Roots and Shadows, Part 2

The Sunroom was three-quarters glass, its walls and ceiling drawing out the best of the late-morning light and diffusing it into a kind of weightless gold. The light made even the oddest corners of the Hotel seem gentle, smoothing every sharp line and pooling warmth onto the stone floor. Laura, drifting in with the uncertain aimlessness of the newly unscheduled, almost didn’t notice she was not alone.

Myra sat at the far end, facing the gardens, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was alone—nothing to busy the mind or shield against company. Only the long sweep of her fox tail, curled around one ankle and fidgeting with the tip, betrayed that she was not perfectly at ease.

Laura’s doubled footsteps were nearly soundless, but Myra’s ears tracked them anyway. She didn’t flinch, didn’t even turn her head at first, but Laura felt the way the other woman’s back straightened by degrees as she approached.

They had not spoken, not really, since Myra’s apology. There had been a few accidental collisions in the hallways, but nothing like this: an open space, no witnesses, no urgent business to rush past.

Laura nearly turned back. Instead, she cleared her throats. “Is it okay if I…?”

Myra’s head swiveled, eyes unfocused but searching in Laura’s direction. “Please,” she said, with the careful politeness of a hostess who did not expect the guest to stay. “There’s fresh tea. Or coffee, if you want.”

The moment stretched. Laura stood there, unsure, then shrugged inwardly and sat on the cushioned bench across from Myra. The table between them was set for four—Mildred, probably, doing her eternal rounds—and the china was the old kind, thin as an eggshell, rimmed with gold. Laura picked up the teapot with one of her selves, realized she didn’t know how Myra took hers, and poured three cups plain. Myra’s hands moved, almost imperceptibly, as if she were bracing for the sound of breaking porcelain.

Laura set the cup before her. “It’s just tea,” she said, in stereo. “I’m not trying to—” She didn’t know what she was trying not to do.

Myra smiled, small. “You could throw it at me, if you wanted. I’d understand.”

Laura almost smiled back. “I’ll save that for later.”

They sat with that for a moment, the tea cooling rapidly in the air, neither touching theirs. Through the glass, the inner gardens rippled with wind and bees, everything alive and humming, the world a membrane away from the hush inside.

Laura studied the other woman, trying to map the child she’d known onto the woman before her. Myra was tall, taller than Laura remembered, with that haunted leanness of someone who measured food by the milligram. Her eyes were a brilliant green, but they never landed anywhere for long, flickering across the air as if reading an invisible script. The fox ears and tail were new, but not the way she never quite seemed to belong to her own skin.

They sat in the hush a minute more, Laura tracing her fingers around the edges of the cups. She tried to think of what to say, what she was supposed to feel. In her memories, Myra had always been the center of every room, the girl whose laughter had the weight of law, and whose cruelty could raze you to the root. Now, the woman sitting across from her was delicate, careful, as if every word was a decision.

Laura wondered if she was supposed to speak first. If she should ask about the tail, or the ears, or the way Myra’s eyes kept glancing in the general direction of where Laura’s face should be. Instead, she said: “You can see me.”

It was not a question. Myra startled, then nodded, her fox ears flicking as she did so. “Not exactly. It’s… I can feel when you’re looking at me. And, I can see the shape of your feelings.” She held her hands up, palms open. “Not like a psychic. More like… the way a hand feels heat from a lamp.”

Laura processed this. “So you know what I’m feeling?”

Myra’s head tipped, the movement subtle, not quite a nod. “I can’t read your mind. But I can feel the outlines. Most of the time it’s just a lot of noise—hunger, thirst, boredom—but sometimes it’s more.” She flexed her hands, as if feeling out the air between them. “You’re… complicated. I’ve never felt anything like it. Maybe it has to do with the duplication transformation.” She gave a faint smile. “Not that I have had a lot of experience, yet.”

Laura thought about that. “Does it hurt?”

Myra hesitated, then laughed, a soft, self-deprecating sound. “Sometimes. If someone in the room is angry, it’s like a migraine behind my eyes. If they’re turned on, I get this—” She stopped herself, ears flattening. “You don’t want to hear that.”

Laura watched her, weighing the old impulse to press for vulnerability against the newer, stranger urge to show mercy. She decided on mercy. “That sucks,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Myra blinked in surprise, then shook her head. “No, it’s… it’s not bad, really. It’s just a different type of sight.”

Laura stared at her, not speaking. Myra’s hands shook a little as she lifted her tea.

They sat with that for a while, the conversation looping and unlooping in the hush. Through the glass, the inner gardens shimmered, sunlight setting every petal and leaf ablaze, the whole world out there alive and untroubled.

Myra stared into her tea for a long time before speaking again. “I was little,” she said suddenly, as if apologizing for the gaps. “So some of this is just… how it felt, not what it was.”

She swallowed. “Before foster care, I lived with my mother in a shack near the river. It was a broken down place, gaps between the planks, rotting wood, the works. There were other women. Always the same ones. We slept close together, on mattresses that never quite dried. We wore old clothes, which one of the women repaired whenever they’d tear. I remember thinking that was just how families worked.”

Her brow creased. “Almost every night, a man would come. Big. Bigger than anyone else there. His hair was always a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it, and he smelled like sweat and old smoke. He never smiled. Not at us. He didn’t even look at me.” A pause. “He didn’t yell, either. He’d just point, or grab an arm, and one or two of the women would go with him.”

She wrapped her hands around the cup, knuckles whitening. “I didn’t know what was happening, at the time. It was just how life was like. But now I think he was taking them to meet other men. That they were going to work. It makes sense, now.”

Sometimes, she went on, the women came back different. Quiet. Careful. Sometimes hurt, in ways you could see. Sometimes not hurt at all, just… emptied. “Every once in a while,” Myra said softly, “someone would start acting like something good was going to happen. Talking about staying. About fixing things. About a baby.” Her mouth tightened. “That never lasted. After that, the man would come more often. Or the woman would leave for a while. Or she’d come back and never talk about it again.”

She exhaled. “I learned pretty fast that wanting things was dangerous. That if you hoped for something, it would be noticed.”

A beat. “When my mother gave me up, I was five. I decided it was because I was a mistake. That even she hadn’t meant to keep me. So when I got older, I made sure I was never the one being dragged anywhere. I was loud. Sharp. I figured if people were going to look at me, it should be because I wanted them to. I bounced from foster family to foster family, for years, before I landed on the Calders.”

She didn’t look at Laura. “I’m not telling you this for sympathy. I just… sometimes I wonder how much of that was survival, and how much of it I carried with me long after I didn’t have to.”

She took a deep breath: “You want to know what I remember, from after my mother abandoned me?” She said it without preamble, as if the words had been waiting for a gap.

Laura didn’t answer, not directly. She lifted her chins, waiting.

Myra’s fingers found her tail, winding around the tip with a kind of nervous reverence. “It’s not the school, or the friends, or even my family. It’s the first time I realized I could hurt someone just by saying something mean. I was seven. A cousin from the foster family I was in was visiting from Boston, and she had a stutter. I imitated her at breakfast. The whole table laughed, including the grown-ups. She ran out of the room and wouldn’t come back all day.”

She exhaled, the memory turning the air heavy. “I didn’t even feel bad. Not then. It was like—I’d found a lever, and I wanted to pull it. See what it did.”

Laura’s hands curled in her laps, the way they always did when a story threatened to turn on her. She remembered Myra as a queen bee, yes, but she also remembered the power and confidence that radiated off her even at thirteen. She’d never known this version: raw, defenseless, small.

“I kept pulling the lever,” Myra said. “Even when it didn’t work. Even when I knew it was just… noise. I made myself necessary by being the person who always had something to say.” Her mouth twisted. “But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t me.”

She trailed off, letting the sunlight do the work of filling the space.

Laura wanted to ask her what had changed, but didn’t. Instead she said: “So why are you here?”

Myra’s ears twitched. “Here, as in, the Hotel? Or here, as in, with you?”

Laura hesitated, and the moment yawned open between them. She didn’t know what she wanted from this. It wasn’t ****—she’d thought it might be, but the impulse faded in the light of Myra’s obvious discomfort. She settled for the plainest answer. “Both,” she said, “I guess.”

Myra exhaled, shoulders slumping. “I’m here because Arabella needed someone broken. I guess that’s the real answer.” She ran a fingertip along the rim of her teacup, then stopped, as if aware she was mimicking Laura. “All I know is, one day I was a doctor with nothing left to lose, and the next, I stood on a tropical beach and smelled the ocean.”

She shook her head, fox ears flattening against her hair. “I thought I was being punished. Or maybe tested. Like, if I survived the gauntlet, I could go back to my real life.” Myra’s smile went lopsided. “I’m not sure I want to, anymore.”

Laura stared at the swirling tea. “You’re not the only one.”

Myra nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “I know. I can feel it in everyone. But especially you, despite the fact you’ve only been here for a few days.”

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in one hand. “The first day, I met the others—Norah, Erin, Riley, the rest. Most of them were kind, but Andy and Riley… They were angry at me. Arabella told Andy to show me around, and he did it, but I knew it cost him. And then, she assigned me to the first date night.” She swirled her tea, remembering. “I was frightened. I didn’t know why he was angry at me, and the fact he was trying to be kind made it so confusing. And his anger physically hurt me, because of Arabella’s transformation. And then, when he told me what I had really done…” She shivered. “I understood, then. I wanted the ground to swallow me. And… just then… the most bizarre thing happened.” She looked in Laura’s general direction with wonder painted on her face. “Andy forgave me. He said… he said he couldn’t be angry at me, anymore.” Myra hesitated. “It took a few days for me to realize Andy wasn’t going to try and hurt me. I kept waiting for the hammer to fall. Instead, he apologized for being cold. Can you believe that?”

She laughed, and for a moment, the echo of the old Myra rang through the Sunroom, almost genuine. “He said he was sorry for treating me like a problem. Said he understood why I lied to you, back then. I tried to tell him I didn’t deserve it, but he just—” Myra shrugged. “He forgave me anyway.”

Laura felt something twist behind her ribs. “He’s always like that.”

“Yeah,” Myra agreed, “But that’s not the part that broke me. It was the way the other women closed ranks around me. They just… made room.”

Myra looked down at her hands, flexing the fingers slowly. “It was like being adopted again, but for real this time. Like there wasn’t a test I had to pass to belong.” Her voice went quieter. “That’s never happened before. Not ever.”

Laura watched her, feeling the prickle of recognition and resentment and envy all tangled together.

Myra must have sensed it, because she added: “I didn’t expect you to talk to me. Not after… everything. I thought you’d be the last person who’d want me around.”

Laura felt the old urge to say something cruel, to reclaim power, but she let it pass. “I don’t know what I want,” she said, honestly.

Myra nodded, accepting.

The light in the Sunroom shifted, clouds drifting in and changing the whole mood of the place. For a while, the only sound was the slow tap of Myra’s tail against the floor.

Laura, watching, realized something. “You’re trying to make me feel better,” she said in sync, not accusingly but with genuine surprise.

Myra smiled, small and not at all like the old days. “I guess I am. I never got to before.”

They both let that settle, the memory of all the ways it could have gone differently crowding the space between them.

After a long while, Myra said: “It’s strange. I spent so much time thinking about you as a memory, or a regret, or a haunting. Now you’re just… here. And it’s not what I thought it would be.”

Laura almost laughed. “You thought I’d be scarier?”

“No,” Myra said, shaking her head. “I thought I’d be braver.”

That landed harder than Laura expected. She looked at her hands, the faint shake in them, and wondered if it was visible to Myra. “I don’t know if I want you to be braver,” she said. “It’s kind of nice, knowing you’re scared too.”

Myra’s eyes crinkled, the fox ears perking up. “We’re all scared, Laura. Even the ones who look like they’ve got it together.”

They sipped their tea, finally, the flavor over-brewed but comforting anyway.

Myra said, “You know, I hated the idea of a harem at first. It felt like the last, worst humiliation—being one of many, not even special enough to be the main character in my own life. But now? I don’t think it’s about being the only one. I think it’s about finding somewhere you can stay, even if the world says you shouldn’t belong.”

Laura wanted to argue, but couldn’t.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Myra said, voice steady now. “It doesn't fix what I did, but… maybe we get a chance to do it right this time.”

Laura looked at her, the way the sun painted the lines of her face, the way the light caught the gold in her eyes. “You really mean that.”

“I do.”

Laura let herself believe it, just for a second.

When it was time to go, neither made a show of it. Myra’s tail twitched a farewell, and Laura nodded, once, grateful not to have to say anything more.

Achievement Unlocked (Myra): The Push +5 VP
Achievement Unlocked (Laura): The Girl on the Bridge +5 VP

She left the Sunroom lighter than she’d entered, as if some essential gravity had shifted.

Riley had never been one for walks, not the aimless kind. Every circuit she’d made around a park or a playground growing up had been about burning energy, outrunning whatever was chasing her from inside. But when she sent a message to Chloe via Mildred—Are you around, or do I need to break into the plant nursery and steal you?—she’d known exactly where she wanted to go. Not the beach, not the lobby, not the Room, not even the safe anonymity of the garden. She wanted the Walk of Remembrance, the old river path, the one that ran behind the hotel like a faded scar.

The Walk of Remembrance wasn’t a path for easy conversation. The dappled light and bird-noise gave it a churchlike hush, and the trees pressed in so close that footsteps seemed swallowed whole, even when walking side-by-side. On a normal day, Chloe would have found comfort in the hush, a relief from the drama of the hotel, the expectation that everyone should be “on” all the time. But today, she felt every beat of silence like a pressure behind her eyes, each pause hinting at something Riley wasn’t quite ready to say.

She noticed it even before they left the main walk: the tension in Riley’s gait, the way her hands wouldn’t stay at her sides, always brushing hair out of her face or fiddling with her shirt hem. There was nothing flirty in it, nothing arch, just a bristling anxiety that made Chloe want to smooth it away with a hand, or maybe just leave it alone in case it bit back.

They didn’t talk, not at first. Riley led, taking the down-sloping switchback at a pace that almost dared Chloe to protest. Which, of course, Chloe never would. She followed close, letting Riley set the mood, the silence knitting itself tighter as the path snaked into the deep shade. Only after a quarter-mile did Riley slow, glancing back once as if to check that Chloe was still there, still following.

Chloe said, “You’re walking really fast.”

Riley stopped, barked a laugh. “Yeah, sorry.” She turned, hands on hips. “You’d think, with legs like these, I’d be able to take it easy. But I always feel like if I slow down, something’ll catch me.”

Chloe offered a small, uncertain smile, not sure if this was a joke or an admission.

Riley picked at a hangnail, eyes on the forest floor. “You ever walk here before?”

Chloe nodded. “Lots of times. I like the quiet.”

“Me, too,” Riley said, and then ruined it with: “Unless the quiet’s the kind that crawls in your ears and lays eggs in your brain.”

Chloe almost giggled, but the air was too taut. Instead, she shrugged and looked at the patchwork of sun and shadow. “It’s pretty, here.”

Riley made a noncommittal sound and let the silence win for a full minute. Even the birds seemed to mute themselves, as if the trees didn’t want to overhear. The path here was barely kept: roots buckled the packed earth, and the scent was all old leaves and sweet rot. After a few more paces, Riley cleared her throat.

“I think Arabella landscaped this whole walk to make you confront shit you’re trying to avoid,” she said, forcing lightness that didn’t fit. “Like, if you have unresolved childhood trauma, the trees’ll just lean over and breathe it right in your face.”

Chloe made a little giggle, but it was as brittle as pressed flowers. “Maybe,” she said.

Riley stopped, finally, and turned. They’d reached a section of the path where the trees bent low, a tunnel effect; the river, when it came into sight, was a flash of slow water between green. She waited for Chloe to close the gap, then looked at her, and didn’t look away.

“Chloe. Can I just… say something, without you laughing at me?”

Chloe looked startled. “I would never—”

Riley shook her head. “No, I know. But I gotta say this and I’m not good at… saying things.”

Chloe’s cheeks pinked, and she folded her hands together, thumbs worrying each other. “Okay.”

Riley inhaled. “So, you know how, when I got here, I basically hated everything and everyone? Especially Andy. But also you. Not you, really, but the idea of you. The girl who made her laugh. The girl who started the whole thing by kissing Andy. I hated the way everyone said you were so nice, like that was the only thing you could be.”

Chloe blinked. “I’m— I didn’t know—”

“No, let me finish,” Riley said, eyes flaring. “Because I don’t hate you. And I haven’t, for a long time now. I just didn’t know what to do with it, so I kept pretending it was your fault, or Andy’s, or the Hotel’s, that I felt so… so fucking much.” She let the words hang, and when she started again her voice was lower, less certain. “But after I talked to them—after I said everything to Andy and Laura—I realized it didn’t actually fix anything. It just made it possible to feel other stuff, instead of all the old garbage.”

She looked at Chloe, and her smile was faint, unsure, but present. “And then I couldn’t stop noticing how being with you made it easier. Even when it sucked, even when it was awkward as hell, I always wanted to see you. Or hear you laugh. Or just…” She shrugged, giving up on words. “I like you, Chloe. I know that’s stupid, and I know you want Andy, and I get that, and don't get me wrong, I want to get me some of that action too, but I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you. Or that I don’t want us.”

Chloe’s hands flew up to her face, fingers spread, as if to hide the reaction. She was blushing so deeply it looked painful. “Why?” she said, after a moment. “Why would you even…?”

Riley snorted. “Why not? You’re funny. And tough. And beautiful, even if you keep trying to pretend you’re invisible. I mean—look at you.” She gestured at Chloe’s body, the way the light picked out the golden tangle of her hair, the gentle curves that defied every past or present trend. “You’re perfect.”

Chloe stammered, “I’m— I mean, that’s— You’re way out of my league, Riley.”

“Bullshit,” Riley said, gentle but fierce. “You’re the only person in this place who doesn’t look at me and see a disaster. I don’t know if that’s because you’re a natural caretaker, or because you don’t know how to judge people, but I like it. I like how you make me feel when I’m around you. I like that I don’t have to explain myself, because you just… get it.”

Chloe’s hands drifted down. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She searched Riley’s face, like she was waiting for the punchline, but it didn’t come.

Instead, Riley said, “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.” She looked down, scuffing a boot at the dirt. “And it’s fine if you just want to be friends, or whatever. I can handle it.”

Chloe said, softly, “What if I don’t want that?”

Riley looked up, startled. “What?”

Chloe flushed harder. “What if… I like being with you, too? And I think about it. A lot.” She shook her head, the motion almost a shiver. “But it’s embarrassing, because I’m not… I mean, I’m not like you. I don’t know how to be brave. Or cool. Or even sexy.”

Riley rolled her eyes, but there was warmth in it. “Chloe, you literally make me insane. I think about you every time I see a flower, or a fucking muffin. You’re the only person here who’s not at least a little bit of an asshole, except maybe Emily and Dawn, but Dawn is as close to a saint as anyone’ll ever get, and Emily is—” She paused, then finished, “Emily. And the more I try to talk myself out of it, the worse it gets.”

Chloe started to laugh, but it came out as a hiccup. “So, what now?”

Riley took a step closer. “Now you tell me if you want this. If you want me.”

Chloe’s voice was small, but it didn’t falter. “I do. I really, really do.”

They stood for a moment in the hush of the river path, the words hovering between them like something delicate and untouchable. Riley, always the first to break a silence, broke this one, too. “I know it’s not simple. I know you want Andy, and probably kids, and you deserve all of that. But if there’s room for me in your life, even just a little—”

Chloe cut her off. “I want all of it,” she said, breathless. “And I want you, too.”

Something sharp and grateful flickered in Riley’s eyes. She closed the last step and, before she could overthink it, kissed Chloe square on the mouth. It was a soft, cautious kiss, at first—a question mark, not an exclamation—but Chloe melted into it, the hesitation falling away. Riley felt Chloe’s hands land at her waist, then slide up her back, fingers digging in with a **** she’d never expected. The kiss deepened, hunger rising, and Riley’s hair—never one to sit out a scene—spilled down around them, coiling up Chloe’s arms and waist in a slow, velvety embrace.

Chloe gasped, breaking the kiss just long enough to say, “Your hair is—” but then Riley was kissing her again, and the hair wound tighter, binding their bodies together from shoulder to hip. They stumbled back against a mossy boulder, Chloe pinned, Riley pressed in, every inch of her alive with the heat of wanting.

Chloe’s hands found Riley’s face, holding her close, while Riley mapped the curve of Chloe’s hip, then up, tracing the line where Chloe’s enormous breasts strained against her shirt. Riley remembered the first time she’d noticed, really noticed, how beautiful Chloe’s body was, and now—fuck it—she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t want to worship every inch.

Their bodies rocked together, instinct taking over, and Chloe’s breath hitched, sharp and needy, as the hair pinning her flexed, holding her still but not hurting. She whimpered into Riley’s mouth, the sound so raw it nearly undid Riley entirely.

“I want you,” Chloe whispered, voice shivery and true. “I want you to—”

Riley grinned, all wolf now. “You want me to what?”

Chloe blushed but didn’t look away. “Everything. Anything.”

Riley took a trembling breath, the arousal so strong it buzzed under her skin. She lifted Chloe up, half dragging, half carrying her behind the boulder, the hair never letting go. Once out of sight of the path, Riley set Chloe down gently, then knelt, worshipful, tasting the soft skin just beneath her jaw, the slope of her neck, the edge of her collarbone. Chloe shivered, breath coming in little gasps, hands tangling in Riley’s wild hair.

Chloe’s nipples, visible even through the cotton, were hard as diamonds. Riley ducked her head, nuzzling the curve, then flicked her tongue against the fabric, eliciting a moan that shot straight to her core. Riley glanced up, and in the dappled shade, Chloe looked beautiful—eyes glazed, hair wild, cheeks flushed with heat.

“Can I?” Riley asked, already sliding a hand beneath Chloe’s shirt.

Chloe’s nod wasn’t shy or tentative. She all but vibrated with wanting, the simple word tumbling out: “Please.”

It was almost funny that they’d needed to talk for so long, to circle each other for months, when now, at the first open admission of what they both felt, it was just pure electricity. Riley’s hands were fast and reckless, but gentle, too, like she’d been waiting forever and was just afraid the chance might vanish if she didn’t seize it. She rucked Chloe’s shirt up to her neck in one motion, baring Chloe’s breasts to the filtered sun and the cool, earthy air. There weren’t words for what they looked like: huge, perfect, unapologetic, and crowned with nipples already so hard it looked like they’d been waiting all morning for Riley’s mouth. Riley didn’t hesitate, just leaned in and took one in her mouth, tongue swirling, teeth teasing at the very edge of too much.

Chloe cried out, arching off the mossy boulder, hair falling loose and wild around her shoulders. The hair—Riley’s hair—was everywhere, coiling up Chloe’s arms and across her chest in a slow, carnal embrace, pinning her so she couldn’t pull away. Not that she wanted to. If anything, she wanted more.

Riley’s own body responded in kind: her skin flush with heat, nipples aching beneath her shirt, her pulse so loud in her ears it drowned out everything else. She wasn’t the type who usually lost herself in sensation—she liked to stay in charge, to have her smart remarks ready, to keep one step ahead even in bed—but with Chloe it was all happening too fast, too deep. She moaned around Chloe’s nipple, the taste of her so sweet and strange that Riley’s mind went briefly blank. When she sucked harder, milk beaded out, warm and sticky, coating her tongue.

The shock was almost enough to stop her. She pulled back an inch, staring in wonder, and Chloe’s face went red as a poppy. “Sorry,” Chloe mumbled, mortified. “I—”

Riley shook her head, still a little stunned. “Are you kidding? It’s hot.” She licked the drop away, then went back for more, this time drawing a long, shuddering gasp from Chloe, who squeezed her eyes shut in pleasure. Riley’s hair flexed, winding around both of them now, cocooning them in velvet black.

Chloe’s hands scrabbled at Riley’s back, nails digging in just hard enough to hurt. Riley couldn’t even bring herself to slow down. She shifted her weight, crawling up onto Chloe so that their bodies pressed full-length against each other, and Chloe’s breasts squashed up between them, the skin-to-skin making Riley tremble. Chloe gasped again, and Riley kissed her, milk-sweetness passing between their mouths, tongues dancing, the kiss deepening and deepening until Riley thought she might drown in it.

She ground herself against Chloe’s thigh, desperation making her shameless. Every move made her more aware of her own body, of the wetness growing between her legs, of how badly she wanted to do everything, anything, to make Chloe feel as good as she looked. She broke the kiss only to gasp for air, then dove back in, biting gently at Chloe’s lower lip, dragging a whimper from her that was half pain, half delight.

The hair wasn’t just decoration, either. Riley could feel it, as though it was an extension of herself: it slid down Chloe’s waist and hips, wrapping around her thighs, gently levering them apart. Riley’s hand slipped down to Chloe’s jeans, and she felt the heat radiating off her even before she touched the seam. Chloe bucked, hips rising, wordless with wanting.

“Is this okay?” Riley managed, fingers trembling as she popped the button and tugged the zipper down.

“Yes,” Chloe said, voice gone all ragged and breathless. “God, yes, please.”

Riley slipped her hand inside, and found Chloe already soaking wet, the cotton of her panties dark and sticky with arousal. The shock of it was like touching a live wire. Riley groaned, and she slid her fingers beneath the cotton, brushing the soft heat of Chloe’s bare skin. Chloe jerked, hands clutching fistfuls of Riley’s shirt, and made a noise that sounded like she’d just been punched in the gut.

Riley was careful, at first. Gentle, exploratory strokes, learning Chloe’s body by feel, reading every twitch and gasp. But Chloe’s hips rocked, greedy, so Riley gave her more, pressing her fingers in and curling them just right. Chloe’s eyes flew open—dazed blue locked on Riley’s—and her mouth formed a perfect O as Riley set a rhythm, building, building, until Chloe was whimpering with every exhale.

Riley didn’t stop sucking at Chloe’s breasts, either. She alternated, greedy, drinking in both the taste and the sounds, her own hair tightening like a lover’s arms around both of them. Chloe’s moans grew louder, bouncing off the riverbank and echoing back at them in little, embarrassing fragments. Riley smiled into Chloe’s skin, loving the way nothing about her was quiet or restrained, loving how she wanted so much and didn’t care who knew it.

It was Chloe who reached down, grabbing Riley’s wrist hard, and **** her fingers deeper, harder. Chloe’s whole body arched, hair sticking to the sweat on her neck, and Riley watched as Chloe came undone, the orgasm rolling through her like a breaking wave. She wasn’t quiet. She yelled, the sound raw and wild, and Riley thought she’d never heard anything more perfect in her life.

The rush was contagious. Riley’s own pleasure spiked, sharp and hot, and she ground herself against Chloe’s hip until her own climax hit, hard enough to white out everything for a moment. She clung to Chloe, riding the aftershocks, hair clutching both of them in place as if it could keep the world out.

Chloe was sobbing, but it wasn’t sadness. It was joy, and relief, and something like awe. She pulled Riley in and kissed her, not caring about the milk or the sweat or the tears; mouths crashed together, messy and ****, and when they broke apart both of them were laughing.

“I’m so happy,” Chloe said, voice shaking.

Riley breathed, “Me too,” and let herself collapse fully on top of Chloe, pillowing her face between Chloe’s breasts, the hair cocooning them both in a dark, wild shelter.

They stayed that way for a while, tangled in hair and moss and dappled light, letting the forest hide them from anything but the world they’d made for themselves.

When Riley finally let go, hair unwinding, she felt lighter than she had in years.

They rejoined the path, eventually, hand-in-hand, moving slow, not in a rush to reach the end. The silence was easy, now. And when Riley looked at Chloe, Chloe met her gaze, no fear or question in it—just a deep, contented calm.

Norah had always believed she did her best thinking at two in the morning, the sole witness to her own productivity. But since she couldn’t really sit in an office in the Hotel, the Hotel library in the early afternoon was a decent enough substitute: silent, except for the scratch of pencil on graph paper and the soft, ever-present scent of old books and warm stone.

She’d been here for hours, stationed at the corner table, every square inch covered with drafts, printouts, and the remains of a bad tea service. The mini-challenge, as Arabella so cheerfully called it, was to design a sanctuary “worthy of the woman you’ve become.” Norah had planned to mail it in—come up with something serviceable, a little avant-garde, just enough to signal that she didn’t give a shit—but somewhere in the process, she’d gotten competitive with herself.

Now, as she hunched over her third attempt, Norah realized she was muttering out loud. “No, no, no, that’s derivative. If I put another living wall in here, Arabella’s going to give me a climate-change lecture.”

She snapped her ruler against the page, erasing half a wall, then started again. “Maybe an atrium with a central fire pit. Or a waterfall. Or—” She stopped, frowning at her own predictable taste.

The new sketch was, regrettably, another open-concept boardroom. She’d tried to disguise it by curving the glass walls, adding a sunken lounge, and swapping out the conference table for a mid-century “conversation island.” It still read like a place where people did business, not a place for herself.

She sighed, flicking the page aside. The growing pile of rejects felt like a personal insult.

“You have a fixation, you know,” said Mildred. Her voice was gentle, almost nurturing, like a lullaby hummed through clenched teeth.

Norah jumped, almost sending her pencil flying. Mildred stood directly behind her, silent as the undertaker she resembled, a clipboard at her hip and a bland smile on her lips. She hadn’t approached so much as arrived.

Norah bristled, but **** a smile. “You ever heard of privacy?”

Mildred blinked. The motion took just a fraction too long, as if the idea had to travel a great distance before reaching her. “The Library is a public resource, per the Resort’s Guest Charter. Section five, line—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Whatever.” Norah looked at her latest failure. “I just need to make it through this idiotic round, then I can stop caring.”

Mildred nodded, the movement robotic. There was a faint sound, like fabric being torn very carefully. “You say that, but your output tells a different story. Seventeen pages, three colored markers depleted, and three failed pastries.” She gestured to the cooling rack on the sideboard, where a trio of scones—Chloe’s, obviously—sat untouched. “That’s obsession.”

Norah opened her mouth, closed it again. “I just want it to be… right.”

Mildred leaned in, lowering her voice to a confidential murmur that sent a shiver of fear down Norah’s spine. It was soft like brushed velvet, and sharp like a blade slid slowly between ribs. “Then perhaps you should draw what you actually want. Not what you think will win.”

Norah felt her jaw clench. “What if I don’t know what that is?”

Mildred’s eyes gleamed. For a heartbeat, they reflected something vast and lightless, like a room with no walls. “Then you sink into madness and collapse under the weight of your own failures until nothing but the smallest kernel of you remains, naked and trembling, for someone to devour. Or you brainstorm until you figure it out.”

Norah glared, waiting for the comeback. But Mildred just straightened, adjusted the name badge on her uniform with delicate precision, as if aligning a sigil, and walked away—heels silent, presence erased as if she’d never existed.

It took Norah a minute to unclench her hands.

She looked at her pile, saw all the attempts at generic perfection: the corporate lounges, the wellness spas, the executive lounges with sleek glass walls and “collaborative energy.” None of them felt like her.

She closed her eyes. If she were honest—if she were, for once, not performing for the Host, or the others, or even for Andy—what would a sanctuary for herself look like?

The answer arrived, embarrassing and small. It would be a room with a lock, and a chair that fit her body, and a window that didn’t look out onto anyone else. A place where she could put her feet up, eat a stupid scone, and not have to care if it was perfect. She could listen to the hum of her own thoughts, but also a place where she could invite someone she trusted to join her. Or a whole harem. No agenda. No competition. Just time and space and the permission to exist, to laugh, to enjoy each other’s company.

Norah grabbed a blank page and started to draw. This time she didn’t try to hide the need. She drew a thick, heavy door. A triple latch. She gave it a soundproofing core and a deadbolt that could be locked from either side. Inside: not a desk, but a recliner, wide enough for her to curl up with a blanket and a laptop and a bowl of olives. Not a sleek conference table, but a low coffee table scattered with half-read books, a tangle of charger cords, a candle she’d never light. A tiny fridge, because she never wanted to ask for anything once she’d settled in. There was a window, but it was high, narrow, and faced nothing but the sky.

She felt herself relax, just a little, as she drew it. Not a workspace. Not a stage. Not a box to be ranked and scored and reviewed. Just a place to be alone, or together, as she chose.

“Christ, it’s a panic room,” she muttered, cursing loudly in arabic.

She almost didn’t hear the whisper of feet until Mildred appeared again, this time standing behind the next row of shelves. She hadn’t moved closer. She had simply decided to be there. “That one suits you better,” Mildred said, her voice so soft it barely carried, like a compliment whispered to a cadaver in a coffin.

Norah stiffened, then—against all instinct—kept drawing.

Mildred waited, utterly still, as if prepared to stand there until the heat **** of the universe rendered the question moot.

“You’re just going to lurk?” Norah said, not looking up.

“That’s my job,” Mildred replied, “Though technically it’s also my job to encourage the guests.” There was a pause, thoughtful. “I’m still learning how to do that.”

Norah grunted, then set her pencil down. “Well, congrats. You win. I drew a bunker. That’s what the ‘real me’ wants, apparently. Somewhere I can hide from everyone. Including you.”

Mildred grinned her far-too-wide smile. It looked practiced, like a mask she’d been taught to wear by something cruel. “No one can hide from me.” With an oddly graceful pivot, she walked away, swaying her hips as she went, as if the corridor itself were pleased to have carried her.

For a while, Norah just glared at the panic room sketch, trying to will it into being something less embarrassing. It was so honest it made her itch. The triple-latch door, the soundproofing, the little window punched up at ceiling height—it wasn’t even subtle. It was what she’d designed for herself, if she were the only one who mattered.

She almost crumpled the page, but Mildred’s words stuck in her head: draw what you actually want. Not what you think will win.

Norah took a deep breath, exhaled, and made herself try again.

She pulled a blank sheet from the stack and lined it up square on the table. She **** herself to slow down, sketching in the outline of the room, then the walls, then the furniture. At first, she kept defaulting to the old models: another midcentury modern set, another open floorplan, another goddamn “collaboration zone.” She erased, started again, erased, then finally dropped her pencil and rubbed her face, stifling a groan.

“This is so fucking stupid,” she said, louder than she meant to.

She waited for Mildred to reappear, but the library was empty.

Norah let herself think, really think, about what she’d want if she could have anything. Not just for herself, but for… She couldn’t say it out loud, not even to herself, but she knew what she meant. The others. The group. The weird, fractious, impossible collection of women who orbited the same man, the same purpose, the same fate. It was infuriating, but maybe… it was also a comfort.

She started sketching, almost absentmindedly. This time, instead of a panic room, she let herself draw a big, round table. No edges, no head of the table, nowhere for anyone to “own” the space. Around it: chairs, all different, some plush, some stiff, some made for sinking in, some for perching. She imagined each woman in the harem and gave them a chair they’d pick for themselves. Even the ones she didn’t like.

In another part of the space, she drew a sunken firepit—a real one, with a glass hood to keep the smoke out, but with a pull-down screen so you could roast marshmallows if you wanted. She penciled in a ceiling full of hanging lamps, each one a different color or shape. She added a bookshelf, but instead of a single wall, she ringed the whole room with shelves, each sectioned off so you could leave a book, a memory, a note for someone else.

Norah smiled, despite herself. She liked the idea of books as secret messages.

She kept going. She drew nooks, half-hidden in the walls—window seats with cushions, little cubbies just big enough for two people to curl up and talk. She made one nook with a giant beanbag, just for Emily, and another with a velvet chaise for Riley, and a third with an old-fashioned rocking chair, because Chloe would love that shit.

She made a side room, just off the main space, with a single comfy chair, a good reading light, and a little fridge. For herself, she realized. She drew it, then shaded it in, making it as inviting as possible. But when she looked at the big room, at the table and the lamps and the firepit, she felt the tug of wanting to be there, too. With the others.

She started to label things, not for Arabella, but for herself.

Main Table: For Games. For Meetings. For Food.

Firepit: For stories, or s’mores, or maybe just quiet.

Cubbies: For secrets.

Library: For more than books.

She paused, staring at the page. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d drawn something just for the pleasure of it. Not for a grade, or a proposal, or to land a job, but just to see how it would look. It felt weirdly good.

She thought of Andy, and the way he’d always known how to bring a group together, even if he pretended not to care. The way he’d look at everyone in the room, not just the person talking. She caught herself smiling again. “Shit, it’s contagious!” She muttered, but there was no heat in it.

When she finished, she sat back and looked at the drawing. It was… cozy. A little odd, a little too bright, a little too obviously designed by someone who’d never had a real home, but it was honest. It was a place where everyone could fit, and no one could take over, and nothing was expected except that you show up, and maybe stay a while.

Norah wondered what Arabella would say. She wondered if she even cared.

She felt her cheeks warm, embarrassed by the hope curling under her ribs. She grabbed a pen, wrote a title at the top—Lounge, Version 1.0—and circled it twice. Then, for good measure, she wrote: for the harem, not for the Host.

She closed the pad, sat back, and let herself breathe for the first time all day.

The bamboo grove didn’t look real in daylight. It wasn’t the blue-glass serenity of the garden at dusk, nor the stage-lit drama of night; here, shafts of lemon sunlight cut the tall stalks into impossible columns, like something out of a Studio Ghibli fever dream. Even the air felt different—a little thicker, a little sweeter, carrying the hum of insects and the sharp, resinous tang of fresh-cut cane.

Sam and Liesa were both off the schedule. No VP pressure, no challenge brief, no shadow of elimination hanging overhead. They’d both woken in each other’s arms with a kind of post-exam lightness, and neither wanted to risk jinxing it by talking about the future, or even the next round. Instead, they let themselves get lost.

Sam was the first to spot the trail, a winding path barely wide enough for single-file, the packed earth painted with dappled light. “This is wild,” she said, running her fingers along a stalk. “Have you ever seen bamboo like this? It’s got to be, what, three stories tall?”

Liesa measured the height, then let her hand drop, running it across Sam’s knuckles instead. “You have a strange way of measuring things, Sam. What does a ‘story’ mean in meters?” She smiled, then looked around. “In Belgium, we have a place like this, but only for seeing outside. They don’t let you walk in it.”

Ignoring Liesa’s dig to the football field system, Sam grinned. “Sounds like a challenge.”

They made their way along the path, boots and sandals crunching on the dry leaf litter. The silence was, for once, unforced: neither felt the need to fill it with talk, and the only sound was their breathing and the lazy sway of bamboo in the wind.

After a while, Liesa said, “This place. It’s like being inside a flute.”

Sam laughed, then took a turn at the metaphor: “Or like we’re the world’s tiniest pandas. Do you think we’ll get bonus VP if we eat a stalk?”

Liesa plucked a leaf, nibbled at the edge, and shook her head. “Tastes like salad. But less interesting.”

They kept walking, the path tightening, then opening up into a small clearing ringed by a dozen stone lanterns. At the center, a low wooden bench beckoned. Sam flopped down, legs splayed, and patted the seat next to her.

Liesa eased in, her hips cocked at a casual angle that was pure muscle memory. She looked around the clearing, the way the light made halos around every blade of grass, and breathed in. “I could stay here all day.”

Sam looked at Liesa, then at the circle of lanterns around them, then back at Liesa. “No one would find us for hours,” she said. “We could be dead here, and they’d just think we’d gone to the gym.”

Liesa let her eyes drift shut, face tipped to the filtered sun. “If I were dead, I’d want to haunt this place,” she said. “But not in a scary way. I’d be the ghost that leaves fresh bread out for people.”

Sam tried to picture it—a little ghostly bakery in the heart of the grove, Liesa behind the counter in a flour-dusted apron, handing out still-warm croissants to the dearly departed. The thought made her grin, and the grin made Liesa open her eyes, so it felt like they were sharing the joke before it even happened.

They didn’t talk for a while, just breathed and listened and watched the wind. The bamboo swayed high above, and every so often a distant bell or the metallic chime of a wind ornament drifted through, faint and echoey, as if the grove was picking up stray signals from another life.

It was Sam who broke the silence. “Tell me a secret?” she said, rolling her head to the side.

Liesa’s mouth curled. “You have to go first.”

Sam considered. “Okay. When I was a kid, I used to believe that if you dug deep enough, you could reach China. So I spent an entire summer excavating my neighbor’s flower bed. I got about two feet down before I hit a pipe, and I told everyone it was a dragon’s spine.”

Liesa’s laugh was low and open. “Did they believe you?”

“Yeah. At least until my brother told everyone I was eating the dirt, too.”

Liesa nodded, approving. “I would have believed you.”

She was quiet, then said, “My secret: When I was fourteen, I had this game with my best friend. We would sneak out at night and graffiti hearts on the trams in Antwerp. The next day, we would check if anyone had painted over them. If they had, we would do double the number the next night. It got so bad the city offered a reward for the ‘phantom lovers.’ We never were caught. Sometimes I still look at the old tram lines and wonder if any hearts are left.”

Sam listened, picturing it—the boldness of Liesa as a kid, the hush of night, the two of them running wild with spray paint, giggling into the Belgian dark. “I hope they never found them all,” Sam said.

“Me, too,” Liesa replied. Her hand found Sam’s, gentle and casual, as if it was a thing they’d done a thousand times before.

They sat like that for a long time, trading little confessions. Sam told Liesa about her first crush, a girl who wore a Batman T-shirt every day in third grade; Liesa confessed she’d once given herself food poisoning trying to impress a boy with homemade sushi. The stories doubled and overlapped, the sadder ones buffered by laughter, the laughter always landing first.

Eventually, Sam said, “You know what I want to do, when this is over?”

Liesa didn’t hesitate. “You are going to say something wild, yes?”

Sam grinned. “I want to take you on a road trip. Like, real American style. Gas station food, bad motels, weird roadside art. I want to see all the things people make just to prove they were here. Giant balls of string. World’s biggest chair. Maybe even go to an actual hotspring spa and try to die of boredom.”

Liesa laughed, then leaned her head against Sam’s shoulder, her hair smelling like salt and summer. “I would like that very much,” she said, and it was so sincere Sam felt it in her bones.

“Would you drive, or would you want me to?” Sam asked.

“Both,” Liesa said. “We could take turns. Whoever gets tired, sleeps. And when we get to the end, we can pretend to forget how to go home.”

Sam turned her head, just enough to catch Liesa’s eyes. They were impossibly green, greener than anything that should exist outside of a forest. “You really think you could get lost with me?”

“I think I already am,” Liesa said, so matter-of-fact that Sam forgot how to answer.

Instead, she reached up, tracing her thumb along the line of Liesa’s jaw, then leaned in and kissed her.

They had kissed countless times already, but this… this felt different to Sam. It wasn’t fireworks or trembling or any of the clichés people used to talk about. It was just right: a steady, soft warmth, the kind that made every part of Sam want to stay exactly here, forever. Liesa responded in kind, lips parting with a sweet, surprised sound, her body turning to face Sam so their knees pressed together.

They kissed until the air between them felt like honey. When they broke, Liesa rested her forehead against Sam’s, breathing deep, like she was trying to memorize the moment.

“You tell the best stories,” Liesa said.

Sam smiled, then pulled Liesa into her lap, arms wrapped around her waist. Liesa’s body melted into the hold, solid and warm, and for a long while they just sat, tangled together in the middle of the bamboo clearing, nothing but the wind for company.

After a while, Liesa said, “Can I tell you another story?”

“Always,” Sam replied, chin on Liesa’s shoulder.

“This is one I never told Andy, or anyone,” Liesa said, voice quiet. “There was a summer, right before university, when my mother took me to the seaside. We ate waffles and watched the fireworks. She told me, ‘Every heart is made for someone, but some people are made to have two or three.’ I always thought it meant I would never be enough for anyone, but now…” She trailed off, and Sam felt the way her arms tightened.

“What does it mean now?” Sam asked.

Liesa considered, then said, “Now I think it means I should not be afraid to want everything. Or to love more than one person at a time. Or to be loved that way.” She paused. “I am not ashamed of it, anymore.”

Sam kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m glad you’re not.”

They shifted, turning so they could both look up at the sky. The bamboo overhead moved in slow patterns, always returning to the same shapes. Sam let her hand roam, tracing circles on the small of Liesa’s back, feeling the tension ease with every pass.

“Tell me something you want,” Liesa said.

Sam thought. “I want to wake up with you every morning. I want to make you coffee, even if you take it black and I can’t stand it. I want to get old together and have really lame arguments about what kind of dog to get.”

Liesa laughed, then: “You would win every argument. I am terrible at fighting.”

“Then I’ll let you pick the dog,” Sam said.

They were quiet, then Liesa said, “What about you? Tell me a story no one knows.”

Sam shifted, then said, “This is going to sound dumb, but—when I was little, I used to talk to the sky. Like, every night, I’d sit on the roof and ask the stars questions. Sometimes I thought I heard them answer.” She shrugged, embarrassed. “I don’t believe in God or fate or anything, but I do believe in the kind of magic that happens when two people meet and the whole world feels different afterward.”

Liesa pressed a kiss into the hollow of Sam’s neck. “That is not dumb.”

They stayed that way, collecting stories and quiet touches, until the sun started to fade. When the light in the grove turned a deeper gold, Sam looked at Liesa and realized—with a sharp, dizzy clarity—that she never wanted to lose this. The thought hit with such **** she almost blurted it, but she stopped herself, chewing it over instead.

Would she do it? Was it even allowed, or possible, or sane, in this place? Would Liesa say yes? The thought was so huge and sudden it made her laugh.

“What?” Liesa asked.

“Nothing,” Sam said, too quickly. “Just happy, I guess.”

Liesa studied her face, then nodded, as if she understood more than Sam wanted to admit.

They stood, brushed the leaf litter from their legs, and walked back through the winding path, not rushing, not speaking, just letting their joined hands do the talking. At the edge of the grove, Liesa stopped, pulling Sam in for a kiss that tasted like promise.

They walked the rest of the way to the Hotel in silence, each of them hoarding the words they didn’t say.

Sam glanced at Liesa, saw the sunlight crowning her hair, and thought: I’m going to do it. I don’t know how, or when, but I’m going to try.

She’d have to talk to Andy first. But right now, in this hour, nothing seemed impossible.

Bonus art: Duck!