The Healing Circle

Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul.

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 79 VP - 800 BP - 1 Achiev
Claire - 63 VP - 7100 BP - 2 Achievs
Marissa - 56 VP - 4300 BP - 1 Achiev
Liesa - 54 VP - 2900 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 48 VP - 3050 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 44 VP - 3750 BP - 1 Achiev
Dawn - 43 VP - 4500 BP - 1 Achiev
Sam - 29 VP - 4550 BP - 2 Achievs
Chloe - 8 VP - 2975 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 6 VP - 4300 BP

Andy woke to the sensation of a small planet pressed against his ribs.

For a moment, he thought it was a nightmare—something about ballooning proportions and the relentless logic of wish fulfillment. But then the rest of his senses caught up: the clean, sweet-warm scent of Norah’s skin, the mass of her dark hair blanketing his shoulder, the delicate brush of her thigh tangled over his. Most of all, the absurd softness of four breasts flattened against his torso, an anatomical impossibility that now felt as natural as the sunlight warming the sheets.

He blinked, then closed his eyes again, savoring the pressure, the way her heartbeat thrummed through all four curves in a slow, coordinated tattoo. It was like being swaddled in a living, breathing comforter—one designed to gently suffocate, if necessary, but only as a last resort.

Norah shifted in her sleep, mumbling something in Arabic, her fingers flexing on his chest. Andy watched as the top pair of breasts rose and fell with her breath, then the next, and the next. The movement was mesmerizing, a perfect sine wave of vulnerability and power.

He ran his hand down her side, cautious, tracing the new contours with the kind of reverence reserved for rare art. Norah stirred, eyelids flickering, then stilled again. Andy grinned, absurdly pleased, and wondered if this was what transformation was supposed to feel like—not just a change, but a kind of truth you could finally say out loud.

Eventually, Norah woke. She did so with a slow, deliberate yawn that somehow managed to press all four breasts even closer to him, as if to emphasize the point. Her eyes, when they opened, were clear and amused.

“You’re staring,” she said, voice still rough with sleep.

Andy considered lying, then dismissed it. “I mean, it’s a lot to take in.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile curled at the corner of her mouth. “Predictable. You spend one night as a tit-goddess, and it’s like they’ve never seen a pair before.”

He snorted, then gently shifted her so he could sit up. Norah followed, legs folding neatly under her, the comforter slipping away to reveal her new form in all its breathtaking oddity. It should have been awkward, but she carried those extra curves with the same easy confidence that made him feel like a guest at her private unveiling.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, genuine concern threading his voice.

Norah rolled her shoulders back, mapping the unfamiliar landscape with both hands. “Please. I’ve spent half my life hauling around chips on my shoulder. This is just… redistribution.” Her fingers paused at the third pair, then flicked his wrist in mock reprimand. “And if I have to get used to these, you have to get used to me complaining about them. Deal?”

Andy nodded, clearing his throat. He glanced down at himself, acutely aware of his own morning situation. “Deal. And—if you ever want me to take them off, I can. I mean, I can probably fix it.”

She froze for a heartbeat, brows knitting together. Then she laughed—soft, amused. “You’d actually do that?”

“If you want.” His voice dropped. “Between those and your heels, balancing is a nightmare.”

Norah’s hesitation melted into a slow, wicked grin. She leaned forward, resting a hand on his knee. “You know,” she purred, “I don’t mind if you want to see me like this again—privately.” She smirked. “Really, I don’t.”

Andy laughed, relief and desire mingling in his chest. He closed his eyes, summoning the image of her yesterday: the Norah he knew before all this change. When he opened them, her body had shifted back to its familiar shape, the extra curves smoothed away as if they’d never existed.

Norah sat back, testing her balance on two. “See?” he said, eyes dancing. “Easier to manage.”

She shook her head, voice soft with wonder. “And you’d do that for me? Just imagine and I’m back?”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Anything for you.”

They moved to the kitchen, the morning light playing across her contours—now pleasingly familiar—yet he couldn’t quite erase the memory of her expanded silhouette. Coffee steamed between them as they settled at the counter, knees brushing, fingers entwining. Conversation lulled and returned like a gentle tide.

When they finished, Norah stood and stretched—a study in exaggerated curves—and then slipped behind him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She rested her chin on his head, and for a moment Andy felt suspended, suspended in the orbit of her calm.

“You okay?” she murmured, breath warm against his ear.

He closed his eyes. “Perfect.”

She pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Good.” Then she paused, voice low and earnest. “Because this,” she gestured at the quiet kitchen, the sunlight, him, “isn’t just about… appearance. You know that, right?”

Andy shifted in his chair and turned to meet her gaze. “I do.”

Norah’s features softened into a smile that reached her eyes. She squeezed his shoulders. “Then we’re good.”

They lingered there, sunlight and soft laughter filling the room.

By late morning, the sun had slipped behind a gauze of clouds, transforming the atrium into a softbox of indirect light. The hotel’s great glass nave had always reminded Andy of a greenhouse, and today it was filled with just as much wild life. Emi and Claire occupied the bench nearest the koi pond, knees drawn up, Claire’s notebook open on her lap. Emi spoke in the dreamy, meandering way of someone piecing together memories from two lifetimes ago; Claire listened with the full, silent attention of a court reporter, only pausing to jot a word or underline a name.

So she was always like that? Claire wrote, holding up the page. Emi nodded, then grinned.

“Always. She’d make up stories for the river—she’d tell us every summer it was haunted by a ghost with blue eyes.” Emi’s expression grew wistful. “She used to scare Chloe so bad, but then she’d leave a cookie under her pillow so she wouldn’t have nightmares.”

Claire scribbled. Did Andy believe in the ghost?

Emi smiled, her lower arms hugging her knees, middle arms supporting her as she leaned back, the upper two gesturing in the air. “Andy doesn’t believe in anything unless he can take it apart.” She bit her lip. “But I think he liked the idea, anyway. Sometimes he’d pretend to be scared just to make her happy.” She sighed. "After Laura died, stories about a blue-eyed ghost haunting the footbridge started appearing. I always wondered if Andy believed those ones."

On cue, Chloe arrived, her hair in a loose braid, carrying two mugs. She handed one to Emi, then set the other at Claire’s elbow with a gentle, “Here.” Her body language was different today—less guarded, more present. She lingered as Emi recounted stories, and when Claire asked, quietly, if the ghost was real, Chloe blushed and said, “Maybe not, but she liked the river more after the story.”

The conversation meandered. Emi explained Laura’s obsession with time capsules (“She buried one every year, even if it was just a letter to herself. The last one, Andy dug up the week after…”) and Claire pressed for details, her blue eyes sharp, insistent. She wanted to know what Laura was like—not just the surface, but the inside. What she dreamed about. What she feared. Whether she ever got scared of the dark.

Andy watched this from a distance, Norah at his side. They’d found their way to the atrium after breakfast, Norah in one of Andy’s button-downs—she claimed she had better dignity than to be seen for breakfast in rock-climbing gear, although Andy suspected ulterior motives. The rest of the women noticed Norah’s satisfied grin immediately. Dawn, walking past with a basket of laundry, did a double take and nearly dropped her socks. Sam, who was watering the ferns, gave a low whistle and called, “Hot damn, girl. When did this happen?” Several of the other women seemed to struggle with the concept of a smiling Norah.

Norah didn’t miss a beat. “Ask your Master. He’s the real culprit.”

Dawn giggled, then retreated, cheeks pink. Sam gave Andy a thumbs-up, then mouthed, “I like this version.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but Andy could see the way her hands moved—casually resting on her hips, thumbs hooked into the shirt, drawing it tighter with every motion. She was, in her own way, enjoying the attention.

He was about to join the bench, but his gaze snagged on Riley. She sat alone at the far end of the garden, at one of the stone tables. She’d braided her hair into a tight rope, the strands so bright it looked almost unreal in the filtered light. Her face was closed off, eyes trained on the glass of juice she turned slowly in her hand, as if hoping the motion would yield some secret.

Norah followed his line of sight. “You going to talk to her?” she asked.

Andy nodded. “I should.”

“She might bite,” Norah said, but there was no judgment in her voice—just the honest warning of someone who’d seen it before.

Andy squeezed Norah’s hand, then made his way across the flagstones. As he passed Emi and Claire, Emi caught his eye, then dipped her head in Riley’s direction, as if to say: Good luck.

He approached slowly, hands in pockets. Riley didn’t look up, but the way she tensed suggested she’d noticed him before he was halfway there.

He slid onto the stone bench opposite her, careful to leave space. “Morning,” he said.

Riley’s voice was sandpaper and honey. “You sure?”

He smiled, but gently. “Morning for me. Is it not for you?”

She shrugged, a small, deliberate motion. “Every day’s the same in this place. Maybe that’s the point.”

He let the silence stretch, then said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

This earned a glance, but only for a heartbeat. She resumed spinning the glass, the orange juice inside forming a whirlpool.

“I mean it,” he said. “I know you didn’t have to come.”

Riley snorted. “Of course I did. You think I’d leave the scene before the finale?”

Andy let the sarcasm roll past him. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

She looked up, finally, her mismatched eyes sharp as scalpels. “I spent sixteen years with the dead. You think I don’t know how to talk to a ghost?”

He didn’t flinch, but something in his chest twinged. “I’m not trying to haunt you,” he said.

“No,” Riley agreed. “You’re just trying to make the world safe for yourself.” She pushed her glass aside, stood, and for the first time Andy noticed how slender she’d gotten. She looked more like a wireframe than a woman.

She paused at the edge of the table, her voice softer. “Next time you want to bring someone on, make sure you ask if they want it.” Then she left, boots making no sound on the stone.

Andy sat there for a moment, absorbing the aftershock. He was about to get up when Emi appeared, two of her hands full of wildflowers.

“She’s not mad at you,” Emi said, sitting beside him.

Andy laughed, hollow. “Could have fooled me.”

Emi shrugged, arranging the flowers into a rough bouquet. “She’s mad at herself. But it’s easier to point the gun somewhere else.”

He watched her work, the way her hands moved with grace and intent. “You always this wise?” he asked.

Emi smiled, a sadness behind it. “Only when it’s not about me.”

Andy looked up, scanning the atrium. The rest of the harem had drifted into small, buoyant groups: Dawn and Liesa trading secrets over mimosas; Chloe and Claire giggling over a half-drawn cat doodle; Norah basking in a patch of sunlight, her shirt unbuttoned one snap further than before, daring the world to object.

He felt the world settling into a new shape. Not perfect, but real. Some wounds would never close, but maybe they didn’t need to. Maybe they just needed to keep walking forward, even if it meant limping for a while.

He stood, thanked Emi, and joined the others. For now, that was enough.

The sunroom terrace was a slice of summer set on pause: two chaises, side by side, shaded by a canvas awning and a cloudless blue. Erin had picked the spot for its privacy, but as the morning wore on, it became clear neither she nor Emily gave a damn who might walk by. Maybe it was the shoes—the only item either of them wore—that made the difference. Maybe it was the years since college, the way adulthood slowly stripped away shame until only stubbornness and skin remained.

Emily stretched on the lounge. “It’s funny,” she said, “how quickly you get used to this.”

Erin grunted in response, eyes closed, arms folded beneath her head. “You seem like you were born used to it.”

Emily snorted. “God, no. I was the last one at the locker room to change, all through high school. But then this happened—” she gestured, meaning the transformation, the enforced nudity, the body that refused every offer of a cover-up “—and I realized I could either feel like a freak all the time, or feel sexy and cool. So I went for the latter.” She paused, glancing sidelong at Erin. “You look like you could bench-press a truck, by the way.”

Erin opened one eye. “I can,” she said, deadpan. “But only if it’s a very small, European truck.”

Emily laughed. It was bright, infectious, and for a second Erin forgot she’d ever been self-conscious about her own body. Which was, she had to admit, a feat: her huge breasts now sat on her chest like a daring architectural experiment, every motion setting off a chain reaction beneath her sternum.

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. "Do you ever regret it? Letting them do this to you?"

Emily's laugh was hollow. "I did it to myself, actually." At Erin's widened eyes, she continued, "My season had this challenge with a transformation gun. I thought I'd win the audience over if I let them vote on transformations for me." She tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear. "Jake—my boyfriend then—was supposed to pick which one stayed permanent after the challenge. All the others would disappear." Her voice dropped. "We got into this stupid fight right after. He said I was being reckless, doing this to myself to win the challenge, and..." She gestured at her naked form. "I was angry and retorted that maybe he wanted me to stay nude. There was a moment when he considered it, I guess. The nudity locked in." She sighed. "I was stuck this way for days in my season, and then two years in the Garden, where everyone knew me. Now, here? I feel self-conscious all over again. You're the first person I've talked to who actually... gets it."

Erin studied her. There was nothing self-pitying about the way Emily said it—just a matter-of-fact acknowledgment, like naming a color or a temperature. It made Erin want to defend her, to promise that nobody would ever make her feel alone in this new reality.

“You know,” Emily said, “you’re kind of my hero. I mean, if I had boobs like yours, I’d never leave the house. I’d just… look at them all day.”

Erin barked a laugh. “Trust me, the novelty wears off. Then you start looking for bras that can double as flotation devices.”

Emily wrinkled her nose. “You think Andy could cheat code me some? Not J’s, but, you know. Something more than a C.”

Erin shrugged, then shook her head. “If you want something, just ask him. He’s… weird about saying no to pretty girls he likes. Also, I suspect he has a thing for us in Team Skin.”

Emily’s smile faded, replaced by a tentative seriousness. “Do you think Andy ever regrets it? Like, any of this?”

Erin remembered nights when she’d caught Andy staring into the dark, turning questions over in his head the way some people worried at loose teeth. She thought about his ****, his apologies, the way he always seemed to bear the weight for everyone else. “If he does,” she said, “he’ll never say. He’s too busy trying to fix everyone else’s problems.”

Emily nodded, as if this confirmed something she’d already suspected. They let the silence stretch again, comfortable now, like the pause between breaths.

“I have a question,” Emily said, almost shyly. “And you don’t have to answer if it’s weird.”

Erin raised an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Emily hesitated, picking her words. “Do you… do you ever wish he’d pick you? Like, just you?”

The question landed with a kind of soft ****, and for a moment Erin didn’t know how to respond. She bit the inside of her cheek, eyes flickering away. “I used to. Back in college, for a while after. And after we reconciled, the evening after the first challenge’s results. Got into big arguments with Claire, and Sam had to play peacekeeper. Took me a while to come to terms with the idea that it was out of everybody’s hands. But now…” She exhaled, a long, slow breath. “I guess I made my peace with the fact that, after all this, it’s not about winning. Not anymore. It’s about knowing I can trust him to be there. Even if he’s there for other people, too.” She smiled faintly. “When this happened to me, he didn’t hesitate. Went up to Arabella and told her he was taking me in for the night. He knew I needed him but didn’t wait until I asked. If he can do that, if he can be that guy… then I know he’ll be there for me even if there are ten other women clamoring for his attention. And I know he loves me. That’s all I want.”

Emily’s expression softened. “That’s actually really sweet.”

Erin snorted. “Don’t tell him. He’ll get a big head.”

Emily went quiet, gaze turning inward. After a moment, she said, “Can I ask you one last thing?”

“Shoot.”

Emily hesitated, then: “Is he… good? Like, can I trust him?”

Erin felt the question hit her like a wind change. She thought about Andy—about the boy she’d dated, the man he’d become, the way he’d learned to carry other people’s pain instead of just his own. She thought about the way he’d looked at Claire with something dangerously close to hope.

“You can trust him,” Erin said, finally. “He’s an idiot, and he screws up like everyone else, but if he says he’ll take care of you, he means it. Even if it kills him.”

Emily nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing. “Okay. That’s all I needed to know.”

For a long while, they just lay there, letting the sun and the silence do their work. It was a better therapy than Erin would have believed possible. She felt, for the first time since her last transformation, like she’d found a kind of equilibrium. Maybe even a purpose.

A sharp laugh broke the moment. Somewhere past the patio, someone was arguing—voices close enough to hear but not quite words yet. Sam strode up the main path, sandals in hand, hair pulled into a blue knot that matched her shorts.

Sam wasn’t alone. Liesa trailed behind, arms crossed tight over her chest, posture all hunched lines and apology. They paused at the edge of the garden, half in shadow, and Sam gestured for Liesa to sit on the low stone wall. Liesa did, tucking her knees up as if to shield herself. It looked like an interrogation, but Sam’s voice was steady, not angry.

“I said, are you going to tell her?” Sam asked, her tone halfway between a big sister and an RA on rounds. Liesa didn’t answer right away. She picked at a loose thread on her skirt, eyes locked on the ground.

“It’s not a trick question,” Sam went on, softer now. “But you keep putting it off.”

Liesa’s accent came through thick when she finally replied. “I am afraid she will not like me after,” she said. “Or that she will hate me for ruining the game.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Liesa. You already ruined the game. The only way to make it better is to be honest.”

Liesa shrugged, a motion that seemed to compress her whole frame. “Maybe if I wait, it will be less terrible.”

Sam laughed, once, sharp. “Or maybe if you wait, it’ll be even more of a bomb when it goes off.”

For a while, neither spoke. Then Liesa looked up, just for a second, and said, “Did you ever do something you could not fix?”

Sam thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah. And I still think about it every day.”

Liesa stared at her, as if searching for some secret in the lines of Sam’s face. Then she said, barely audible, “I am not ready.”

Sam let out a sigh, then squeezed Liesa’s shoulder—firm, not quite gentle. “Then you’d better get ready. Because it’ll hurt less if you’re the one who says it.”

They sat there for a minute, the conversation gone, but the tension still tight as piano wire. On the wall, Sam stood up, stretched, and offered her hand to Liesa, who took it without hesitation. The two of them disappeared around the corner, voices muffled but no longer sharp.

After lunch, the sitting room felt quieter than usual, like someone had muted the world but left the light on full blast. Andy sat on the window bench, elbows on his knees, lost in the glassy shimmer of the lagoon. It was a borrowed stillness—he knew that at any moment, someone (probably Norah) would come barreling in with a crisis or a story or a request for his time. He was in the Hall so he could be there for whoever needed him. But for now, it was just him, the water, and the slow hum of the HVAC system.

Emily entered so quietly he almost missed her. She carried a tray with two mugs and a little plate of shortbread cookies. Her hair fell straight and shiny over her shoulders, the gold strands hiding her face until she set the tray on the table. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and blue and startlingly direct.

Emily moved with a careful, almost studied grace as she arranged the mugs on the low table. She poured tea into both, the spout of the pot so close to the rim that the liquid barely made a sound as it hit. She set one cup in front of Andy, then folded herself onto the armchiar next to him. For a minute, they sat in the quiet together, neither sure how to start.

Andy glanced sideways. Emily’s hair was perfectly parted, the gold and pink highlights making her look younger than she was. She watched the lagoon for a full minute, silent and pensive, before turning to him and offering a cookie.

He took one, not because he wanted it, but because it felt rude to refuse.

“Thanks,” he said, voice hushed.

She nodded, then stared into her tea as if waiting for an answer to bubble up from the depths.

The room was so silent he could hear the soft scrape of the mug as she twisted it in her hands. Finally, Emily said, “I wanted to ask you something, but it’s kind of weird.”

Andy smiled, “Go for it. I’ve done enough weird in the past month, I’m basically immune.”

She didn’t laugh, just pressed her lips together and tapped her fingernail on the ceramic rim.

“When you’re alone, like—really alone, and nobody’s watching—what kind of person do you think you are?”

The question wasn’t a joke, wasn’t a prompt for self-deprecation. Andy felt it land between them, heavy and real. He looked at Emily, saw the earnestness in her eyes, the need for a true answer. He could tell this wasn’t about him, not really. It was about something she was afraid to ask for herself.

He took a breath. “I think…” He stopped, started over. “I think I’m someone who wants to do the right thing, but sometimes overthinks it and then messes it up anyway. I want to help, but I’m so afraid of getting it wrong that sometimes I don’t even try.”

Emily’s gaze didn’t leave his. She nodded for him to go on.

He searched for words. “But when it’s just me, when I know nobody will ever find out if I screw up—I don’t know, I still try to do it right. Even if it’s only for myself.”

He paused, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “That’s probably not what you were hoping to hear.”

Emily shook her head, hair falling over her cheekbones. “No, that’s… It’s honest. I like that.”

She tucked her knees tighter to her chest, thinking. “Sometimes I worry that I’m only a good person if someone else is watching. Like I’ll just fade into the background if nobody needs me to be something.”

Andy considered that. “Maybe we’re all like that a little. But I don’t think you could fade away if you tried.”

Emily smiled, but it was a small, sad thing. “You don’t know me very well yet.”

He let that hang, not wanting to argue or push. Instead, he sipped his tea, waiting for whatever came next.

After a while, Emily said, “I want to trust you. I mean, I think I do already, but I need to know you won’t, like, disappear or turn mean once you have what you want.”

He could see her bracing herself for a bad answer, but he said, “I won’t. I promise.”

She took a breath that seemed to deflate her, the tension leaking out of her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, and she meant it.

They didn’t talk for a long while. The sunlight slanted lower, dust motes drifting in the beam that cut across the glass. Eventually, Emily stood up and took the tray, balancing the mugs with both hands.

“I’ll see you later?” she said.

Andy nodded. “Yeah. Anytime.”

She lingered for a second, looking at him as if trying to memorize his answer, then disappeared down the hall.

Andy sat back and let the silence fill in. The room was still, the world unchanged, but he felt the weight of the conversation settle around him. He wondered if he’d said the right thing, or if there even was a right thing.

He finished his tea in three quick swallows, then went to look for Marissa.

Andy found Marissa where he least expected her—on the garden path behind the central atrium, arms folded, her pink silk blouse fluttering in the wind. She had a way of appearing suddenly, with the composed gravity of a seasoned therapist and the easy warmth of someone who genuinely liked to surprise him.

She beckoned with a tilt of her chin. “Walk with me?” Her voice was low and calm, but something about the set of her mouth told Andy she was trying not to smile too much.

He fell in step beside her. The path looped beneath a dense arbor, sunlight pricking through the leaves in a shifting pattern. Marissa’s stride was confident, and Andy matched it, trying not to notice how her blouse clung to her skin, or how the open collar revealed a smooth, gold chain at her throat.

“I have a confession,” she said, as they rounded a bend and left the noise of the hotel behind.

Andy braced himself, expecting either a joke or a revelation about the next challenge.

Marissa glanced sideways, blue eyes half-shuttered. “I know the rules here are strange. That everything is curated—by design, by Arabella, by whoever is running this show.” She paused, waiting for him to disagree, but he only nodded.

She went on: “So I thought, what if I did something off-script? Something neither of us could have predicted.”

Andy smiled. “You mean this walk?”

She shook her head, lips quirking. “No. This.” She took his hand, her fingers cool but strong, and pulled him down a narrow spur off the main path, nearly hidden behind a stand of bamboo.

He followed, letting her lead. The path wound up a series of shallow steps, then through a glass door, out onto a rooftop terrace high above the lagoon. It was nothing like the sterile balconies off the hotel rooms. Here, the garden was wild—succulents and orchids crowding the edge, trellises laced with flowering vines, hammocks strung in every possible direction.

Marissa released his hand and gestured him forward. “Welcome to my hideout.”

He stared. “When did you find this?”

She shrugged. “I spend a lot of time wandering. It helps me think.”

The view was spectacular. Beyond the glass rail, the entire lagoon spread out, the turquoise water glittering in the sun. The breeze carried salt and the faint, sweet burn of hibiscus. Near the center of the terrace, a low table was already set with a carafe of tea, plates of fruit, two Adirondack chairs, and a pile of soft, mismatched pillows.

“Come on,” Marissa said. “It’s safer than it looks.” She sat on the edge of a chair, and pointed to the one beside her.

Andy couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Marissa so at ease. He sat on the chair, finding it surprisingly comfortable. He poured tea into two mismatched mugs, and she accepted hers with a thank you and a gentle touch of her fingers on his. The gesture lingered a half second too long, and Andy felt a warmth that wasn’t from the sun.

They drank in silence at first, the wind whistling around the glass and the water below. Andy let his gaze drift; Marissa was watching the horizon, her profile sharp and serene. He wondered how much she’d planned this, whether the setting was a calculated move or just another way she kept herself busy.

He didn’t have to wonder long. Marissa turned to him, mug in hand, and said, “Do you ever miss home? The real home, not the one we’ve all built here?”

Andy thought. “Sometimes. But I think I miss people more than places.”

Marissa smiled. “You were always that way. Even before.” She brushed a hair behind her ear, then laughed. “I hope it doesn’t weird you out, me talking like I’ve known you for years. I try not to be the therapist here, but sometimes it’s hard to turn off.”

He grinned. “It’s okay. If anything, it’s comforting.”

She glanced down, tracing the rim of her mug with one finger. “I wanted you to see this place because it’s my favorite spot to feel small. I like the perspective.” She gestured at the open water, the endless blue. “It helps me remember that I’m not the center of the world, even if my problems feel that way sometimes.”

Andy nodded, understanding more than he could say. He watched the birds circle over the lagoon, watched the wind ruffle the flowers. It was easy to believe in smallness here, and easier to admit things that might sound self-important anywhere else.

Marissa must have sensed it, because she said, “Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Andy considered. “I’m afraid of running out of time,” he said. “It’s stupid, but every morning I wake up and I’m worried I’ve wasted too much already. Like I’ll never have enough to do everything I want.”

She looked at him, then reached out, her hand resting on his knee. “That’s not stupid. I think you’re using your time better than you think.”

He smiled, but it was bittersweet. “I never know if I’m making the right choices. I feel like I’m always guessing.”

Marissa sipped her tea, her hand never leaving his knee. “The people who think they always know what they’re doing are the ones who screw up most. I’d rather have someone who questions everything than someone who never questions anything.”

They talked for a while—about old jobs, about strange vacation stories, about the world before the Hotel. Marissa told him about her childhood in New Jersey, about the long summers in her backyard with her sister. Andy told her about the first time he realized he liked helping people, even if it meant losing. The conversation was easy, the silences never awkward. She laughed at his dumb jokes, and he found himself wanting to keep talking just to see her smile.

At one point, Marissa shifted her chair nearer, so that her head rested on his shoulder. Her hair smelled like rain and something floral. She traced circles on the inside of his wrist, a pattern she must have learned in some book on intimacy but made her own by the gentleness of it.

He put his arm around her, and she nestled in, her body perfectly aligned to his. He could feel the slow, steady beat of her heart through her blouse. It reminded him of old Sunday mornings, when the world was quiet and it was safe to be ****.

“Do you ever think about what you want after all this?” she asked, voice muffled by his shirt.

Andy hesitated. “Sometimes. But I’m never sure if what I want is even possible.”

Marissa looked up at him, eyes searching. “Try me.”

He tried to find the words. “I guess I want… peace? Not in a boring way, but in a way where I don’t have to fight for every second of it. I want to wake up and not have a dozen regrets waiting on the nightstand.”

She smiled, and the look she gave him was pure admiration. “You’re not as broken as you think, Andy.”

He huffed a laugh. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

She poked his side. “I am. When you first got here, I thought you were going to break yourself trying to protect everyone else. I’m glad you finally let yourself have something, too.”

He looked at her, at the curve of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders. “You mean someone?”

Marissa kissed him then, slow and warm. She lingered, her lips soft and sure, her hand slipping around the back of his neck to anchor him in place. It was a simple kiss, but it said everything.

When she pulled away, she was blushing. “Sorry. That was probably unprofessional.”

He grinned. “Do it again.”

She did, this time with more confidence, her body pressed fully against his. He could feel the softness of her breasts, the rise and fall of her chest as she exhaled. He remembered, suddenly, the therapist’s office years ago—how she’d always kept a careful distance, always projected authority. Here, now, she was just Marissa, and she was his.

They sat that way for a long time, neither in a hurry to move or talk. Eventually, the sun began to set, streaking the lagoon with ribbons of pink and gold.

Marissa broke the silence. “You know, after seeing Chloe and Erin, and now Norah, I’ve stopped thinking of myself as ‘big-breasted.’” She glanced down at her chest, then at Andy, mischief in her eyes. “In fact, I feel almost conservative.”

Andy laughed. “If you want, I’m pretty sure I could hack that for you. There’s a code for—” He gestured, hands out like scales. “—exponential growth.”

She snorted, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her tea. “God, please no. I’d be rolling out of the chair.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Could be fun to try, at least once.”

She shook her head, grinning. “Maybe for you, not for my back.”

He pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers. “I like you just the way you are, for the record.”

She softened at that, her fingers curling in his hair. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

They watched the sun finish its work, the colors fading into a soft indigo. The lagoon below was dotted with lights from the hotel, but up here, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

Andy found himself talking about Laura, about memories he hadn’t shared with anyone else—not even with Sam or Chloe or Emi. Marissa listened, sometimes asking questions, sometimes just holding his hand. He talked about the footbridge, about the last conversation he’d had with Laura, about how it haunted him, still.

Marissa squeezed his hand. “You’ve grown so much since you came here,” she said, and there was no doubt in her voice. “I’m proud of you.”

He looked at her, surprised at the intensity in her eyes. “Is that the therapist talking?”

She shook her head, then nodded, then laughed. “It’s both. But mostly it’s the girl who’s fallen in love with you.”

Andy went still. He wasn’t expecting that—he had heard the words, not the way she said them.

He searched her face for any sign of a joke or a test, but found none.

He kissed her, slow and deliberate, letting the words fill the space between them. When they parted, Marissa rested her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapped tight around his waist.

“I love you, too,” Andy said, so quietly he wasn’t sure she heard.

But she did. She squeezed him, and together they snuggled, watching the sky until the stars came out.

When it got cold, Marissa pulled a blanket from the pile of pillows and tucked it around both of them. They drank the last of the tea, ate the fruit, and lay together in the warmth. The wind rattled the glass walls, but inside, it was peaceful.

They talked about the future—what they’d do if they ever escaped, where they’d go, what kind of life they wanted. Marissa said she wanted a house near water, somewhere with a garden and a kitchen big enough for everyone to cook together. Andy said he wanted a studio for writing, a place to make music. They joked about starting a commune for wayward catgirls and ex-therapists.

Marissa kissed him as dinnertime approached, and smiled. "I need to get changed before our date, and you may want to put some food in you. I'll meet you in the Suite in a little while." Her eyes glittered behind her glasses, and Andy nodded, watching as she sashayed away, for once perfectly comfortable in her own skin.