to fight it. He met her surge with theatrical resistance, his forearm trembling with performative strain before yielding completely. His hand went down in a slow, controlled arc that looked nothing like a real defeat. The crowd lost its mind. Somebody whooped; somebody else pounded the barrel, and Norah found herself grinning at the sheer generosity of the throw, even as she rolled her eyes at the theatrics.

She watched as the woman let the tension out of her frame. Mark, meanwhile, caught his breath, then stood and offered her a handshake, which she took.

Norah recognized a real competitor when she saw one. She called out, “You ever go full Hulk, or do you like making people sweat it out for show?”

The woman turned, caught her in the crowd, and sized her up in one, practiced pass. “Depends on the audience,” she replied, her accent thick enough that a couple of the smaller words came out sideways before the Hotel’s charm caught up. “Some people like a show. Some like to see how close they can get.”

Norah stepped in, offering her own hand. “Norah,” she said, no extra words.

“Tess,” the woman replied. She had a grip like a vice, but didn’t squeeze to prove it.

Norah liked her immediately.They didn’t bother with small talk. Tess let Norah’s hand go but kept her eyes on her, and the crowd started to fracture—some drifting back to the fire, some staying for what looked like a challenge ladder forming around the plank.

Norah could feel the buzz around her, the way the room always changed when two people made a connection worth noticing. Mark Garret, still shaking out his hand, caught her eye and nodded, like a coach pleased with the new recruit. Norah returned the nod, then set her drink down on the nearest barrel, prepping herself for whatever came next.

Tess didn’t waste time. She looked out over the heads, found Kevin Burgmeyer hanging back at the rim, and pointed straight at him. “You,” she said, voice booming out. “Your turn. You’re not leaving without a try.”

Kevin looked like he’d rather get swallowed up by the sand, but the crowd had already noticed the callout and there was no backing down now. He shuffled up, palms out. "I'm not built for this," he said, "but if you need to make a point I'll play along."

Tess just grinned, leaned into the table, and held up a hand. One bicep flexed, showcasing its perfect, clean definition. “If you think you've lost before you've begun, you'll always be right.”

He sat, made a show of rolling up his sleeve, and tried to meet her grip. For a second, Norah thought he might actually snap something in his forearm. Tess’s grip was so massive it looked like she was holding a child’s hand.

The bell (a guy with a beer bottle) sounded, and Kevin pushed with all his might. Tess held, immobile as a wall, for about three seconds, then let her own hand slowly sink. When it was just above the plank it stopped again. Kevin shot the white-haired girl a flat look, which she returned with a feral grin. When he redoubled his efforts, arms trembling with visible strain, her hand slipped one inch deliberate inch at a time until the back of her hand lightly brushed the wood.

The crowd roared again, laughter mixed with cheers mixed, and despite her ‘loss’, Tess wore a broad grin. “See? You had it in you all along.” Kevin, red-faced and sweating, rolled his eyes. He rose, made a production of massaging his right bicep with his left hand, but still sported a smile as he limped away.

“Sandbag!” Norah called at him, loud enough for the rim of the crowd to catch it. “That was a gimme and you know it.”

Tess grinned, teeth bare. She rapped the plank twice, then turned back to Norah. “You’re up.”

Norah considered demurring, but the temptation was too good. She strode over, settled her elbow, and locked in. Tess’s hand was still a little larger, even in normal form, but Norah had always had grip strength like a vise—bouldering, climbing, years of data entry, and enough fury to power a small city. She braced, waited for the start, and tried to play it cool.

The beer bottle sounded. Norah pushed hard, expecting to meet resistance. Instead, she met equal force—not the playful give Tess had shown Kevin, but real tension. Their hands trembled at center plank, neither yielding. Norah saw the strain in Tess’s jaw, the slight widening of her eyes. This wasn’t performance; this was effort.

Norah tried a fake-out—easing off, then jamming in hard. Tess countered perfectly, muscles corded in her forearm. For three full seconds they held dead even, the crowd roaring around them. Then Norah noticed it—the faint tremor in Tess’s grip, the way her breath hitched. She wasn’t cocky; she was fighting not to lose.

In that moment, understanding washed over Norah. This girl who looked eighteen was holding on like her life depended on it. Norah’s pressure eased almost imperceptibly—not surrender, but concession. Tess’s hand drove down to the wood with a soft thud.

The impact sent a jolt up Norah’s arm, a warmth pooling between her legs. She almost missed the laughter rising behind her, too busy watching Tess’s shoulders slump with relief rather than triumph.

Norah covered her surprise with the only weapon she had: her mouth. “You let the Dungeon Master win, but you didn’t even give me a second to breathe. I’m insulted.”

Tess laughed, shaking her head. “You’re not here for charity, are you?”

“Not unless I can deduct it,” Norah shot back, rubbing her wrist.

Tess’s smile never faded. “If you want a rematch, ask. I’ll give you the full treatment next time.”

Norah caught the line in the air, considered it, then grinned. “Careful, you keep making promises like that, and someone will expect you to keep them.”

Tess’s eyes went half-lidded, a slow grin spreading. “Always do.”

They sat side by side, not quite touching, but close enough for Norah to feel the warmth coming off Tess’s skin. Her own heart was still hammering from the match—or maybe from the way Tess held herself, loose and easy even now.

Norah glanced over. “You actually enjoy this?” She gestured at the crowd, the noise, the whole spectacle.

Tess laughed, low and unguarded. “Better than staring at four walls waiting for something to happen.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping but her energy bright. “Out here, with all this noise? Lets me forget I’m supposed to be—”

“Strong,” Norah said softly.

“Something like that.” Tess’s smile didn’t fade. “Mostly I just like winning.”

Norah let out a breath. “Yeah. Winning’s simpler than explaining why you’re losing.”

Tess bumped her shoulder against Norah’s—a quick, friendly nudge. “You ask real questions, you get real answers. Sometimes that’s messier than a fight.”

She stood then, effortless, and tossed a grin over her shoulder. “Next time I won’t go easy.” Then she was moving back toward the bonfire without waiting for a reply.

---

Norah didn’t do parties for long. She’d given it a shot, years ago, and the ratio of effort to reward just never penciled. But the energy tonight was different: less networking, more like someone had detonated a pride parade inside a startup launch, and the shrapnel had all landed in the right hands. Which was how she found herself working the perimeter of the bonfire, three-quarters of a drink in, watching the circuits in the crowd as if the right moment might walk up and punch her in the face.

She was still thrumming from the match with Tess—Tess, who’d gone from built like a tree trunk to built like a gymnast in the span of one flex, who’d swept aside Mark Garret like a minor weather event and left Norah’s hand throbbing, heat pooled in her from palm to core. The humiliation would’ve bugged her except she’d seen the flicker in Tess’s eyes at the moment of victory—a glint that was all anxiety, no gloat. It made her want to go again, which was the problem. She didn’t do well with unfinished business.

It wasn’t just adrenaline. It was a hot, tight ache in her, impossible to shake. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel Tess’s grip, could smell the faint trace of sweat and summer salt in the air. There was no way to burn it off with banter; she’d tried already, and the next round of challengers at the makeshift table didn’t measure up. Stupid transformation. So she ditched the contest and stalked a line down the dark edge of the party, restless and, if she was honest, deeply, physically annoyed.

She was about to loop back when she spotted Andy, mid-slope and unmistakably not with the others. He was flanked by Katherine, and the midnight blue-haired, armless beauty from the underside of the island. They were angled for the fire, walking close but not touching, the night making each of them sharper and less real than in daylight.

Norah stepped in his line of sight, caught his attention, and—without a word—crooked two fingers at him.

She didn’t have to check if he’d seen it; Andy murmured a few words and peeled off from the other two at once, and Katherine, to her credit, read the play before he even moved. Katherine gave Andy’s forearm a squeeze, and nudged her sister in the direction of the fire. The two women drifted away, not looking back, and Andy cut a line toward Norah, his face open and wary all at once.

She didn’t give him a chance to talk, just caught his wrist, pulled him off the packed sand and up into the loose, dry stuff behind the nearest dune. Out of the firelight, out of every line of sight. They stopped only when the noise faded to the low, echoing hush of their own footsteps.

Andy didn’t say anything at first. Neither did she. Norah pushed him back against the slope of sand, gripped the front of his shirt with both hands, and kissed him. Hard. She felt the instant he started to respond—the moment when his lips parted, when his body flexed under her hands—and she liked that it took him only half a second to keep up.

When she broke the kiss, it was only long enough to get his attention. “You alright?” he said, low, voice rough with the air.

She kissed him again, one hand in his hair, the other at his waist. She didn’t bother answering yet. She could feel how tightly he held himself, how badly he needed a reason to let go. Norah unbuckled his belt, quick and efficient, and only then did she stop, looking up at him.

“I just lost an arm-wrestling match to a woman whose biceps have their own weather system,” she said, flat, but the edge in her voice was all heat. “I can’t burn it off unless I actually burn it off, and you look like you need the same thing.”

Andy opened his mouth, about to make a joke or a protest, but Norah slid her hand into his pants, finding him already half hard. She gave him a look—barely a smile, but honest—and then hiked her dress up around her hips, the motion both practiced and impatient.

She grabbed his hand, shoved it between her legs. There was no underwear; she was wet, and she didn’t care if he noticed the tremor in her thighs when his fingers pressed into her. He ran his thumb along the seam of her, then two fingers in, and she gasped, not soft, not gentle, just a sharp noise like she’d been holding her breath all day and could finally let it out.

He pushed his hand up into her, using his body to pin her against the slope of the dune. Norah shuddered, her hips grinding against his palm. She hooked her leg up around his hip, got a better angle, and then—when she couldn’t take the edge of it—reached down and pulled him out, lined him up, and dragged him into her in a single, unhurried stroke.

The first thrust was all business, no poetry. He filled her up, the stretch perfect, exactly what her body had needed since the match. She tightened her legs around him, nails digging into his shoulder through the cotton of his shirt, and rocked her hips to pull him deeper.

Andy moved with her, kissing her throat instead of her mouth, muffling his own sounds in her hair. He was already close—she could feel the way his whole body shook with the need of it, could tell he’d been holding out for her to set the pace. Norah didn’t want slow. She didn’t want worship or build-up. She wanted to fuck, and he was smart enough to read it without a single word.

He drove into her, not punishing, just deliberate, until the friction tipped her over. She bit down on his shoulder, her whole body locking tight, and came hard—fast and hot, not caring that the sound escaped her. Andy fucked her through it, pace never faltering, until he followed right behind her, stifling his own cry against her collarbone, hands clenched in the fabric of her dress.

For a second neither of them moved, breath tangled, the world reduced to their skin and the hot, sweet ache of being fucked all the way through. Then he eased her down, steadying her when her legs threatened to give out.

Norah straightened her dress, watching him re-buckle his belt with fingers that trembled a little. She could see there was still something heavy behind his eyes, a knot of worry that the sex hadn’t touched. She didn’t bother asking. Instead, she reached up, caught the back of his neck, and pulled his forehead to hers.

“You don’t have to have the answer tomorrow,” she said, voice low and plain. “You just have to keep doing what you’ve been good at. You’re not carrying it by yourself.”

He shook his head. “If you think I know what I’m doing—”

She cut him off with a laugh, then softened. “I know you don’t. But neither does anyone else.” She pressed in closer, their noses almost touching. “Sam and I, we have Laura handled. No matter what tomorrow brings, that’s our problem, not yours. Got it?”

Andy made a sound—almost a laugh, but not quite. Norah watched the tension run out of his jaw, the line of his shoulders softening.

She went on, quieter now: “I used to think Istanbul was going to be it, you know? The place where I’d finally feel like I belonged.” She didn’t look at him as she said it, eyes drifting toward the dark above the dune. “It did, actually. The city delivered. It’s my city now. But turns out home isn’t a place, or even a language. Home’s a job. And if you’re really lucky, it’s an idiot who can’t stay out of his own head, and the rest of the ridiculous family that comes with him.” She let herself smile, genuinely. “You’re it, Andy. And you’d better get used to it, because you’re not allowed to run anymore.”

He laughed for real, deep and helpless, and Norah grinned—mission accomplished. She gave his shoulder a final shove, then pointed down the slope, toward the crash and thump of voices around the main fire.

“Go,” she said. “Make friends.”

She stayed on the dune for a while after he left, enjoying the way the wind pulled the last of the sweat off her skin and the faint, fading ache that meant she’d taken what she needed. She watched him go, watched him step back into the light, and felt the thing inside her settle, warm and clean.

Then she buttoned her jacket, turned her back to the dark, and found her own way to the fire.

---

Marissa preferred the perimeter. From here, the light of the bonfire was warm but never harsh, and the noise of the party faded into something like background radiation. She could watch the crowd without being watched, and the soft heat of the wine in her palm did more to soothe her nerves than any of the forced games or quick-hit stories drifting out of the main crush.

She was alone for exactly thirty seconds before Hazel slid into the empty seat to her left, landing with an easy thump that made the whole log shift beneath them. Hazel’s hair, just a little wild with static and salt, drifted over her shoulder, and the living green of her “dress”—if that was even the right word—shifted to accommodate the new posture, a slow uncurl of leaf and vine that revealed even more skin than Marissa remembered from dinner.

“Can I?” Hazel asked, though she was already sitting, her bare feet tucked up under her and a cup cradled in one hand.

Marissa inclined her head. “You already did.”

Hazel grinned, tilting her chin up. “True, but it makes people feel more comfortable when they think they've given you permission.”

The logic was sound. Marissa smiled, sipping her wine. “No one here would dare.”

Hazel’s gaze flicked to the crowd, then back. “Who’s the best person to eavesdrop on tonight?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m betting on the couple who brought a wedding gift to the pre-wedding and wrapped it in a Target bag. That’s commitment.”

Marissa nearly laughed, but caught herself. “If you want quality, try the new muscles by the drinks table. There’s a whole circuit of arm-wrestling matches going, and it’s already getting physical.”

Hazel whistled, impressed. “If that’s not a metaphor for something, I’ll eat my own leaves.”

A ripple of movement caught Marissa's attention. She looked up and found a young redhead standing a few feet off, cup in hand, looking less like she wanted company and more like she wanted somewhere to sit that wasn't in the middle of everything.

Hazel noticed too, and without hesitation, waved her in with a motion so inviting it would have drawn in a wild animal. “Come on. Plenty of room.”

The redhead came over and sat without much ceremony, leaving a polite inch between herself and Hazel. She stretched her legs toward the fire and let her shoulders drop, and looked at the flames like they were the first thing all day that hadn't wanted something from her.

“Hey,” said Hazel, voice gone gentle. “You okay over there?”

The girl grimaced, a little self-conscious. “I’m running on empty. My Host said to stick close to the Haunted Castle guests, so I’ve been meeting people since this morning.” She looked at the fire. “I’ve met a lot of people.”

Hazel took it in stride. “You’re doing fine. If it helps, I never met most of these people, either.”

“I’m Aife.” The redhead said, in response.

“Marissa.”

“Hazel.” A beat. “Who’d you come with?”

“My Host. Sera.” Aife’s eyes drifted briefly toward the main house. “She’s at the hosts’ reception right now, so.” A small shrug that said the rest.

Marissa turned her cup in her hands. “Did you at least enjoy the bachelorette party?”

Aife considered this with the gravity of someone filing an honest report. “The part before everyone got loud was nice.” Hazel tilted her head. “Just the quiet part?” A pause. “Also the little sandwiches.” Another pause. “Tracy was there for all of it. Tracy doesn’t have a quiet part.”

“Well,” Marissa said, sipping from her cup, “at least you get to relax. That’s what this is for.”

Aife let out a slow breath. “For a while. Then I go back and start getting ready for the first challenge.” She turned her cup without drinking from it. “This morning I read letters from strangers. Tonight I meet strangers. Then we get judged by strangers.”

Hazel winced. “When do you rest?”

“That’s the part nobody scheduled.”

Hazel turned to Marissa, her attention so direct it felt like a hand on her shoulder. “What about you? You’ve been on the bench for most of the party. Why?”

Marissa started with the rehearsed answer: “Old habit. I like to keep an eye on things.” But then she looked at Hazel and, for a split second, saw something in the other woman’s face that made her go off-script. She held the gaze a little longer than she meant to. “Actually, I get nervous. Too much noise, too many moving pieces. It’s easier to be the observer than the main act.”

Hazel took this without ceremony. “That’s a good answer. I like it.”

Marissa felt herself relax. “What about you?”

Hazel shrugged, the vines across her chest rippling in time with the motion. “It's easier to keep an eye on everyone from the periphery. Helps me make sure no one gets too lost.”

Aife looked up. “Not being on the periphery is the part that gets me.” She sank a little further into her own shoulders. “Tracy and her sister have been parading me around since breakfast.”

Hazel turned the full force of her attention on Aife. “See, you belong here. Nobody who says things that true is ever out of place.”

Aife laughed into her hands, one short surprised sound. When she dropped them, her face had gone loose in a way it hadn’t been all evening. “This is weirdly fun.”

“It’s allowed to be,” said Hazel, and the way she said it made Marissa believe it.

They sat together, three very different women united by the fire and the fact that none of them had to be anything other than what they were. The noise from the rest of the party faded to a pleasant buzz, and the log felt like a small island of truth, bobbing just out of reach of the storm.

Hazel raised her cup. “To the bench,” she said. “And to not needing to win the party to enjoy it.”

Marissa and Aife touched their cups to hers. They drank, and let the moment last until a sharp call came from the drinks table—Herman’s voice, booming out for all to hear. “All right, everybody, eyes this way! I have an announcement, and it’s not about the whiskey shortage.”