The Hearth's Embrace, Part 1

VP and BP Standings
Erin - 99 VP - 5100 BP - 2 Achievs
Liesa - 96 VP - 3200 BP - 3 Achievs
Sam - 95 VP - 7700 BP - 2 Achievs
Claire - 87 VP - 8900 BP - 2 Achievs
Emi - 86 VP - 6050 BP - 3 Achievs
Marissa - 77 VP - 5000 BP - 2 Achievs
Norah - 74 VP - 4350 BP - 3 Achievs
Emily - 62 VP - 5600 BP - 2 Achievs (2 used)
Dawn - 60 VP - 8300 BP - 3 Achievs
Chloe - 45 VP - 7775 BP - 1 Achiev
Riley - 42 VP - 7100 BP - 3 Achievs
Myra - 20 VP - 6800 BP - 1 Achiev
Laura - 18 VP - 6950 BP - 1 Achiev

Andy woke with a faceful of tangled strawberry-blonde hair and the firm conviction that he couldn’t feel his left arm. Liesa had somehow managed to burrow so deeply into his side that even his ribs felt claimed. Her leg was thrown over both of his, and her arms—stronger than they looked, paint-splattered and perfect—clamped his midsection with the determined tenacity of a starfish. She was drooling, faintly, onto his chest.

He didn't dare move. Instead, he watched her breathe: the slow, soft rhythm of sleep, the way her face slackened into peace when she was deeply under. In the early gray light, her features looked younger than he remembered. She had always done this, even during those three months in Chicago before she’d disappeared. She would wrap around him like she was afraid he’d vanish the second she let go, like the world was just waiting to prove her right.

He lifted his free hand, brushed the hair from her cheek. Liesa didn’t stir, but her grip around his ribs got tighter, as if she’d sensed the change in airflow. He smiled. There was something in this that made him ache—in the best way, the way that reminded him he was a real person, in a real world, with real stakes.

He thought about last night: the wildness of it, the way her body seemed to forget itself, the way her need made him want to be the man she believed him to be. He remembered the tears, the laughter, the whispered confessions in the dark. And underneath all of it, the knowledge—solid, unblinking—that he’d never really known the depth of what she’d survived until now.

He thought about all she had told him, and all she hadn’t. The Garden of Glass had shown him the worst of it, but it couldn’t show the everyday aftermath. It couldn’t show the way she still looked for exits in every room, or how she flinched at sudden noise, or how she’d learned to preempt shame by joking about it first. It couldn’t show the years after her mother’s suicide, or the way her father’s sadness dragged them both under, or how Liesa had sold her body not for pleasure, but because she thought there was no other way to survive.

He wanted to tell her, right now, that she deserved more than survival. She deserved every good thing that found her. She deserved to be loved—by him, by Sam, by every sister she’d found on this impossible island. She deserved to make art for herself, not for clients or for approval, but just because it made her happy. She deserved to wake up every morning knowing she had a right to be in the world.

He bent, kissed the top of her head, feeling the tickle of her hair against his chin. She mumbled something in her sleep—something Flemish, he thought, but too slurred to catch. He smiled again, chest full and soft and aching.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispered. “You made a different choice this time. You stayed. You let yourself be seen.”

He stroked her head, gentle as he could. “I love you,” he said, barely audible.

Liesa’s eyelid fluttered, her grip tightening just for a moment before settling. He felt her breath, warm on his chest, and the press of her body anchoring him to the mattress. Andy knew the moment wouldn’t last—soon, the hunger would return, or the world would intrude, or the day would start and pull them both forward. But for now, he let it be enough.

He lay awake, holding her, while the sun stretched its first pale fingers across the suite and the egg-army grinned at them from the other room. He wondered if Liesa would remember this, or if it would fade in the jumble of all the mornings before and after.

He decided, quietly, that he would remember it for her, just in case.

Liesa woke slow, like she was surfacing through a dozen layers of soft cotton. For a few seconds she didn't move, just let herself listen to the world: the shush of air through the curtains, the creak of the mattress as Andy shifted his weight, the faint, persistent pop of eggshells settling in the glass bowl two rooms away.

She blinked, then squinted at the window, where the morning light was already working its way through the trees outside. Her first instinct was to recoil—hide her face, pull away, armor up before the world could ask her for anything. But she didn't want to move. She wanted to stay exactly like this, in the cradle of Andy's arms, with his hand tangled in her hair and his chest as the only thing between her and gravity.

"You awake?" he whispered, not moving except for the shift of his chin against her scalp.

She nodded, not trusting her voice yet.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Liesa nuzzled in, let herself memorize the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was an old, familiar rhythm, but one she hadn't dared to think about in years. The memory hurt, a little, but not enough to make her let go.

After a few minutes, Andy said, "You're squeezing the hell out of me, you know."

She snorted, face still pressed to his chest. "You like it," she said, voice scratchy but real.

He smiled, thumb stroking the back of her neck. "Not complaining."

Liesa hesitated, then **** herself to say what was caught in her throat. "I was afraid you would think less of me," she said, the words rough-edged but honest. "Because of last night. Because of what the curse does." She paused, then continued, "At first, I hated it. I hated how it made me—want. How I couldn't stop, even when I wanted to. It felt like a joke, or a punishment."

She swallowed, then pulled back enough to meet Andy's gaze. "But then… you didn't make it a joke. And neither did Sam. You both just—held me. Like I was still me, not just a problem to be solved."

Andy cupped her face, gentle and certain. "It's not a problem," he said. "It's you. All of it. Your art, your laugh, your hunger, your stubbornness. It's all the same person."

She blushed, ducking her head. "Sam said the same thing. Except with more joking."

He laughed. "I'm not surprised."

Liesa drew a shaky breath, letting the air fill her lungs. "I know it's never going away," she said. "I know it's a part of me now. But if you both can live with it… maybe I can, too. Maybe I can even enjoy it. Be that girl, the one who always wants." She smiled, tentative and shy. "Maybe that's not the worst thing."

Andy kissed her forehead, lingering. "It's not," he promised. "I love all of you. Even the part that's hungry every morning."

She smiled wider, the fear dissolving. "Good," she said, voice steady now. "Because I don't want to run anymore."

He pulled her close, holding her with all the care in the world.

Liesa slipped out just after breakfast, leaving behind a note that said, in lopsided cursive, "don’t be gone long, meester," with a smiley so big it curled onto the back of the paper. Andy stood for a moment, watching the door close. He felt the absence acutely, not as a loss but as the cool afterglow of her having been there at all.

He showered, dressed, and wandered the hallways with no clear plan except to see what the day would do with him. The hotel felt lighter, as if the air itself had been replaced overnight with something more forgiving. He caught the scent of lemons and saw a Mildred whisk by, arms full of sheets, and he felt almost… normal.

The main hall opened into the courtyard, a lush, circular space with benches, a low tiled fountain, and the relentless hum of bees in the bougainvillea. There, framed by the light that spilled through the glass roof, stood Laura. Both of her.

They were positioned perfectly symmetrical, shoulder to shoulder, feet apart at the same angle. She’d chosen to dress both bodies identically: black t-shirts (plain, sharp), faded jeans (rolled at the ankle), and battered pink sneakers that looked like they’d survived several generations of footraces. Her hair was down, black as spilled ink, parted on opposite sides for each head. She looked, Andy thought, like a reflection drawn by someone who only half-believed in mirrors.

She saw him instantly. Both faces brightened, and she started toward him, moving in lockstep so uncanny it was almost choreographed.

"Did you like the eggs?" she said, both voices layered, the sound slightly out of phase but perfectly clear.

Andy grinned, the awkwardness dissolving in the heat of her attention. "They were a hit. Liesa almost cried laughing."

Laura nodded, satisfaction blooming in both sets of eyes. "Good. I wanted it to be funny, not mean."

He cocked an eyebrow, unable to resist. "What about the one with the fangs? Was that supposed to be me?"

She shrugged, sheepish. "Maybe. Or maybe it was for Chloe. She used to bite her pencils until they looked like horror props."

He laughed, and for a moment the years rolled back; it was just them, daring each other to eat cafeteria pudding, or sneaking into the science wing after hours to see if the pickled frog would finally float. The comfort in her presence was immediate, like a familiar song played on a better stereo.

She stopped about a meter from him, both bodies mirroring the movement, hands tucked into the front pockets of her jeans. "You look happier," she said.

He considered the words, then nodded. "I am. Today, anyway. Maybe it’s the eggs."

She tilted her heads in opposite directions. "Or maybe you’re just getting used to being loved."

The words hit him sideways, but he rolled with it, trying not to show the shiver they sent down his spine. "I’m working on it," he said. "It’s easier, these days."

She grinned, teeth showing in stereo. For a few seconds, they stood in silence, the hum of bees and the burble of the fountain the only sound. Laura seemed at peace in a way she hadn’t before—not loose, exactly, but settled. Like she’d accepted the new shape of her life and was now determined to find the good in it.

He cleared his throat. "How are you, really?"

She rocked on her heels, both bodies in perfect sync. "It’s weird. I get flashes of being thirteen again. I keep thinking I need to be somewhere, or that my mom is going to yell at me for coming home late. But then I remember I’m an adult, and I get to make my own rules."

Andy nodded, unable to speak for a second.

She softened, both faces suddenly ****. "Sometimes it’s hard. I remember… everything. I think of all the things I never got to do. It’s like I’m living out someone else’s second chance."

He wanted to pull her in, to hold both bodies tight until the old hurt leaked out and only the new hope remained. But she didn’t need saving—at least, not today. Instead, he said, "I missed you. Even when I thought you were gone forever, I kept hoping you’d find your way back."

This time, both of her right hands slipped out of her pockets and reached for his hands, doubled but gentle. She took his hands, squeezing, the grip more real than anything he’d ever felt. "I’m not going anywhere," she said, voice rich with promise.

He looked at her, at the odd symmetry of her faces, the smiles and the unbreakable core of her. He found himself wanting, suddenly, to take her back to the Suite—just the two of them, for an hour or two before Dawn’s date. He pictured her bodies curled against him, the hush of the room, the simple comfort of not being alone.

But Laura shook her heads, a tiny, twin gesture. "No," she said, as if reading his mind. "Today is Dawn’s. She’s been planning it for a week. And she deserves it." She paused, her voices dropping softer. "She’s wriggled her way in, you know. Into my heart. I don’t know how she did it, but I can’t even be jealous of her. She’s such a good person I swear she shines with her own light sometimes. I don’t want to hurt her."

He laughed, relieved by her honesty, by the way she made even disappointment feel like a kind of gift. "You’re too good," he said.

She rolled her eyes, one body and then the other. "That’s not what you used to say when we were twelve."

He smiled, memories swirling. "You used to trip me in the halls."

She grinned, unrepentant. "You deserved it."

He leaned in, kissed her left cheek, then the right, then pressed his lips to each of her mouths in turn. She blushed—both faces, perfectly pink, perfectly real.

"Go," she said, nudging him toward the door. "You have a date to get ready for."

He lingered for a second, then let her go, the warmth of her grip echoing up his arms long after he’d left the courtyard.

Laura stood in the sun, her bodies balanced and bright, as if she’d always been meant to take up twice as much space in the world.

Andy was glad for it.

Dawn met Emi by the boardwalk just before the sun came up, the sky a bruised yellow behind the eastern ridge and the sand still cold enough to bite through the soles of their feet. Emi wore her favorite hoodie—oversized, with a faded print of the Tokyo subway map, tailored by Arabella with six sleeves—and shorts that barely covered her thighs. Her hair was a little messy, three hands smoothing it in **** rhythm as she approached. Dawn had to admit, she looked pretty cute like that.

They walked the stretch of beach in silence at first, the kind of hush that isn’t awkward but waiting, each listening for a signal from the other. The tide was in, so their footprints vanished almost as soon as they made them, the foam swallowing every trace like a magic trick. Emi led the way, picking up little shells as they went, turning them over in her palms before dropping them back into the sand. She had a rhythm, a kind of deliberate slowness, that made even the smallest gestures seem important. Dawn found herself watching the swirl of blue and gold where the surf met the sand.

After a while, Emi said, “How are you really doing?”

Dawn exhaled, the question knocking loose more truth than she was ready for. “I’m… okay. I’m excited that today is my day with Andy. Other than that… some days are easier than others. Some days I wake up and I’m still in Chicago, you know? The hotel, the lobby, the sound of the city in the morning. Then I look in the mirror, and…” She mimed the motion, flicking her new bunny ears. “It’s never what I expect.”

Emi waited, sensing there was more.

“I miss my brothers so much,” Dawn said, voice barely above the shush of surf. “And it’s stupid, because I’m literally living in paradise. But it doesn’t feel real unless I know they’re okay. Luis is the strong one, he’s a firefighter now, but Sebastian…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

“He’s still a baby?” Emi prompted, gentle.

Dawn nodded. “He’s almost a foot taller than me and still calls me ‘Hermana Mayor’ like he’s four years old. I used to make him breakfast every morning before school. He has the world’s worst sweet tooth—he’d put honey on his cereal if I let him. I don’t know if anyone’s doing it for him now. I’d text him every day to make sure he was okay, if I was working a long shift and wouldn’t be home when he returned.”

Emi was quiet, and Dawn realized with a pang that she’d overshared, turned the walk heavy before it had even properly begun. But Emi didn’t seem to mind. She walked a little closer, their arms almost touching, and said, “My parents are both teachers. I used to pretend I was a grown-up so they wouldn’t worry about me. But I think I was invisible to them, even when I wasn’t trying.”

Dawn blinked, surprised.

Emi gave a half-smile. “When I left for college, I didn’t call home for months at a time. They never complained, but sometimes I think they just… forgot I was gone.”

“That’s so weird to me,” Dawn said, not unkindly. “In my house, if I didn’t show up for Sunday dinner, my Abuela would have called the police.”

Emi giggled. “I would have liked that.”

They stopped walking, the water lapping at their toes, and watched as a gull took off from the shore, its wings catching gold in the first real light of the day.

“Do you ever think about what happens after?” Emi asked. “Like, after all this. After the show.”

Dawn flicked her ears, then shrugged. “I’m not sure I want to go back to the way things were.”

Emi looked down at her hands—all of them—then held them out, flexing her fingers in the light. “Me neither. Not all the way, anyway. I like feeling more. I like that people see me now. I feel more together now than I ever felt since Laura’s ****.”

Dawn smiled, feeling something catch in her chest. “You’ve always been worth seeing, Emi. I mean, even before the arms. You’re, like, the heart of the harem.”

Emi snorted, but her cheeks went pink. “That’s not true,” she protested, then grinned, shy. “You’re the heart of the harem. But thank you.”

They walked on, and for a while the conversation turned to little things: how could Mildred be so good at baking, whether Marissa really did crosswords every day, the proper method for peeling mangoes. But eventually, Emi slowed again, pulling them back to the deeper water. She looked at Dawn, and for the first time Dawn saw the determination underneath all the softness. “I want to stay,” Emi said. “Not here, necessarily, but with all of you. With Andy. I love him, and I love all of you.”

Dawn felt the same tug she’d known since the first night on the island—the way Andy’s presence made her want to be the best, truest version of herself. “He does that,” she said, smiling. “He makes you feel like you matter, even when you feel you’re just… background noise.”

Dawn rolled onto her side, propping herself on one elbow. “If you had one wish, what would it be?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Emi took a while to answer. She stared out at the waves, all six hands busy: one plucked a tiny green stone from the sand, two fiddled with the hem of her hoodie, one rubbed her forehead, and the last pair played an invisible piano on her thigh. “I think I’d wish to be braver,” she said finally. “Not to undo anything, but to get it right the first time from now on.”

Dawn let the words settle, the weight of them mixing with the salt of the air. “You were always brave,” she said.

Emi shook her head, hair swinging in dark arcs. “No. I hid from everything. Even from myself.” She glanced sideways at Dawn, the glimmer of gold returning to her eyes. “But you—you always looked out for people. Even here.”

Dawn’s instinct was to argue, to deflect, but she didn’t. Not with Emi. She watched the tide roll in, each wave flattening the marks they’d made in the sand, erasing every difference, every trail.

“I’d wish for my mother to be back,” Dawn said at last. “She would make everything okay.” Her voice wobbled, just once, but she didn’t let it break. “And I want to see my brothers again. To know that they’ll be fine, even if I’m not there to make breakfast or nag them about homework.”

Emi nodded, reaching out without hesitation and squeezing Dawn’s hand. “They will be,” she said, and somehow she knew it was true, like the act of validating her dream, would **** it onto reality.

They walked until the beach bent away from the hotel, and the air was less salty, more clean. Emi stopped at the edge of a tidepool, crouched low, and watched the darting pinches of a hermit crab. She pointed with three fingers, a conductor with her own private orchestra. “Do you think it’s possible to go home and have it mean something different?” she asked. “Like, the place is the same, but you’re not.”

Dawn considered it, her ears pricking at the question. “I think it has to,” she said. “Otherwise, what’s the point of all this?”

Emi smiled, small but real. “Then I want to go home. Not to my old life. But to this one.”

Dawn felt something inside her loosen. “Me too.”

They sat on the sand, watching the world wake up. Emi picked up a shell, traced the spiral with her finger, then set it down again. “I think I’m going to keep them,” she said, meaning the arms. “I was scared at first, but now… if I lost them, it’d be like losing a language. Or a way of touching the world.”

Dawn didn’t have to think. “You look beautiful,” she said, and meant it.

Emi blushed, her cheeks pinking. “Thank you.”

They lay back, shoulders pressed together, and watched the sky go from gold to pale blue. Dawn ran a hand through the sand, feeling the cool grit between her fingers. She wondered what it would be like to live the rest of her life with bunny ears. Even if the world never noticed—if Reality Adjustment worked the way Arabella said it did—she’d always know. Every time she brushed her hair, every time she caught her reflection in a window, she’d see them. She realized, suddenly, she didn’t want to wish them away. Not even a little.

“Do you think anyone will want to go back to how they were?” Dawn asked, not sure if she meant the question for Emi or herself.

Emi considered, then shook her head. “I think we all want to move forward, even if we don’t know where that is yet. Maybe we’ll miss some things. But I don’t want to forget this. Or any of you.”

The wind picked up, whipping Emi’s hair into a halo. She grinned, and for a moment looked not at all like the shy, half-lost girl Dawn had met in the first week.

Dawn closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the future like a heavy but comforting blanket. “I want to see Andy again,” she admitted. “Today, I mean. But also—just always.”

Emi giggled, soft. “I think he’d like that.”

Dawn’s mind drifted to the Suite, to the breakfast table, to the anticipation she felt in her belly that had nothing to do with hunger. “I never thought I’d be in a place like this. With people like you. It almost doesn’t feel real sometimes.”

Emi rolled onto her side, six arms pillowing her head, and looked at Dawn with all the softness in the world. “It feels real to me.”

They didn’t speak for a while. The sun was up now, and the sand had warmed beneath them, a heat that radiated even through the thin fabric of their clothes. Dawn let her thoughts wander, not in any hurry to collect them. Dawn leaned her head against Emi’s shoulder. Emi didn’t stiffen or squirm; she just rested her cheek on the top of Dawn’s head, a move that was so gentle and precise it felt like a confession.

After a few minutes, Emi said, “Can I tell you something weird?”

Dawn, eyes still closed, nodded.

“I’ve been having dreams,” Emi said. “But not the usual ones. These are about a knight, called Geoffrey. He’s from the 1500s. I think he's in France somewhere, like Provence. Every time I dream about him, it’s like I’m seeing the world through his eyes. He’s scared a lot, but he keeps going anyway.”

Dawn opened her eyes, curious. “Is it from your transformation?”

Emi shrugged. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel like the game. It feels like… like there’s something I’m supposed to learn from him, but I haven’t figured it out yet.” She grew thoughtful, eyes far away. “Maybe it’s that you can be scared and still brave. Maybe it’s just that you can mess up a thousand times, but still be loved.”

Dawn grinned, ears standing tall. “What did he do, in the dream?”

Emi shrugged, almost sheepish. “He went on a quest to find something important. I don’t know why, the dream never shows it. But he failed, a lot. He was scared, and bad at talking to people, and sometimes he wanted to give up. But he always got up again.”

Dawn was quiet for a while, letting the words echo. “If you keep having the dream, maybe it’s important. Maybe you’re supposed to find something.”

Emi nodded, hesitantly. “Maybe.”

The hush returned, deeper and softer than before.

Finally, Dawn said, “You want to go in? It’s probably time for breakfast.”

Emi smiled, her arms uncurling as she stood. She offered a hand, and Dawn took it, letting Emi pull her upright. They walked the last stretch together, steps in sync, shoulders almost brushing.

As they neared the hotel, Emi turned to Dawn. “If you ever want to talk about your family, I’ll listen. Even if it’s a million times.”

Dawn grinned, ears standing tall. “You’ll get bored of me.”

Emi shook her head. “Never.”

They stepped inside together, the cool air of the lobby washing over them. For a moment, neither moved—just stood in the doorway, basking in the hush before the next thing.

Dawn realized she felt ready for whatever happened next. Not because she had answers, but because she had people who would walk with her, every step of the way.

They joined the others for breakfast, the day bright and new, and nothing felt impossible anymore.

Marissa always preferred the quiet hours when the 88 Club was still blue with shadow, and the only sounds were the soft tick of the old clock and the muted click of her own heels on the parquet. She liked the solitude, the sense that every note she played was the first note ever played in the room—a creation ex nihilo, pure and unfettered by memory. The Mildreds would set up the bench to her precise height, dust the keys, and even leave a glass of water within reach. They’d learned her quirks quickly, and she felt grateful in the way one does for gentle, anonymous kindnesses.

She ran through the first scale, hands light, then heavier. The instrument was glorious, with such clear, forgiving tone that even her most ham-fisted chords shimmered with professionalism. She played Debussy for herself, and the blues for the empty room, and sometimes she’d just improvise, stacking suspensions and unresolved sevenths until she found a voicing that felt like a held breath. Andy’s gift was priceless. Her fingers flew on the keys, with a speed and precision she had not known since she was a girl. Every time the notes of Rachmaninov, or Mozart, or Haydn would rise, she felt like she could cry with joy. She played her mother’s favorite pieces sometimes, and had never felt so close to her as she could feel now.

Emily drifted in around ten, her walk as quiet as ever, hair falling in sheets of pink-blonde down her bare back and front, plus a pair of pink sneakers and a friendship bracelet knotted tight around her ankle. She padded across the floor, picked up the bass and without asking, started tuning by ear, humming softly.

Marissa paused her arpeggios and glanced up. “Good morning.”

Emily grinned, not looking up from her tuning pegs. “Good morning to you. Did you sleep?”

“A little. Mostly, I practiced instead.”

Emily set the bass down, then sprawled on the bench beside Marissa, folding her long legs up and tucking her knees to her chest. “You know, there’s nothing more intimidating than walking into a room and hearing you play Chopin like it’s nothing.”

Marissa allowed herself a thin smile, but didn’t argue. “I was told it helps with finger independence.”

“Yeah, but do you ever play just for fun?”

She hesitated, not sure if she knew the answer. “This is fun, to me.”

Emily nodded, as if she understood perfectly. “Okay. Want to jam?”

They started with simple progressions—E minor, A7, back to E minor. Marissa found a melody, and Emily filled in the gaps, never showy, always in the pocket. They traded solos, Marissa’s more technical, Emily’s more raw. By the end of the first song, they’d built a conversation, wordless and warm.

On the third pass, Marissa slipped into the bridge from “Blue in Green.” Emily laughed out loud, then matched her note for note, the two of them locked in for a minute or more, letting the harmony stretch, then resolve, then slip away. When the song faded, the club was brighter—the windows had caught the sun, and the dust motes spun lazy ellipses in the golden air.

Emily leaned back, hands splayed on the keys. “I could do this all day.”

Marissa nodded, letting the feeling linger. “You’re very good,” she said, and Emily beamed.

They played a few more, then took a break—Emily stretching her arms overhead, Marissa twisting the cap off her water and sipping slowly. Emily rested her chin on her knees and let her fingers flutter random intervals up the bass neck. “Do you think there’s ever been a day in this place where nothing weird happened?”

Marissa sipped her water and set it down with surgical precision. “Define weird,” she said, arching a brow. “In the last hour, I’ve played a Chopin nocturne, watched a Mildred mop the ceiling, and had a silent conversation with a catgirl in the Banquet Hall. This is probably the most normal morning I’ve had in months.”

Emily giggled, the sound sharp but soft. She was still half-wrapped in her own hair, but as the sunlight spilled across the keyboard, she let it fall back, exposing most of her chest. “Fair. I used to think that if I ever ended up in a place like this, I’d spend all my time sneaking into the kitchen or seeing how many secret rooms I could find. But lately, I mostly just want to hang out. Is that pathetic?”

“Not at all,” Marissa said. “It’s peaceful. You have good taste.”

Emily slung the bass back over her lap, her hands still restless on the strings. “I don’t even really know why I came, honestly. Just… I was restless. Didn’t want to think, didn’t want to be by myself. I hoped maybe you’d be here.”

Marissa allowed herself a gentle smile. “Then I’m glad I was. You sounded great today.”

Emily wrinkled her nose, pleased but not quite able to accept the compliment. “You always say that, even when I screw up a bridge or play the wrong chord.”

Marissa considered this. “I say it because it’s true. Your playing is honest, even when you’re improvising.”

The sunlight angled higher, catching the gold flecks in Marissa’s hair and painting the inside of the club in watery stripes. Emily plucked a quiet, wandering run of notes, letting the sounds fill the space between their words.

After a minute or two, Marissa glanced sidelong at her. “How are you?” she asked, letting the question float.

Emily started to answer, then stopped. She reached for the words but they scattered like marbles across a floor. “Do you mean… like, right now? Or in general?”

“In general,” Marissa said, her voice softer than usual. “But right now is good, too.”

Emily stilled, and for the first time, Marissa saw her truly hesitate. She looked at the keyboard, then at her hands, then at Marissa. “I’m okay,” she said, but even she didn’t believe it.

Marissa nodded, waiting.

Emily took a deep breath. “I thought I’d feel better after the last transformation ceremony. But it’s like… it’s like I keep waiting for the catch. Like I did something wrong and the universe is just biding its time before it punishes me.”

Marissa’s lips quirked. “You’re referring to the veto. The Achievement. You thought there would be a price?”

Emily nodded, eyes big. “Isn’t there always? It felt so… I don’t know. Rule-breaking? Like, I wasn’t supposed to be able to do that. But I really, really didn’t want to go back to how things were in the other harem.”

Marissa considered this, her fingers idly tracing invisible chords on the keys. “I doubt Arabella would punish you for using an Achievement as intended. That’s the entire point. If anything, she’s probably proud of you for knowing what you need.”

Emily let out a shaky laugh. “I… I changed my path, later. I got ‘Second Chances.’ The Audience, though… I worry about them. I keep thinking they’re watching, and if I make the wrong move, they’ll make me… I don’t know, pay for it.”

There was a beat of silence, during which Marissa watched the patterns of sun and shadow moving across Emily’s bare shoulders.

“Can I ask why you changed to Second Chances?” Marissa said, as lightly as possible.

Emily curled in, her hands burrowing into her own hair again. “You can ask.”

“And…?”

Emily chewed her lip. “I didn’t want to be Free Use. I mean, I do. In some ways. It’s part of me now, like, hardwired.” She paused, glancing up to see if Marissa was judging. She wasn’t. “But only if I choose it. Only if it’s with Andy. And even then, sometimes I… second guess myself. The Free Use path, it… it felt like I’d become the harem’s, like, stress ball. Everyone’s property. Which is fine if I’m in the mood, but what if I’m not?”

Marissa nodded, the ghost of a smile. “There’s nothing wrong about placing boundaries, or wanting to be something only on your terms. What’s wrong with being a toy, if it’s what you want?” There was no irony, no teasing—just curiosity.

Emily’s eyes flicked away, then back. “Nothing. That’s the problem. I tried the girlfriend thing, with Jake, but then the show went on hold, and I was alone in a different world, and it’s like…” She swallowed, cheeks turning red. “I think I’m better at being a toy than a person.”

Marissa played a soft triad, then let it fade. “Why do you think that is?”

Emily shrugged, then gave up the act and hugged her knees to her chest. “It’s easier. Simpler. Nobody expects anything but pleasure. If you’re a toy, you can’t let anyone down.”

Marissa waited, knowing the next words would be harder.

“But,” Emily said, “the thing is… Andy never treats me like a toy, not really. He listens, even when I don’t want to talk. He lets me… I don’t know, set the pace. It feels like he’d be okay if I just wanted to stop. For good.”

Marissa nodded, the music in her voice a soothing background hum. “Would you want that?”

Emily thought for a long time. “No,” she said, “I like being used. I like surrendering, being helpless. But I want it to be with someone who cares. I don’t want to be alone in it. Is that weird?”

“Not at all,” Marissa said. “It’s normal to crave connection, even in submission.”

Emily looked away, blinking fast. “I don’t want to mess it up. That’s all. I’m scared if I stop being what he wants, I’ll be replaced. And if I let myself be real, that’s when I’ll be punished. By the Audience, or by the world, or by myself.”

Marissa reached over and squeezed Emily’s hand, gentle but certain. “You are not replaceable. Not here. Not to Andy, and not to us.”

Emily nodded, voice thick. “I just… I keep thinking I’m not allowed to want things. That I have to be grateful, all the time, because other people have it worse. I spent so long convincing myself I was lucky to have even a little bit of happiness, and I’m afraid if I ask for more, I’ll lose everything.”

Marissa released her hand and smiled. “You’re allowed to want. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to take up space.”

Emily’s breath hitched. “I want to believe that.”

Marissa grinned, something uncharacteristically playful in her expression. “It takes practice. But you’ll get there.”

There was a quiet, then Emily said, “I’ve never told Andy any of this. Not all at once.”

“You should,” Marissa said, then added, “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay too.”

Emily sat with that for a while, her hands working a silent rhythm on her shin. “You won’t tell him?”

“No,” Marissa promised. “But if you want to, I’ll help. You can always come here. We can play, or talk, or both.”

Emily nodded, slow and deliberate. “I’d like that.”

Marissa smiled, and her voice dropped to a more private register. “I’m still learning how to be a person, too. Sometimes I slip and act like a therapist instead of a friend. If it ever gets to be too much, just tell me.”

Emily’s smile was shaky, but it was there. “I don’t mind. It’s kind of nice. Like therapy, but with less eye contact and more bass solos.”

Marissa laughed, a bell-clear sound that made Emily blush. “Then let’s call it that. Music therapy. At least until we figure the rest out.”

Emily uncurling, she set the bass back on her thigh and looked at Marissa, not quite meeting her eyes but trying. “Can we play something happy this time?” she said. “I think we’ve earned it.”

Marissa nodded, her hands poised above the keys. “You lead.”

Emily started a bright, infectious line, and Marissa followed, filling the room with the sound of possibility. They played for a long time, until the windows filled with light, and the Mildreds began setting up for the lunch rush, and the world outside pressed in with its thousand tiny demands.