Riley's Night (III)

The elevator opened into the Suite with its usual stately glide, and for once, Andy and Riley both hesitated before stepping out. The air inside the car was thick with the aftermath of Riley’s confessions—her love for Laura, her jealousy, the years of anger untwined and laid bare. Now, with the walk from the dock behind them, it was as if neither quite knew what to do with their hands.

Riley broke first. She strode ahead, boots thudding on the plush carpet, but Andy saw the set of her shoulders: not braced for a fight, but huddled against something heavier. He followed, still not sure if he should say anything, or if the next words should even be his.

He almost didn’t notice the chessboard until he caught a glimpse of Riley’s profile—eyebrow arched, lips twisted in mild disbelief as she stared into the kitchen. Andy turned, and there it was: Laura’s latest prank. A full-sized chess set dominated the marble table, but none of the pieces matched. Every pawn was replaced by a seashell, the kind scavenged from the hotel’s main beach, each one Sharpie’d with a smiley face or a frown. The knights were origami horses folded from hotel napkins, some upright, some already listing toward the abyss. The kings and queens were re-purposed corks from the minibar, impaled with toothpick scepters, and the crowning glory—a lopsided, tinfoil diadem—rested on the black king, glinting beneath the track lights.

A card stuck between the rooks read: Checkmate, if you can find it.

Andy snorted, despite himself. “She really outdid herself,” he said.

Riley hovered in the kitchen entry, half a smile breaking through her shell. “Is this… normal?”

Andy circled the table, hands on his hips, surveying the carnage. “She’s been doing this every day. First it was a pile of shells on the coffee table. Then it was the Swedish Fish in my pillowcase.” He poked a knight. It toppled, spilling two granules of salt from the napkin folds. “But this… this is an escalation.” He reached for the note and flipped it over. On the back, in a hurried scrawl, it said: For Andy: DO NOT LET RILEY CHEAT. The name “Riley” was underlined, and next to it a doodle of a snake with a crown.

Riley hesitated. “You sound almost proud.”

He picked up one of the pawns, inspecting its crudely drawn X-eyed face. “I am.” He set it back down. “We used to do this as kids. She’d prank me, I’d prank her back, and it was never about winning. It was about seeing who could make the other laugh first.” He ran his finger along the grid of the chessboard, tracing the path of the pawns. “I think she does it now to remind me that she’s here. That she’s still herself, even with all of… this.” He gestured to the room, the world, the Suite, as if it could ever contain the thing that was Laura.

Riley leaned in, squinting at the arrangement. “Is it always chess?”

“Nah,” Andy said. “She just knows I’m a sucker for it. She was always better than me. Even at thirteen.”

He grinned, then realized Riley was watching him, her face softer than he’d seen it in days. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Just…” She ran her tongue along her teeth, searching for the word. “I didn’t think anyone could miss someone so much and not be angry about it.”

Andy shrugged. “Angry? Not at Laura. I was angry at the universe, at the river, at myself, but never at her.” He smiled fondly. “But not like I used to.”

He sat at the table, beckoned Riley to do the same. They each picked a side, Andy white, Riley black, and examined the board. It was a midgame position—messy, pawns traded, both queens gone. He looked for the win, knowing Laura would have set it up just so.

“Want to help?” he asked.

Riley slid into the chair opposite. She moved a knight, then a rook, squinting at the pieces as if she could divine Laura’s intent from the shells and scribbles alone.

“Is there always a solution?” she asked.

“Always,” Andy replied. “She hates unsolvable puzzles. If you worked at it, you’d always get there in the end.”

They played through the position, making moves, undoing, starting over. It wasn’t about winning, or even playing well; it was about finding Laura in every bizarre, joyful detail. Her handwriting in the clue, her perfectionism in the color-coding of the squares, her humor in the pawns all drawn with tongue-sticking-out faces, except for one—frowning, with an elaborate crown and a tiny speech bubble saying, ‘Why Me?’

They reached the final move: a rook sliding into position, trapping the black king against the edge of the board. Andy tapped the checkmate in, then noticed something odd. The black king was the only one with a crown, while the white king had none. Andy carefully removed the tiny tinfoil crown from the black king’s piece, squinted, and saw that on the inside, Laura had written ‘window’ in small letters.

He followed the direction with his eyes and spotted a tiny envelope propped against the windowsill, catching the last light of day.

He retrieved it, smiling. Inside, in Laura's spidery print, was a single sentence:

You’re still my favorite, even when you lose. Gotcha.

Andy’s breath caught. He closed his eyes, then shook his head, a rueful smile twisting his lips. He passed the note to Riley.

She read it, her expression flickering between amusement and something softer. “She got you again,” she said, voice husky.

“She always does,” Andy said.

They sat in the hush of the kitchen, the only sound the faint tick of the wall clock and the lap of distant surf against the breakwater. Andy stared at the board, the aftermath of the game, and for a moment he imagined Laura’s laughter echoing through the Suite, bright and unbreakable. He wanted to run downstairs, find her, both of her selves, and bring her back upstairs, hold her, laugh with her, show her how each of her pranks brought happiness. He couldn’t wait to see again tomorrow. He couldn’t wait for their own date night, and he couldn’t wait for the rest of their lives. Despite everything, she was still his Laura.

He glanced at Riley, who was watching him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable.

“What?” he asked again, gentler.

She held his gaze. “You’re really happy, aren’t you?”

He thought about it. The day had started heavy with the egg thing, but here, now, with the echo of Laura’s prank between them and the memory of forgiveness still fresh on the dock, Andy realized he was. Maybe not all the time. Maybe not every day. But enough.

“Yeah,” he said, not needing to elaborate. “I am.”

Riley reached for a pawn, turned it over in her hand, then set it upright again. “She is lucky,” she said quietly, glancing toward the board.

Andy wanted to argue, but didn’t.

They ended up in the kitchen, because Riley wasn’t the kind to sit on a couch and let her thoughts pile up while the wine did its work. Andy hesitated before offering—”You want to decompress? I can pour—”—but Riley cut him off, brisk and determined.

“We can do that,” she said, already unwrapping the cellophane on a tray of raw chicken, like she needed something concrete in her hands. “But first, you’re helping me make something decent out of the food. Otherwise, I’ll just drink a protein shake and hate myself in the morning.”

Andy exhaled and got to work, grateful for the distraction. He’d cooked with nearly all of them by now—Erin’s kitchen intuition, Claire’s methodical precision, Emi’s whimsical commentary, Chloe’s gentle competence—but Riley was something else entirely. She attacked every step with the intensity of a boot-camp drill, like precision mattered less than momentum. She hacked at onions with no regard for her fingertips, tossed garlic cloves into the pan like she was lobbing grenades. Her hands never stopped moving, even when she had no clear destination for them.

It was chaos, but it was hers.

Andy chopped carrots at her direction. Riley threw together a pot of rice, then promptly forgot about it long enough that Andy had to intervene before it turned into charcoal. She tried to make a sauce from scratch (“It’s just fat and flour and milk, right?”), botched it, then laughed once, sharp and breathless, and had to lean against the fridge to keep from sliding to the floor.

She wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Jesus. You’d think I’d have learned this by now. Any of it.”

Andy stirred the sauce, turning the glop into something passable. “What, cooking?”

“Life,” Riley said. “I was the only girl in my first dorm who burned popcorn. Twice. And John—” She stopped herself, then added, “He wasn’t any better.”

Andy shrugged, handing her a tasting spoon. “Did he ever complain?”

She tasted the sauce, grimaced, then shrugged back. “He was worse than me. He’d microwave ramen, eat half, then forget about the other half until it congealed. I think the only reason we didn’t die was because the cafeteria took pity on us.”

She glanced at Andy, a weird look on her face. “Did you ever screw up a dinner for Laura?”

He laughed. “When I was twelve, I nearly set her mother’s stove on fire, trying to make mac and cheese. Ended up with a congealed mass of unidentified globs. She never even had the courage to try it, but told me I had done ‘as good a job as I could do’.”

Riley snorted, relishing the image. “She really was terrible at lying.”

“No,” Andy said, correcting her gently. “She always loved effort, even when it went wrong.”

The kitchen filled with steam and the slow, thick smell of starch and spice. Together they got the meal done—chicken stir-fry, rice, and a salad that Riley over-dressed, but which Andy declared the best he’d had in a while. He meant it, too, because the food didn’t really matter.

They ate at the bar, plates balanced on knees, and the conversation floated back and forth, never staying on one subject for long.

Riley told stories about her students, carefully at first, about the time she caught two girls passing love notes in the back of class and how she’d almost cried when she realized they were just… good kids, not trying to hurt anyone. Andy talked about his uncle’s obsession with origami, how he once got Andy to fold a thousand cranes for a school project. Keeping their hands busy gave the evening its rhythm.

Afterward, they poured wine and retreated to the couch, sitting at opposite ends, the distance between them noticeable.

They watched the resort lights blink on, listened to the muffled rush of the surf and the distant clink of a glass from another room. For a long time, neither spoke. Andy wondered if Riley was letting the night settle, or if she was building up to another truth.

Eventually, she found her voice. “Can I ask you something, without you getting pissed?”

Andy sipped his wine, savoring the slow, dark fruit of it. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Riley didn’t look at him. She stared at the ceiling, wineglass balanced on her belly. “Why are you still so nice to me?”

He frowned, caught off guard by the direction. “You think I’m being nice?”

She shot him a look, half-exasperation, half-sadness. “Don’t play dumb. After everything I said back there. After all the bullshit I pulled, all the stuff I did to you and Laura and—” She waved her hand, as if to clear the air of ghosts. “I get that Laura might forgive me, but you should hate me. Or at least want me gone.”

Andy shook his head, more confused than before. “I don’t.”

Riley pressed on. “Why? Because you feel sorry for me? Or because you think I’m just a sad case, like one of the kids I teach?”

He let the accusation sit, then answered with his own question. “Can I be honest?”

She nodded.

“I don’t resent you for having a crush on Laura, or for not knowing what to do with it. We were all stupid kids. Even now, half of us are still running from the stuff that hurt most. You come from a Catholic family, right?” He said carefully, not waiting for confirmation. “I’m guessing that’s part of why you couldn’t even say it out loud. That, and the fact that Laura was—well. Laura.”

He set his glass down. “It doesn’t change what happened. Or who you are now. If anything, I’m glad you told us.”

Riley picked at a thread on her jeans, thoughtful. “You don’t think I was just being dramatic? Like, I almost wanted to ruin everything?”

Andy leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Do you want my honest read?”

She smiled, brittle but real. “Always.”

“I think, if you really wanted to ruin things, you would’ve done it already. But you didn’t. You came clean. You showed up. And you’re here, now, trying to fix things. That counts.”

He took a breath, then added, “And if I’m being honest, I never actually doubted Laura. Not for a second. I knew what we had, and no matter what anyone else wanted, it wouldn’t have changed that. That’s just how it was.”

Riley watched him for a long beat, then let out a slow, whistling breath. “You love a lot of women, Andy Cooper. What makes her so different?”

He closed his eyes, thinking about how to put it. “She is… my other half. And I don’t mean it in a poetic way. That doesn’t mean I’d leave the others for her, or that I can’t love you, or Chloe, Erin, Claire, Marissa, or even the ones I never thought I’d get close to. But with Laura, it was always—” He struggled, searching for words. “I don’t know. Necessary.”

Riley’s expression softened, all the fight gone. “Is it scary? To love someone that much?”

He turned the question over, then shrugged. “It used to be. I used to fear I would fuck it up. Now…” He smiled faintly. “Our bond brought her back, Riley. It changes what fear looks like.”

She snorted. “This, coming from you? You’re the most anxious guy I know. You’ll triple-check the knots on every parachute.”

He smiled, grateful for the jab. “I’m learning.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. They drank their wine, watched the sky darken, and let the heaviness of the day recede into something almost manageable.

After a while, Riley said, “You know, I always thought bonds like that were bullshit. Soulmates, or whatever. But with you and her, I kind of see it. It’s not perfect, but it’s…” She searched for the word, then shrugged. “Real.”

Andy nodded.

“Thanks,” he said, voice thick.

Riley set her glass down and leaned back, stretching out her legs until her feet touched his thigh. “You ever think it’s unfair?”

He blinked. “What?”

“That you get to have it twice,” she said. “With her, and with the rest of us. That you get to be loved, that much, by so many.”

He considered it, then said, “It’s not about fairness. It just is. But I’m grateful. I will never not be grateful for all of you.”

They finished their wine, the world outside the windows gone soft and blue. Andy felt the old ache, but tonight it was gentle, almost a companion.

After dinner, after wine and words, the hour got late enough that the resort’s lights began to dim behind the windows. Andy cleaned the dishes—Riley insisted, but her version of ‘help’ was mostly drying plates, half-listening and half-lost in thought. Eventually, they ended up back on the couch, but the easy hush of before was gone, replaced by a fragile tension.

They sat in the hush for a while, not side by side but angled—her boots propped on the low glass table, his socked feet tucked under him, the air between them charged with the sense that whatever they said next would stick. A lamp in the corner cast half of Riley’s face in shadow, half in gold, the hard edge of her jaw and the fierce, searching gaze that always made Andy feel like she was measuring him, even when she wasn’t saying a word.

She was the one who broke the quiet.

“You know,” Riley said, her voice low and rough, “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.” She didn’t look over, didn’t even tilt her head, just let the words roll out in a low, sardonic current. “Maybe I should just get it over with and throw it myself.”

Andy considered the possibilities: a confession, a joke, a declaration of war. He tried to sound casual. “You think something’s going to go wrong?”

Riley shrugged, sharp and uneven. “Isn’t that how it works? You have a nice evening, you say the real shit, then the panic sets in.” She eyed her own glass, swirling the dregs. “Or maybe it’s just me.”

He set his wine on the coaster, careful. “I don’t think anything bad is about to happen, unless you want it to.”

She laughed, a bark, quick and self-directed. “You’re a weird guy, Andy Cooper. Most men would have taken the out by now.”

“Not really my style,” he said. “I usually stick around.”

She mulled this over, the line of her mouth ticking slightly upward. “That’s the thing. I think we both know exactly where this goes, but you’re too decent to say it.”

He waited. Riley turned and fixed him with a stare that felt clinical, but not unkind.

“Are you really okay?” she said, her voice quieter, more naked than he’d ever heard it. “After what I told you about Laura? About… all of it?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

She nodded, but Andy could see the hitch in her breathing, the microsecond when she didn’t believe him. He let the silence sit, then added, “You don’t have to trust me right away. Just don’t decide for me.”

She tapped her fingers on the rim of the glass, a nervous Morse code. “You know, when I was on the dock? I kept thinking, this is the part where he tells me he can’t forgive me. That it’s not the version of the story he wants to remember.” She held up a hand before he could reply. “I know it’s not fair, but that’s what I thought.”

He looked at her more carefully than he had all night. The wine had painted her cheeks a deeper red, but the bones of her face—the hollows, the lines around her eyes—were more striking than anything else. She looked like someone who’d finally stopped running but wasn’t sure if the ground beneath her would hold.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

“Shoot,” she said, too fast, but there was no irony in it.

“That night—before the bridge. What would you have done, if Laura had picked you?”

Riley barked a laugh, but there was no **** behind it. “Probably screwed it up. I was thirteen, and a mess. I wanted her so much it hurt, and I was so sure it could never happen that all I could do was try to protect her from everyone else.” She met his eyes, unblinking. “But if she had picked me? I wouldn’t have let her go.”

Andy nodded. “I believe you.”

She looked away, eyes darting to the window. “It’s a stupid question, isn’t it? Because nobody gets to change what happened. We’re all just living in the ruins, hoping nobody notices the holes in the walls.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s stupid at all.”

The hush came back, heavier now, but less hostile.

After a long minute, Riley spoke. “You remember the kiss?” she said. She didn’t clarify which one; they both knew.

Andy felt his own cheeks flush. “Yeah.”

“Does it… I don’t know. Does it still matter?”

He hesitated. “I think about it sometimes.”

Riley let the silence stretch. When she spoke, the air almost vibrated with it. “I think about it, too.” She kept her gaze hard on the ceiling, as if to admit it to the lights rather than to him. “Not just the kiss. All of it. I think about what you’d be like, if you ever really let me in.”

Andy’s mouth went dry. He set down his glass, then mirrored her posture, arms stretched along the top of the couch, trying to look at-ease and not as if he was about to jump out of his own skin.

Riley went on, softer, “You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to. I just…” she trailed off, and for the first time all night, the words seemed to fail her.

He found them for her. “You want to know if this could ever be more than just friends.”

Riley’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Friends with a weird footnote, maybe.” She huffed a laugh, then bit her bottom lip. “But yeah. More than that. Or at least, not just that.”

Andy tried to weigh his next move. “What do you want, Riley? Really.”

She flinched. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to assume. And I don’t want to fuck this up.”

She shifted, pulling her knees up on the couch. “I want you. Not in a—” she waved her hand, dismissive “—dramatic, ‘let’s burn down our lives for a soulmate’ kind of way. Just honestly. For as long as we want.”

He was quiet. Too quiet, apparently.

Riley’s eyes narrowed. “Say it. Say what you’re thinking.”

He did. “I’m scared you might be doing this because of the wish, not for you. Or because you think you have to earn points to deserve what you want.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “So that’s what you think?”

He shrugged, helpless.

She laughed, hard and bitter. “Wow. You really do think I’m ****.”

He started to protest, but she cut him off. “No, let’s just—let’s go there.” She set her glass down and leaned forward, arms braced on her knees, the cords in her neck standing out. “Let me be very clear, asshole. I’m not here because I need to be rescued, or because I want your pity. I want you. Not your charity, not your pity. Just you. And if you can’t handle that, then don’t pretend you can.” She stopped, voice trembling with the effort of not letting it break.

Her hair, loose and wild behind her, began to stir, slow and restless, like kelp in a current. As she got angrier, it crept down her arms, cinching around her wrists, tight and deliberate. Andy froze, not sure if stepping in would make it worse.

“Shit,” she muttered, but the hair only tightened. In seconds, it had wrapped her hands to her thighs, pinning her to the spot, and another long black coil slid around her torso and held her elbows fast. Heat flooded her face. “Fucking perfect,” she spat.

Andy reached for her, but she jerked away, the motion awkward. “Don’t. Just—don’t.”

He sat back, hands up. “I’m not trying to do anything.”

“Yeah? Well, you are.” Her eyes were bright, almost fevered, but she didn’t blink. “You know what sucks about this place? About this whole game? It takes the worst thing about you and makes you live with it, over and over, until you want to crawl out of your own skin. I thought it was my mouth. Or my temper. Turns out it’s this.” She gestured with her chin at the hair, at herself, at everything. “My inability to let shit go, to ever let anyone see me not in control.”

He tried to be gentle. “You don’t have to hold it together right now.”

She laughed, ragged. “Easy for you to say. You’re the one who gets to decide how this goes.” She shook her head as much as she could, hair flexing tighter. “You think you have to fix everyone. You’re so fucking determined to save everyone to make up for what happened to Laura, you can’t even see when someone else just wants to be broken for a while.”

The words landed with a thud. Andy winced, but didn’t interrupt.

Riley’s next words were quieter. “I didn’t come here for the points, Andy. I came because—because I don’t want to die inside, not yet. Because if I have to be stuck in this place, with all my shit on display, I’d rather do it with someone who sees through the act. Even if you think I’m just another case to fix.”

The words hung in the air like wet clothes, impossible to ignore and impossible to wear. Riley kept her eyes on Andy, daring him to contradict her, to offer some neat, forgiving answer that would wrap all her confession in a bow. He let the silence sit.

The hair binding her arms was tight now—tight enough that her hands started to go numb, leaving half-moon indents on her skin. She tried to flex her hands, and the coil around her tightened, pinning her elbows in even closer to her ribs. She tried to wriggle free, and a new loop cinched around her knees, holding her legs to the couch.

She wanted to scream, but she settled for a hiss through gritted teeth. “Fucking hell.”

Andy watched her, not with pity, but with a kind of stubborn, unflinching attention that made her want to spit at him. He didn't reach for her, didn't move to touch the hair or to undo what the game or her own body had wrought.

Instead, he asked, “What do you want me to do?”

The question stung. For a second, Riley almost believed it was a trick—a setup for some smug, paternalistic monologue. But Andy’s face was open, earnest, maybe even afraid.

She tried to sound like she didn’t care. “What I want? I want you to listen, and to not turn this into a fucking therapy session. I want to be able to say the ugly shit and not have it come back at me as a diagnosis. Is that so hard?”

Andy shook his head, slowly. “Okay. Then tell me what you need, right now.”

The tightness in her chest ratcheted up a notch. Her words came out sharper than she intended. “I need to not be tied up like some kind of hostage while we do this, for one.” She glared at him. “But it doesn’t work like that. It’s automatic. When I get like this, it just—” She snapped her head, sending a frizz of hair flying across her eyes. “It knows before I do.”

He let that settle. “Do you hate it?”

She paused, not sure if she did. Not sure if she didn't. “It makes me look weak,” she muttered. “Makes me feel like I’m back in high school, losing my shit in front of a crowd.”

Andy’s mouth twitched at that. “I never thought you were weak.”

The words landed, but Riley shrugged them off. “You don’t get it.”

Andy leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Then tell me. Tell me what I’m missing.”

The room was too warm. Her skin prickled, every nerve ending sparking with embarrassment, humiliation, rage. The argument was supposed to be over by now—this was where she should have stormed out or shut down. But the hair kept her there, and Andy’s presence refused to let her off the hook.

She tried to catch her breath, but all she could do was keep talking, the words bubbling up of their own accord. “You think I’m just flailing, don’t you?” she said, voice raw. “You think I’m just flailing for points, or for attention, or for a reason to feel alive. I know how it looks. I know how I look.”

Andy’s answer was immediate. “I think you want something real. Even if you don’t know what it is yet.”

For some reason, her throat tightened.

She thrashed against the hair again, but it was hopeless; every attempt to move only made it more impossible. Her eyes burned, and she wanted to die rather than let Andy see them.

She jerked her head up, glare fierce. “You wanna know the truth? I hate this place. I hate everything about it. The transformations, the stupid upgrades, the way it turns every feeling into a game. I hate that I can’t just—” She stopped, **** on the words. “I hate that I want you to make it stop, and that I need you, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t.”

There it was, naked. The thing she’d tried to bury under sarcasm and deflection, out in the open for Andy to see.

The tears came then, sudden and uncontrollable, and she was too tired to stop them.

Andy didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He just waited, patient, until the worst of the storm had passed. Then, very slowly, he slid across the couch, careful not to crowd her. Andy waited a second longer. “Can I?” She nodded, barely. He reached for the hair, found the end of a coil, and, as gently as if he were untangling something fragile, began to unwind it.

He didn’t say anything while he worked. Just loosened the hair, loop by loop, until Riley’s arms were free, then her legs. He didn’t try to touch her beyond that.

When she was loose, she brought her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and just breathed for a while. Andy let her.

After a time, she said, “I didn’t mean to lose it like that.”

The words hung between them. Andy didn’t try to rush them away. He just sat there, letting the wine and the shock and the old, raw ache seep out at their own pace. On the couch, Riley pulled her knees tighter to her chest, arms looped around like a makeshift cage. Her hair, slack now, still draped across her wrists and forearms in a matted black web. He could see the marks where the binding had been tightest, faint but distinct.

She kept her head down, eyes fixed on the threadbare pattern of her jeans. “I swear to God, I don’t even realize I’m doing it until I can’t move. It’s like—one second I’m talking, the next I’m trussed up like a hostage.” Her laugh was a hiccup more than a sound. “You’d think after three months I’d have learned to keep my shit together.”

Andy drew a slow breath. “You don’t have to hold it together all the time.”

She looked at him, disbelieving. “Spoken like someone who never had to choose.” She wiped at her face, leaving a streak of mascara on her knuckle. “Sorry.”

He started to say “It’s fine,” but caught himself. She didn’t want fine. “I’m here,” he said instead.

Riley barked out a laugh, eyes still wet. “You are,” she said. “That’s the fucking problem. You don’t bail. Even when I try to drive you off.”

“Was that what you were trying to do?” he asked, not as a challenge but as an invitation.

She hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. I think…” She trailed off, then **** herself to say it. “I think I just wanted to see if you’d finally give up on me. One too many breakdowns and you’d just walk away and let the next person deal with it.”

Andy shook his head. “That’s not how it works, for me.”

Riley picked at the seam on her knee, eyes going distant. “It’s how it’s always worked for me.” She paused, then said, “I meant what I said about the points. I do want the wish—but that’s not why I…” She trailed off, fingers curling into fists. “I’m not here because I want to game the system, Andy. Not tonight.”

He tried to catch her gaze. “I understand.” And he meant it, for once without doubt.

She went still. She let out a slow breath and let her shoulders drop a fraction. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Thanks.”

They let the silence sit, this time not out of anger but because there was nothing urgent left to prove. Andy poured the last of the wine into both glasses, pushed one across the table to her. Riley drank, wiped her nose again, and looked at him through the curtain of her hair.

“I used to think you were kind of a robot,” she said. “Like, nothing could ever faze you. You’d take any punch and just keep smiling.”

Andy snorted. “That’s not true.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I know that now. But you’re better at hiding it. When I lose it, everyone sees. Everyone sees. When you lose it, you just go quiet. You take it on yourself.”

He considered this. “Maybe. But I don’t think that makes me any better.”

“Didn’t say it did,” Riley said, a ghost of her old sharpness flickering back. “But I admire it.” She toyed with her wineglass, tracing the rim. “I’m tired, Andy. Tired of running on anger and caffeine and pretending it doesn’t get to me. Sometimes I just want to let someone else steer, you know?”

He nodded, letting her have the space.

She reached for her hair, pulling it back from her face, and for the first time it was just hair—still long and wild, but not fighting her. She twisted it into a quick, messy bun, then let it fall loose again. She hesitated before doing it, then did it anyway.

After a minute, she said, “When you untied me—just now—it was the first time I didn’t hate being helped.”

Andy didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded, careful.

Riley stared at the floor, then spoke again. “It’s not easy for me to ask. Or to need anything. I spent my whole life being the strong one, the one who never got rattled. Even after John died, I played it off like it was just another day. But inside, I was screaming.” She searched for the word, then shrugged. “I was screaming.”

She let the hush build, then added, “If you want to hate me for how I treated you, or how I treated Laura, I get it. I really do. But I need to know you don’t see me as some basket case you have to fix.”

He set down his glass, leaned forward. “I don’t want to fix you, Riley. I just want to be here for you, the way you were always there for Laura.”

The answer seemed to matter more than she’d expected. Riley’s eyes went shiny again, but this time she didn’t turn away. She let him see.

They sat, no more words left to spend, until the fatigue caught up and Riley’s head sagged back into the cushion. Andy thought she might drift off, but after a bit, she shifted closer, resting her shoulder against his. Not dramatic, not a big gesture. Just enough.

“I forgot,” she mumbled, “that I had this.” She fished a strip of paper from her inventory, the color and font unmistakable: an upgrade coupon. “Sadie gave it to me last round, one of the letters from fanmail. I was supposed to save it for something important, but…” She held it up, smirked. “I guess tonight counts.”

He smiled, letting her explain.

She ran a thumb along the coupon, feeling its edges. “I want my hair to stop tying me up unless I say so.” She looked at him, defiant. “If I need it, I’ll use it. But not because I’m out of control.”

Andy nodded, understanding more than she said.

“I don’t know how this works.” She grimaced, and waved the coupon over her head in a parody of a magic trick. “Upgrade my hair!” She yelled. She held her breath, waiting for the click, the internal shift.

Andy watched as she flexed her hands, then her arms. Nothing happened. Then, all of a sudden, she shivered.

• Gravemind Tresses [UPGRADE] Medusa’s Hair: No, not the mythical one. Riley has now full control over her hair, which she can control and use as if it were another limb. She can split the hair into multiple locks that perform different actions, but the more locks, the harder it is to control it. Riley's hair also becomes a major erogenous zone during sexual activity, and remains a minor erogenous zone otherwise.

She grinned wider. “Guess it worked.”

He couldn’t help but feel proud. “That’s agency.”

Riley eyed him, then laughed, warm and full. “I guess it is.”

They fell quiet, but it was a different kind of quiet. The window behind them showed the last hints of resort glow. The only sound was their breathing, and the lazy thump of a baseboard heater cycling on.

After a while, Riley turned to Andy, face open and **** in a way he’d never seen. “Thank you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

He shrugged, but his own throat was tight.

She let her head drop onto his shoulder, the weight of it solid and real. “Let’s just sit here for a while,” she said.

He nodded, and they did.

Sometime past midnight, Andy woke to the absence of weight against his side. The lamp on the kitchen counter still glowed dim, casting the Suite in long, honeyed shadows. He blinked, got his bearings. Riley was gone from the couch.

He found her on the balcony, wrapped in his old hoodie and nothing else, arms folded against the rail as if holding up the entire black curve of the ocean herself. Her breath fogged the glass when she exhaled. She didn’t turn when he opened the door.

“You ever get the feeling the air’s thicker here?” she said, not looking over. “Like it’s not just humidity. Like it wants to hold you in place.”

He joined her, let the cold bite at his ankles. “It’s different, I guess.”

Riley nodded, then shrugged one shoulder, a silhouette in the weak light. “It’s been more than seven months, now, since John died.” She said it the way you’d say the date or the weather, but her hands gripped the rail hard enough to leave marks. “You know what I remember most about him? Not the good stuff. Not the wedding, or the baby, or even the dumb college road trips. I remember that when he left for deployment, I was mad at him. I didn’t want to be, but I was. Because I knew he might not come back, and I was too chicken to say goodbye right.”

Andy was quiet.

“I spent months after, punishing myself for that. I went to work. I went to therapy. But I wasn’t alive. I was just… waiting.” She pulled the hood up over her face, and for a minute it was like the Riley of hours before had never existed. “I think I would have gone through with it. If Arabella hadn’t yanked me out of the world. I had a plan. Pills, in the bathroom, at night. No mess. Nobody would have found me until I was gone.”

Andy looked at her, but she was still focused on the horizon, eyes dry.

“It’s not a cry for help. It’s just a fact,” she said. “The only reason I didn’t do it is because Arabella took me here. I thought I’d hate it, but… you know what happened?” She laughed, soft, almost a cough. “I met you and Chloe again. And I hated both of you. I really did. But Chloe was nice to me, and you never backed away, even when I was an ass. And then I started liking her, and hating her, and it got all tangled up. Then I started liking you. And, for a while, that was even worse.”

He took a half-step closer, hand hovering above hers.

“I’m not telling you this to freak you out, or to get pity. I just…” She let the words hang. “I need you to know that if it wasn’t for the show, and if you hadn’t kept trying to fix things, and if Chloe hadn’t been so nice to me, I don’t know that I’d still be here, even now.”

Andy absorbed it. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, simply.

She looked at him then, eyes hard and open. “I don’t want anything complicated from you, Andy. I’m not Chloe, I’m not Erin, I’m not looking for a forever. I don’t want a wedding or a kid, or a love that makes the universe bend. I want us to stay friends. I like us as friends. But I also… I just… want to feel real. And I want you. Even if it’s just for tonight. Even if it’s nothing tomorrow.”

He smiled, and didn’t argue.

She leaned against him, and after a second, he felt the tension unwind. “I don’t know if I can be as good at this as the rest of them,” she said. “But I want to try.”

He stroked her hair, careful not to tangle it. She shivered, but it was a good shiver.

“Should we go inside?” he asked, gently.

She nodded.

Back in the bedroom, she dropped the hoodie onto the floor, climbed onto the bed, and lay back with arms open. “You first,” she said, her voice all challenge and invitation. “If you’re going to do this, do it right.”

Showed boobs to Master! +1 VP

Andy knelt beside her, ran his hands from the line of her jaw to the collarbone, down to the hollow above her breast. She was all bones and curves, no softness wasted, and he found he liked that. He kissed her, the taste of salt and wine still there, and her hands grabbed at his shoulders, pulling him closer than gravity should allow. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t ****, either. It was Riley, the only way she’d ever be. He peeled off her pants, and she wriggled out of her panties with no time to waste.

Showed naked body to Master! +2 VP

He moved lower, and when his mouth closed over her nipple, she arched up so sharply that for a second he thought she might tear in half. Her hands went to his hair, held him in place, and then, with a flex, she **** him higher. “Don’t go slow,” she whispered. “I don’t need slow.”

Master touched her boobs! +2 VP

He took her at her word.

They came together with more **** than grace, a tangle of limbs and laughter and teeth. Riley's body didn't yield so much as fight him at every step, her legs locking around his hips, her hands guiding his with rough impatience. But her voice—when she let it out—was nothing but need.

He reached down, fingers finding her slick heat, and the sound she made was pure relief.

"Yeah," she hissed. "God, yeah." Her breath came in stutters, but her grip on him was absolute. She arched against his hand, demanding more pressure, more friction. When he slid two fingers inside her, she bit her lip so hard he thought she might draw blood.

Andy watched her face transform with each stroke, memorizing what made her gasp, what made her eyes flutter closed. He curled his fingers just so, thumb circling in counterpoint, and felt her inner walls clench around him.

"Don't stop," she commanded, voice breaking. "Right there, don't—" The words dissolved into a moan as he obeyed, maintaining the rhythm that had her trembling beneath him. Her nails dug crescents into his shoulders, her hips rising to meet each thrust of his hand.

When she finally shuddered, every muscle going tight as a bowstring, he didn't stop until she was gasping into the pillow, clutching his arm for dear life, aftershocks rippling through her in waves.

Master brought her to orgasm! +2 VP

After, they collapsed, spent and laughing. Riley rolled onto her back, hair sprawled across the pillow like a dark halo.

She poked him in the chest. “You’re not getting out of here unscathed, you know.” She grinned, sly. “I’ve got new tricks, now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

She twisted, and a tendril of hair—thicker than a rope, red as blood and black as oil—slithered down her arm and wrapped around his wrist. It squeezed, surprisingly strong. “I have full control, remember? It can do whatever I want now.”

He pretended to struggle. “Should I be scared?”

“Only if you plan to run away.” She rolled him onto his back, straddling him. Another coil of hair snaked down, wrapping around his thigh, then his other wrist, binding him loosely to the bed. “See?” she said. “No more surprise hostage drama. I choose this.”

He nodded, a little dazed.

She leaned down, hair sweeping over his chest, and kissed him, long and deep. The hair tightened, just enough to pin him, and she grinned at the sensation.

She let the tension linger for a second—just long enough for Andy to wonder if she was capable of splitting him in half, or if she’d stop at a couple of cracked ribs. But then, with the same brazen swirl she’d always used to upend a bar fight or a group project, she snapped her head to the side and the hair uncoiled from his limbs all at once. The sensation was electric, like pulling your hand from a live socket and realizing you’re still alive, just lit up in new ways.

Andy blinked at her, dazed, his own hands suddenly free and tingling. “Your turn,” Riley said, her voice pitched low and gentle, edged with just enough challenge to keep him alert. She stretched out beneath him, all pale skin and sharp angles, but her eyes were the part that undid him. Wide, knowing, and a little scared. Like she’d never actually believed she’d make it this far.

He pulled her to him—not with ****, but with a kind of deliberate gravity—and pressed his lips to hers. This time he let it go slow, savoring the taste of her, the way she met him with equal parts hunger and restraint. He slid one hand up, threading it through her hair. It felt different now. Not just alive, but aware. The strands moved under his fingers like they were dancing, shifting to accommodate his touch, almost like they were learning him as he was learning them.

Riley made a sound against his mouth—a startled, delighted moan, as if she’d only just discovered a new way to feel pleasure. He pulled back, grinning, and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. She shivered all over, and the lock tightened, almost pulsing. He did it again, more deliberate this time, and Riley’s back arched, her head thrown back into the pillow.

“Jesus,” she breathed, but she was smiling, and there was nothing performative about it.

Andy let his hands roam, mapping her collarbone and ribcage, the warm valley under her breast, every line and dip she made available. He noticed the way her body seemed to lean into every touch, as if each pass of his fingers confirmed for Riley that she was still here, still real, still wanted.

She reached for him then, her hand sliding down his stomach with purpose. He was already hard, but the way she wrapped her fingers around him—confident, greedy, something almost proprietary in it—made his heart stumble in his chest. She stroked him once, twice, then paused, eyes locked on his as if she was asking a question.

Touched Master's penis! +2 VP

He answered by kissing her, slow and deep, and moving his hand to the back of her neck. But before he could take the lead, she rolled them, twisting her body with a dancer’s grace until she was astride him. Hair fell over his face in a curtain so dark it blocked out the world, and for a second he could smell nothing but her, taste nothing but her mouth.

Riley braced herself above him, her knees pressing in at his hips. She looked down at him, and in the low light she was all sharp shadows—a woman carved from obsidian and irony. “Hope you’re not expecting vanilla,” she whispered, then let her hair slide down his torso, over his chest, his stomach, all the way to his cock.

The sensation was impossible to pin down. Like silk, but warm. Like a dozen tongues, but somehow only one. Riley’s actual hands joined in, her grip practiced and clever, while the hair coiled around the shaft, squeezing with just enough pressure to border on pain, then relenting, then squeezing again. Static charge prickled along his thighs, a barely-there tickle at first, then a flood.

He gasped. He hadn’t meant to, but it happened anyway.

The look Riley gave him then was pure satisfaction. “Feels good, huh?” she said, her tone gone all smoke and velvet. She kept at it, shifting her weight now and then, controlling every angle, every point of contact. He honestly couldn’t tell if the hair or her hands felt better, and in the end it didn’t matter. His body was a live wire and she was the only ground.

She played him like that—sometimes gentle, sometimes rough, always in command. She made him wait, made herself wait, too, her own arousal growing due to her Gravemind Tresses transformation, until the need was so sharp it might cut them both. As more strands of hair wrapped around his cock, stroking it, sliding over it, rubbing it, more hair wrapped around them both, binding them together for a second, and then, as if on cue, it retracted, leaving only their skin and sweat and the pulse of their bodies in perfect sync.

Riley rubbed him with a kind of focused ****, not **** but hungry, as if reclaiming every inch of her own body with every stroke. He let her set the pace, hands at her hips, occasionally gliding up to trace her breasts. But then her hair snaked down and curled around his throat, just enough to press, not enough to ****, a warning and a promise in the same gesture.

He almost laughed—if he’d had the breath.

She bent down, pressing her mouth to his ear. “Don’t lose focus, Cooper,” she growled, and he felt himself tip. But she didn’t let go, not until she was ready, not until every muscle in his body had gone tight with expectation. When he finally did come, it was drawn out and staggering, like being squeezed through a keyhole into a brighter world. He lost track of the room, of the bed, of his own name.

Riley’s hair sent her over the edge a breath later, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sound. She went slack, collapsing onto him in a tangle of limbs, hair, and unfiltered relief.

Edged the Master! +1 VP
First! x2
Made Master cum - with her hair! +2 VP
First! x2
Self-Pleasured while Master came! +2 VP
First! x2

They lay like that for a while, the only sound the slow return of their breaths and the distant thrum of the heater cycling on. The tension that had animated Riley all night was gone; in its place was something lighter, bordering on peace.

She rolled off him, planting herself at his side with a satisfied grunt. “Damn,” she said. “Upgraded transformation? Five stars, would recommend.”

He laughed, still dizzy. “You’re not so bad yourself, Bennett.”

She propped herself up on one elbow, grinning at the mess of drying hair that trailed across his chest, stomach, and thighs. “You realize you look like a **** victim right now?” She gestured at the sticky web, the faint red lines where her hair had left little marks. “Gonna have to explain that to the coroner someday.”

He glanced down and shrugged, too tired to pretend at embarrassment. “I don’t mind. Never been the star of my own true crime podcast.”

She smirked, but the look softened at the corners. “Don’t tempt me. My next upgrade might be venom glands.”

He studied her. Her face was flushed and open, the result not of sex but of something deeper, something that neither of them could name just yet. For a woman who’d spent most of her life hiding behind sarcasm and a series of rotating dead-end jobs, Riley seemed, in that moment, completely herself.

Andy felt something shift in his chest, a mix of relief and tenderness knotted with a thread of guilt. He wondered if it was possible to love someone this much, even when you knew it couldn’t last, even when both of you had promised not to make it complicated.

For a long time, they didn’t speak. Riley busied herself by tracing invisible shapes on his skin, her touch absentminded but never aimless. Sometimes she’d press a fingernail into him, just enough to make him flinch, then smile as if that was its own kind of reward.

Andy stared at the ceiling, letting the silence stretch. He felt the ache of his own body, the warmth of hers next to him, and for once didn’t try to solve anything. He just let it be.

Eventually, Riley caught him staring and arched an eyebrow. “You got thoughts?” she said, voice soft.

Andy turned on his side, mirroring her posture. “A lot,” he admitted. “But they’re not all sorted.”

She squinted, as if weighing whether to demand a list. “You’re not going to ask if I’m okay, are you?”

He shook his head. “Only if you want to tell me.”

A pause. Riley picked at a thread on the pillowcase, her mouth quirked in concentration. “I feel… less fucked up than I thought I would,” she said, then laughed, the sound warm and even. “Is that weird? That I literally gave you a handjob with my hair, I came just because the fucking hair feels so good now, and I feel better? That it’s not a crisis?”

He smiled. “Not weird at all. Kind of a relief, actually.”

She nodded, her hair twitching in agreement. “I used to hate the aftermath. Not because of the sex—sex is fine—but because it was always this… quiet, you know? And I didn’t trust quiet. I’d wait for the letdown, or the guilt, or the instant replay of every bad thing I said or did.”

Andy understood more than he wanted to admit. “Still feel that way?”

She shrugged. “A little.” Her fingers traced the bridge of his nose, her touch gentler now. “But right now? I just feel tired. And maybe a little proud.” She glanced at him, a small, mischievous smirk playing on her lips. “I bet Chloe never did that for you.”

He laughed, genuine and unguarded. “No one did.”

Riley’s smirk softened. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, then let her hand rest on his shoulder, almost shy. “Is it weird that I want to do it again?” she said, quieter this time. “Just… this. And not just with the hair, next time.” She hesitated. “I don't want romance. I like our friendship, fucked up as it is. But I like it better this way, I think. Is it? Weird?”

Andy took her hand and squeezed. “It’s not weird. I want that, too.”

She exhaled, as if letting go of something heavy. “You know what I was thinking, while you were… you know, losing your mind?” she said, prodding his chest.

He smirked. “What?”

“That this is the first time since John died that I didn’t feel like I was cheating on him,” she said. The words came out matter-of-fact, almost analytical. “I thought it would be a big deal. But it wasn’t. I just wanted to be here.”

Andy didn’t say anything, just let her speak.

“I used to tell myself I’d never love anybody else,” she went on, staring at the ceiling. “Not because I was loyal, but because I didn’t want to risk it again. I thought if I shut off that part of my brain, I’d never have to hurt like that again.”

She rolled onto her back, hands folded on her stomach, hair snaking up to tickle her chin. “But you’re not a risk. You’re just… you. Like a living, breathing security blanket.”

Andy snorted. “That’s a new one.”

She turned her head to look at him, one eye hidden by the curtain of hair. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I mean it in the best sense. You’re safe. I feel safe with you.” The words sat in the air for a moment. Then she shook her head, annoyed. “God, I sound like a greeting card. Kill me.”

He nudged her with his knee. “I’ll take it. After everything we’ve been through, I’ll take ‘safe’ as a compliment.”

Riley smiled, then went quiet. For a while, they just lay there, watching the shadows crawl up the walls as the moon outside rose higher. Andy could have stayed like that all night.

But Riley, of course, was never satisfied with silence for long. “Can I ask you something?” she said, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Sure.”

“Do you ever get lonely? Even with all of us around?”

He hesitated. “I used to. Before Laura came back, there was always something missing. Now, though… Now, I never do anymore.”

She considered that, nodding slowly. “I used to think I was fine alone. That it was better. But after John left—after he died—I realized I wasn’t built for alone. Even when I was furious at you, or at Chloe, or even at Laura, I’d still rather fight with people than sit by myself.” She curled in on herself, knees to her chest, hair fanned behind her like a cape. “It’s pathetic, huh?”

He moved closer, letting his arm drape over her side. “No. Not even a little.”

Riley nestled into his hold, her head resting just below his chin. She exhaled, and Andy felt the last bit of tension leave her body. “You know what saved me?” she said, her voice a whisper. “It wasn’t therapy, or work, or even the show. It was the idea that maybe—just maybe—something good could come back from the dead.” She paused, then laughed softly. “That’s how I knew you were a disaster, by the way. You made me believe in miracles. And I don’t even believe in miracles.”

Andy thought about Laura, about Erin, about every impossible thing that had happened since he’d arrived. He found himself smiling. “You think I’m a disaster?”

She nodded, hair tickling his jaw. “Absolutely. You and Chloe. The people I hated most when I got here, and now you’re my favorite idiots. How’s that for irony?”

He kissed the top of her head, feeling her body relax against him. “I’m honored.”

They stayed like that, drifting, until Riley’s breathing deepened and she slipped into sleep. Andy watched the way her chest rose and fell, the faint lines on her forehead smoothing out as whatever dreams she had took hold. He let his own eyes close, content to just be.

But Riley, true to form, woke a half hour later, full of restless energy. She rolled on top of him, pinning his arms with her knees, her hair winding around his wrists like silk ropes.

“You ever wonder why I like being tied up?” she asked, her face serious.

Andy smiled, letting the hair bind him tight. “Tell me.”

She leaned in, eyes boring into his. “It’s the only time I don’t have to be in charge. The only time I can let go and not be responsible for every little thing. When I’m tied down, I can just be. I don’t have to pretend, or fight, or be the strong one.”

She kissed him, slow and deliberate, then sat back, her hair twisting and writhing around his arms. “I’m not saying I want this all the time. But sometimes… sometimes I need it.”

He nodded, understanding. “I get it. You can have it, whenever you want.”

Her smile was grateful, almost shy. “Good,” she said. “Because I really, really want it right now.”

She leaned in again, her hair slipping lower, winding around his thighs, his chest, his neck—not ****, just a constant, gentle pressure, grounding him. She kissed him, bit his lip, let her hands explore every inch of him.

And when she slid down his body, her hair following, it was less about dominance than about trust. She took her time, savoring every reaction, every gasp, every whispered plea. When she finally brought him to the edge again—using only her hair, slicked and coiled and strong as her own will—he felt something in him break open. The pleasure was deeper, richer, not just physical but emotional, as if she’d reached a place he’d kept locked for years.

After, she lay beside him, hair still draped across his chest, and let her hand rest over his heart. “Thanks,” she whispered, not for the act, but for everything.

Bonus art! Riley's Pathfinder character, Ix.

Tomorrow: Andy's Wenar Clockblood!