The Shape of Broken Mirrors, Part 3

After a last hug and a kiss from Emi, Andy left the shore and headed towards the the path leading to the island’s interior, squinting in the midday light. He adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder and made his way toward the edge of the grounds. According to a Mildred, Sam and Liesa were “doing the nature loop”—island code for the two-mile trail winding through the jungle and over the north bluff. He followed the path, boots kicking up dew, and tried not to rehearse what he’d say when he found them. That was a losing battle. Andy’s brain loved nothing more than to run pointless simulations of conversations that never actually happened.

He found them near the trail’s far end, just before it curved back toward the main lodge. Sam was a half-step ahead, arms pumping, hair sticking up from under a battered ballcap. Liesa lagged behind, red-faced and beaming, her shirt plastered to her skin. They looked, for all the world, like a couple of college sophomores out for a Saturday-morning run, except Sam’s shorts were so bright they seemed to have been manufactured by a warning system.

Liesa saw Andy first, and waved with both arms overhead, like she was trying to flag down a helicopter. “Andy!” she called, breathless and happy.

Sam rolled her eyes, but her smile was bright enough to blind a crow. “You’re not gonna start making us do team-building exercises, are you?” she called, half-joking.

He grinned. “Only if you want to practice trust falls off the bluff.”

Sam made a face. “Pass. I barely trust you to pour coffee.”

Liesa giggled, her laughter wheezing as she closed the distance. She bent over, hands on knees, and panted, “Why do you run so fast? I have tiny legs compared to you.”

Sam shrugged. “You’ve got a longer stride. I’m all foot speed.”

Andy waited for them both to catch their breath. He realized, with a kind of sideways pride, that with the exception of Erin, these were probably the two most stubborn people he’d ever met, and they’d used every ounce of that stubbornness to make themselves happy, even if it almost broke them in the process.

He opened with, “I hope I’m not interrupting. I just—” He fumbled. “I wanted to check in. With both of you. Together.”

Sam glanced at Liesa, then back at Andy. “You want to do the feelings circle?” she teased, but there was no edge in it.

“Maybe,” Andy admitted. “Is that weird?”

“No,” Liesa said, brushing sweat from her hairline. “I like the circle.”

Andy shrugged off his bag and sat on a boulder, patting the spot next to him. Both women joined him, Sam still pretending not to be out of breath.

“I don’t want to make this dramatic,” Andy started. “I just—look, I know things got… complicated. I love both of you. I know that’s a weird word for this place, but it’s true. Sam, you’re my family, even if you can’t cook worth a damn. And Liesa, you’re—well, you already know how I feel about you. I just want you both to be happy. Whatever that means.”

Sam made a show of inspecting her fingernails, but her ears were red. Liesa reached out and took Andy’s hand, then, after a moment, took Sam’s too.

“I am happy,” Liesa said. “But… can I ask a stupid question?”

Andy smiled. “You can ask me anything.”

Liesa’s eyes flicked between him and Sam, her cheeks coloring. “Are you really okay with me being with Sam? And Sam, are you really okay with me being with Andy? Because it is easy to say yes, but I have never done this before, and I don’t want to ruin what you have.”

Sam snorted. “Ruin what, exactly? My reputation for being a total hard-ass? You’re doing me a favor, Liesa.” She squeezed Liesa’s hand. “I like you. A lot. Maybe too much. But you deserve to have what you want, even if it’s two different flavors of weird at once.”

Andy laughed. “If anyone’s got a right to judge, it’s you. I mean, I’m sleeping with, what, seven women at this point? The last thing I’m going to do is tell someone else they’re not allowed to be happy.”

Sam pointed at him. “See? That’s why I keep you around. For the moral flexibility.”

Liesa laughed, then grew serious. “This is new for me. I want to try. But if it makes you sad, Sam—”

Sam cut her off. “If it makes me sad, I’ll say something. I promise.” Her tone was light, but she looked Liesa dead in the eye. “And if you ever get tired of him, you can have my side of the bed.”

Andy raised his hands in mock surrender. “Noted.”

Liesa turned to Andy, a strange, hopeful light in her eyes. “And you, Andy? You are really okay with this?”

He nodded. “As long as you’re both happy, I’m good.”

Sam reached over and poked Andy’s shoulder. “You don’t get to watch, though. Sorry.”

Andy smiled, the tension gone. “Deal.”

There was a long, easy silence, broken only by the wind hissing through the grass.

Sam broke it. “Can I make a request, though?”

Liesa nodded.

“If you ever decide you don’t want to do this, tell me. I don’t want you to pretend. Not for my sake, and not for his.” She jerked a thumb at Andy. “We can handle a little disappointment.”

Liesa nodded, serious. “I promise.”

Andy stood, stretching his back. “I have something for you two,” he said, digging into the duffel. He pulled out two faded hoodies—both University of Illinois at Chicago, class of 2018. He tossed one to Sam, one to Liesa. “For old times’ sake.”

Sam’s face went soft. “Is this the one from our finals week?” she asked, running her hand over the cracked print.

Andy nodded. "Turns out Bob in the Annex has stock."

Liesa stared at hers, fingers tracing the embroidered year. Her eyes glistened suddenly. "I would have been in this class," she whispered, "if I hadn't—" She swallowed hard, then pulled it on over her sweat-damp shirt. It hung past her hips, sleeves almost swallowing her hands.

"Now I can pretend I finished," she said, voice steady but accent thickening as she pulled the hood over her hair.

Sam tried hers on, too, then threw an arm around each of them. “Now we match,” she said. “Just like the world’s weirdest bowling team.”

Liesa snuggled in closer, beaming. “Best team ever.”

The three of them hugged, bodies pressed close. Andy felt something in his chest loosen, like a knot untangling itself. This was what he’d wanted all along. Not just the sex. The belonging.

Liesa kissed Andy, then, turning to Sam, kissed her as well. Sam froze for a second, then melted into it, arms coming up to wrap around Liesa’s waist. When they broke apart, Liesa’s face was flush, eyes wild. Andy recognized the look—her transformation, the Approachable one, must have kicked in again. Liesa trembled, a visible shiver of need.

Andy met Sam’s eyes, and with a silent nod, handed her the metaphorical baton.

Sam caught the signal, grinned, and slung an arm around Liesa’s shoulders. “C’mon,” she said, guiding Liesa toward the nearest bench, “let’s get you some water before you combust.”

Liesa followed, but not before glancing back at Andy, her face a mix of gratitude and anticipation.

“Thank you,” she mouthed.

He smiled, gave her a thumbs-up, and watched them go.

For a moment, he just stood there, alone on the trail, the old hoodie in his hands and the sun warming his face. He felt like he could breathe again.

He looked up at the sky, exhaled, and started back down the path.

IVA: Comforted the Lovey Contestant! +2 VP
First! x2

There was still time before the next challenge, and plenty of heart left to check in on.

He wondered, idly, where Dawn was hiding. And whether she’d like her present.

He grinned, already thinking of the next conversation, the next impossible confession, the next chance to make someone feel seen.

Andy found Dawn exactly where he expected: kitchen side of the Banquet Hall, sleeves rolled up and hands deep in a bowl of batter, the smell of vanilla and brown sugar so thick it felt like a weighted blanket. It was barely past three, but the kitchen looked like it had weathered a holiday, the counters crowded with flour canisters, splatters of egg, and two empty sticks of butter balanced like a tiny Jenga. She was humming, not a song but a melodyless vibrato, the kind you slipped into when your mind was somewhere better than here.

Dawn looked up as Andy entered, and her whole posture seemed to shift. There was a lightness in her spine that hadn’t been there the week before—cautious, maybe, but real. Her face was lightly dusted with flour, a pale crescent streaked across one cheek like war paint, and a bold stripe of chocolate arced up her right wrist almost to the elbow. But it was the glitter in her eyes that made Andy do a double-take, as if she’d found a secret reason to be happy and was daring him to call her on it.

“Hey, Andy,” she called, brandishing a whisk like a scepter. “You want to lick the spoon or just stand there looking pretty?”

Andy raised both hands in mock innocence. “I wouldn’t want to interfere with the creative process.”

She snorted, flicked her fingers, and sent a tiny puff of flour into the air. “The creative process, in my experience, is about not burning the bottom of the pan. That’s my entire artistic vision.” She tossed a wooden spoon his way, which he barely caught. Then she performed a one-handed pirouette, pouring a waterfall of batter into a square cake pan lined with crumpled parchment, scraping the bowl with a precision and devotion that made Andy remember all the times he’d watched her cook before.

He stirred the contents of the mixing bowl with as much gravitas as he could muster, careful not to splash. “What’s the occasion?”

Dawn measured out a pinch of salt, then shrugged one shoulder in what felt like a practiced gesture. “There should always be cake after a win. Or before a loss, but I prefer cake when it’s happy.” She set the pan in the oven, closed the door with a decisive clack, and finally turned to really face him. She wiped a sweat-tousled lock of hair from her forehead, leaving a faint trail of chocolate above her eyebrow, and for a second Andy glimpsed the version of Dawn that existed before—before the resort, before the game, before life started demanding things she didn’t want to give.

“Cake is never not the answer,” Andy said, aiming for light but stumbling into sincere.

Dawn grinned, snapping him back to the present. “You say that, but you know how many double-negatives are in that sentence?”

He feigned deep thought. “Half as many as there will be calories in this kitchen by nightfall?”

She cackled, and for a moment the air between them was so familiar, so achingly easy. Not for the first time, he regretted never asking her out in the real world, before all this. But this was his second chance. It seemed to be a theme.

“Baking’s your meditation, huh?” he ventured, setting the stirring spoon aside.

Dawn considered that, then nodded. “Sure. That, or it’s my excuse to avoid people.” She paused, then tipped her head. “Except you. You always find me.”

Andy smirked. “That’s because you have the best hiding places.” He glanced around the kitchen, at the way she’d already organized the disorder into neat piles—eggshells stacked inside themselves, flour canister perched exactly at arm’s reach, every dirty measuring cup soaking in a designated corner of the sink. He could picture her, age ten, setting up beneath the dining table, coloring books arrayed in perfect rows, her mother’s voice echoing from the other room: Where’s my girl? Where’d she go?

He wanted to say, I know you, I know every version of you, and I’ve missed you the whole time, even when you were right in front of me. But he let the silence sit instead, because he was learning that sometimes the best way to show love was to let someone fill their own pauses.

Dawn wiped her hands on the hem of her apron and squinted at him, like she was trying to solve a puzzle he hadn’t realized he’d posed. “You’re not just here for cake, are you?”

Andy ran a thumb along the seam of the countertop. “Is it a crime to want to see how you’re doing?”

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth softened. “Not if you promise to keep pretending I’m not secretly making cookies for everyone else, too.”

“Cross my heart,” he said, and drew an X over his chest.

Dawn shrugged, her eyes twinkling. “My abuela always said, ‘If you’re nervous, feed someone.’ I guess it stuck.” She checked the oven, then set the timer and finally let herself lean against the counter, exhaling. “Are you nervous?”

He started to say yes, but stopped himself. He thought of what Liesa and Sam said that morning. “Not as much as I used to be,” he admitted. “I think the worst part is not knowing who’s next.”

Dawn nodded, arms crossing over her apron. She wore a faded T-shirt with cartoon avocados dancing under the words “Guac and Roll.” “It’ll be fine,” she said. “It was fine last time. You even found a loophole, remember?”

Andy shrugged. “Lightning never strikes twice.”

She cocked her head. “Maybe it does. Maybe you’re lightning now.” The way she said it, half-joking, half-hopelessly sincere, made him want to hug her.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, soft.

Dawn nodded.

“Why are you always so sure things will work out?” He asked it not as an accusation, but as a genuine question. He wanted to know.

Dawn smiled, a little sadly. “I’m not. Last time, I was a mess. And I mean a blubbering mess. But I spent a lot of years waiting for someone to save me. My brothers, my dad, even the women at the hotel where I worked. Nobody ever did, not for real. So now I figure, if I act like things are gonna be okay, maybe it’ll rub off on the universe.” She wiped her hands again, though there was no flour left. Her voice became softer, her eyes shone. “Also, I dreamt about my abuela last night. She told me to make cake and stop being such a pendeja.”

Andy laughed, the sound bright and full. “She sounds incredible.”

“She was. You’d have liked her. She would have roasted you alive, though.”

He could believe it. “What would she say about this whole place?” He waved vaguely at the ceiling, meaning the game, the harem, all of it.

Dawn considered, eyes narrowing. “She’d say, ‘Don’t let anyone steal your joy, even if they’re prettier than you.’” She grinned. “And then she’d tell me to watch out for gringos with sad eyes.”

He looked away, embarrassed. “That’s fair.”

Dawn stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the tile. “Andy?”

He looked up.

“Are you happy here?” Her voice was soft, but the question rang with a kind of hope he hadn’t expected.

Andy nodded, surprised at how true it felt. “I am. More than I have in a long time.”

Dawn grinned, but the smile faded quickly. She bit her lip, looking suddenly anxious. “I’m glad. I just—I was never anyone’s pick before. Not at home, not at work. It’s nice, being picked.” She blushed, like the admission was too much.

He stepped to her, close enough to see the freckles on her nose, and took her hands, sticky with sugar and all. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met who still doubts it,” he said.

Dawn blushed deeper, and for a second looked like she might bolt. But she didn’t. She stood her ground, squeezing his fingers.

He leaned in, forehead against hers. “I love you, Dawn.”

The words were out before he could even think to check them.

Dawn’s eyes went wide. For a second, she seemed to forget how to breathe. “Are you sure?” she whispered.

He nodded. “I love you. I love the others too, and I know that’s not normal, or maybe not fair, but—”

She shushed him, one floury finger to his lips. “It’s okay. I knew what I was signing up for. Well, what I was kidnapped for.” She hesitated, then pulled him close. “You don’t have to pick just one. We’re all here for the same reason. I get it. But… I want to be someone you pick, too.”

He smiled, holding her tighter and kissing her. “Always.”

For a while, they stood like that, surrounded by the thrum of the kitchen: the gentle tick of the oven, the soft burble of the coffee machine, the world shrunk to the space between their bodies.

The timer dinged. Dawn slipped free, moving with practiced speed to retrieve the cake. She set it on the rack, then cut a wedge before it had even cooled, blowing on the steam until it stopped burning her fingers.

She handed him the first piece. “For luck.”

He took a bite. It was perfect: not too sweet, dense with cinnamon and brown sugar, still gooey at the center.

Dawn watched him, expectant. “Well?”

He nodded. “It’s incredible.”

She closed her eyes, relief flooding her face. “Good. Then I did something right today.”

He set the plate down, wiped the corner of her mouth with his thumb, and kissed her, long and deep, until the taste of cake and sugar and Dawn was all he could remember.

When they finally broke apart, Dawn’s eyes were shining. “I should warn you,” she said, voice trembling with laughter, “if you keep doing things like that, I’m gonna get used to it. And then you’ll have to deal with me forever.”

Andy shrugged. “I think I can handle it.”

Andy lingered, watching the way Dawn moved around the kitchen—she did everything twice, first with mechanical precision, then with a gentle flourish, like the difference between folding a shirt and folding a love letter. For a while, they cleaned and joked and shared memories, the hour slipping by so quietly that Andy almost forgot what time it was.

He reached for a towel, then remembered the other reason he’d come. “I, uh,” he started, voice gruff with nerves. “I have something for you. Kind of a present.”

Dawn blinked, instantly suspicious. “Is it edible?”

He laughed. “No, but you could try.”

He unslung his bag, unzipped the outer compartment, and pulled out a thin, flat-wrapped rectangle. The wrapping was a leftover cloth napkin, tied off with a twist of baker’s twine—he wasn’t sure why Mildred had wrapped it like that, after framing it, but the effect was homemade in a way that suited her perfectly. He handed it over, suddenly bashful.

Dawn undid the knot and peeled back the napkin. When she saw what was inside, she gasped. It was a ticket stub, preserved behind glass and mounted on a slice of dark wood: “Chicago Bulls v. Knicks / Section 216 / Row E / Seat 4.” Underneath, in blocky black marker, he’d written: “Never bet against the underdog.”

Dawn’s eyes went glassy. She stared at it for a long, long time.

Andy explained, “Remember when you got me that ticket? The game was sold out, but you just—somehow—found one and surprised me. I kept the stub, I didn’t even know why. But now I do. Because it made you so happy to do something for someone else, and seeing you happy… it stuck with me.”

Dawn’s lips quivered. “Andy, I—” She shook her head, unable to finish. She touched the glass, then held the frame against her chest, hugging it like a child would a stuffed animal.

“I know it’s dorky,” Andy said. “But I wanted you to know—sometimes, the little things aren’t so little.”

Dawn wiped her nose with the back of her hand, laughing through the tears. “It’s not dorky. It’s perfect.” She set the frame carefully on the counter, then turned and threw her arms around him, squeezing so tight his ribs creaked.

She kissed him, quick and fierce, then pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Thank you,” she said, voice shaking. “Thank you for seeing me. Not just as, you know, the fixer. But as a real person.”

He hugged her back, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and cake and something sweeter. “You’re the kindest person I know, Dawn. And you belong here. With us.”

Dawn nodded, tears streaming but face bright. “I finally feel like I do,” she whispered. “It makes me want to be better. For you, for all of us. For me.”

Andy smiled. “You already are.”

They stood together a long time, arms wrapped around each other, the world on the other side of the kitchen glass and nothing but sunlight and sugar between them.

Finally, Dawn let him go, dabbing her eyes with the hem of her apron. “If you ever try to top this present, you’re in trouble, you know.”

Andy grinned. “I’ll take my chances.”

She laughed again, then cupped his cheek. “Go on, Andy. I know you have other people to save. But come back for cake later, okay?”

He promised he would.

As Andy left, Dawn leaned against the counter, hugging the ticket frame to her chest. She looked so happy, it made his own heart ache.

On his way out, Andy paused in the doorway and glanced back. “Hey,” he called.

Dawn looked up, eyes bright.

“I can’t wait for our next date,” he said.

She grinned, and it was the kind of smile that could outshine the sun.

“Me neither,” she replied.

Andy walked away, the warmth of her still clinging to his skin, and felt like maybe he really could make everything right.

Andy found Norah where he suspected she’d be: in the windowless gym at the end of the east wing, sweat darkening her tank top, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. She was doing box jumps, moving with the kind of focus that made the world shrink to the width of a single square foot.

She finished her set, breathing hard, then looked up—and when she saw him, her face split into a grin so bright it nearly stopped him in his tracks.

“Look who’s here,” she called, hopping off the box. “Come to spot me, or just here for the scenery?”

Andy snorted. “A little of both. Mostly the second.”

She wiped her face on a towel and cocked her head. “You ever lift, or are you one of those cardio-only nerds?”

He gestured at his shirt and jeans. “Does it look like I’m dressed for this?”

Norah laughed—a real laugh, not a sarcastic huff. “Fair point. I’ll allow it.” She tossed the towel onto the bench and sauntered over, stopping just out of reach. “What’s up?”

Andy leaned against the wall, suddenly unsure how to start. “I was just… looking for you. Wanted to check in. See how you’re holding up.”

Norah rolled her eyes, but her mouth softened. “I’m not planning my dramatic exit speech, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Good,” Andy said. “Because I’d hate to lose you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery from you? Are you sick?”

He grinned. “Not as far as I know. But I mean it.”

Norah shifted, arms crossing. For a moment, the old defenses hovered—but they didn’t land. Instead, she looked at the floor, then back at him. “I don’t want to leave, either. For the first time in… hell, maybe ever, I actually feel like I’m with people who get me. Or at least don’t make me fight for every scrap of respect.” Her eyes flicked up. “It’s nice.”

Andy nodded. “You deserve it.”

She shrugged, as if that was still hard to believe. “I’m still working on deserving it. But I’m starting to think I might.”

They stood in companionable silence, the only sound the drone of the ceiling fan.

Norah broke it. “You know, when I started here, I thought I’d be out in a week. I figured you were just another smug tech bro with a savior complex.”

Andy tried to look wounded. “Ouch.”

She laughed. “Yeah, sorry. But… you’re not. You’re a dork, and you overthink everything, but you actually care.” She stepped closer, poking his chest. “That’s weird, but it’s good-weird.”

Andy reached for her hand, stopping her mid-poke. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

She made a face, like she was about to say something mean, but then—impulsively—she launched herself at him. He caught her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist, arms locking behind his neck. They spun once, and then Norah pressed her forehead to his.

“See?” she said, breathless. “This is the only way I can look you in the eye now.”

Andy laughed, holding her tight. “If you want me to apologize for the height thing—”

She shook her head. “Don’t. I kind of like it.” She squeezed his shoulders, then dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know, the transformation says I’ll always match your fantasies. I wonder what would happen if you started imagining me with… I don’t know, triple the boobs?”

Andy snorted. “Are you serious?”

Norah grinned, teeth flashing. “Only one way to find out.”

He kissed her, laughing against her lips, and for a minute, they lost themselves in the kiss, all teasing and tongue and hands in each other’s hair.

When they broke, Norah looked happier than he’d ever seen her. “God, you’re addictive,” she said. “It’s a problem.”

Andy set her down, gently, and dug into his bag. “Speaking of addictions—got a present for you.”

Norah eyed the package with suspicion. “Is this a prank?”

He held it out. “Just open it.”

She did, and as soon as she saw the scarf—crimson and gold, woven in the traditional Jordanian keffiyeh pattern—her face changed. She stroked the fabric with reverence, fingers trembling slightly.

“Why?” She asked, voice soft.

Andy smiled. “I watched the memories you played in the Memory Cabana. I remember the memory of you during Eid as a kid. You never received new things, only hand-me-downs. I can’t fix any of that, but I figured… you deserve to have something that means something. And to see how much you’re valued here.”

Norah wrapped the scarf around her neck, then buried her face in it for a moment. When she looked up, her eyes were wet, but her smile was ferocious.

She hugged him, hard, squeezing until he thought his ribs might crack. “Thank you,” she said, muffled by the scarf. “Nobody ever… I mean, nobody ever.”

He hugged her back. “You’re welcome.”

As he stepped away, she dabbed at her eyes, then straightened, regaining her composure. “You realize I’m never taking this off, right?”

He shrugged. “That’s the plan.”

She started to say something else, then paused, a puzzled look on her face. “Wait a sec. Does it look like my sports bra just—” She glanced down, then burst out laughing. “Oh my god, it worked.”

Andy followed her gaze, and sure enough, her breasts had swelled another size, almost comically so against her petite frame. The transformation had kept its promise: she now matched his fantasy, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Norah caught his eye, grinned wickedly. “Guess you better be careful what you wish for.”

He laughed. “You don’t mind?”

She shook her head, chest still heaving with giggles. “Are you kidding? This is the best experiment ever.” She cupped them, then struck a pose. “I could get used to this.”

Andy smiled, happy for her. “Maybe you should try bench pressing now. See if it throws off your balance.”

Norah laughed so hard she doubled over. “Don’t tempt me. I might start a new TikTok trend.” She paused, then looked at him, eyes shining with mischief. “So… you want to give me any new fantasies to test out, Professor?”

Andy felt his cheeks heat. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

She winked, then hugged him again, tighter than before. “You’re the best,” she whispered, the words almost lost against his shoulder.

He hugged her back, savoring the moment. “Norah,” he told her, “A lesson I learned since I came here: you’re more than your worst day.”

As he headed out, Norah called after him, “Hey, Andy!”

He turned.

She grinned, hands on hips, breasts straining against the fabric. “Thanks for making me feel like I’m more than just the smart one. Or the angry one.”

He smiled, heart full. “You’re a lot more than that, Norah. Trust me.”

She watched him go, still smiling, and Andy thought he might actually have done something right.

Andy took the long way to the spa, letting the fresh air clear his head, shoulders already loose from the string of conversations behind him. The HH’s spa was tucked into a side corridor today, an architectural afterthought brimming with low, golden light and the faint, ever-present scent of jasmine and cedar. Through the glass, he saw Marissa before she saw him—her silhouette stretched out on one of the heated benches, long legs bare, the rest of her wrapped in a towel so thin it may as well have been an accessory. Her hair was slicked back from a recent swim, her skin damp and radiant, her expression the tranquil blankness of someone who’d just achieved perfect stillness.

She noticed him at the threshold and smiled, giving Andy that look again—the one that had cowed doctoral candidates, department chairs, and (once) a New York Times reporter who'd misquoted her by calling her a "grief influencer." It was withering, but not unkind; mostly, it meant "come here, you beautiful idiot."

He stepped inside, letting the spa’s humidity and sweet scent wrap around him. Marissa shifted her weight on the stone bench and crossed her legs at the ankle, her skin still glistening from the steam. She wore a simple black bikini, nothing fancy, but even so, it did nothing to conceal the impossible fullness of her breasts, the permanently erect nipples, or the way her posture radiated a power that no transformation could touch.

"Well?" she drawled, not bothering to cover up. "Did you come to ogle, or are you actually going to join me in the hot tub?"

Andy grinned, perching on the edge of the next bench over. "Not enough time for a full soak, unless you want to see me pass out before the next challenge."

Marissa tsked, an exaggerated, therapist-y noise. "A shame. I was hoping to see you finally relax. But I’ll settle for the view."

He glanced down at himself, shrugged. "What can I say? I'm easy on the eyes."

Marissa's smirk was immediate. "So self-aware. It’s almost attractive." She arched an eyebrow. "Why are you really here?"

Andy sobered, smoothing his jeans. He wasn't nervous, not exactly, but the weight of the morning—the confessions, the presents, the half-dozen "I love you"s—had left him raw. Maybe he was rushing things, but it felt right. What he had told Emi and Dawn, about The HH being a pressure cooker... that worked both ways, on the women as well as on him. He looked at Marissa, at the quiet confidence that had once been a wall and was now, finally, a door.

"I wanted to talk," he said. "Not harem business. Just… us."

Marissa's eyes widened, just a touch. She straightened, uncrossed her legs, and let the moment breathe. "You have my attention."

He turned toward her, drawing his knees up and planting his feet flat on the tile. For a moment, he thought about rehearsing, then let the words come as they would.

"You know I had a thing for you even when you were my therapist," he began, unable to meet her gaze. "I know that's not a unique story—client falls for the only person who listens to him, film at eleven—but it was real. And I always figured you felt it, too."

She didn't flinch. "I did," she said. "Ethics be damned."

He smiled. "I always thought, if we met somewhere else, we could’ve had a shot."

Marissa snorted. "If we’d met anywhere else, I’d have scared you off before you could finish your first sentence." But there was a warmth in her voice that said she didn’t really believe it.

Andy pressed on. "This place… it's changed a lot of things. Me, for sure. But you too. And I think—" He stopped, took a breath. "I think I love you, Marissa."

It hung there, suspended in the warm, damp air, as if the whole spa were listening. Marissa blinked, the only break in her composure a quick, surprised intake of breath. Then, slowly, her lips parted in something close to awe.

"You’re serious," she said.

He nodded, feeling more naked than if he'd been in her bikini instead of her.

Marissa was silent for a long moment, as if cataloguing every possible response and discarding them one by one. Then she slid off the bench, padding the few steps to his side and sinking down next to him. She didn’t touch him, not yet, but the nearness was a touch all its own.

"You’re not supposed to say that," she whispered. "Not here. Not like this. Not to me."

"Why not?"

She hesitated, searching for the answer. "Because I’ve always made you do the work. I’ve always been the one with the power, and the training, and the fucking clipboard. I spent our whole time together making sure I never crossed the line. I didn't want to lose your trust, or your respect, or—" She stopped herself, biting her lip.

Andy reached for her hand, took it in his, and held tight. "You never did. Not once."

Marissa stared at their joined hands, then up at him, blue eyes softening. "You know, I used to think I was unlovable," she said. "Not in the dramatic, Tumblr way. Just—too much. Too smart, too cold, too… clinical. I tried to turn it into a feature, but it always felt like a bug."

Andy squeezed her fingers. "It's not a bug. It's you. And I love you for it."

Marissa let out a shaky breath, and for a second, he thought she might cry. Instead, she leaned in and kissed him,slow, deliberate, as if she were running an experiment with infinite patience. She tasted like salt and skin and something he couldn’t name but never wanted to forget.

When they broke, Marissa rested her forehead against his. "I love you, too," she whispered. "Even if it breaks every rule I’ve ever made."

He laughed, and she laughed with him, the sound echoing off the spa walls.

They talked, then, for what felt like an hour but was probably only a few minutes. About boundaries. About what it meant to love someone in a place where love was a strategic liability. About Erin, and how much Marissa had enjoyed sharing him with her, and about how she could actually see herself doing this—this life, this harem, this version of the future where nothing had to be exclusive to be real. About how, selfishly, it would allow her to be in love, and never have to choose between that love, and her sister's.

"You make it sound so easy," Andy said, amazed.

Marissa shrugged. "You make it easy. I spent years trying to be the perfect therapist. I don’t have to be that anymore. Not for you. I can just be… the woman who wants you." She grinned. "Which is much more fun, by the way."

He couldn't argue with that.

It was Marissa who made the next move, climbing onto his lap and straddling him without a word. She kissed him again, her hands hungry but unhurried, her body warm and heavy against his. The towel slipped away as she pressed against him, and Andy's hands found her hips, her back, the impossible swell of her breasts.

He pulled her close, burying his face in her neck. "God, you’re perfect," he said, muffled.

Marissa chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "You’re not so bad yourself," she replied. "But I’m going to ruin this bikini. You know that, right?"

Andy kissed the hollow beneath her jaw, nipped at her collarbone. "I’ll buy you a new one."

She snorted. "You think I won’t hold you to that?"

Andy felt the controlled shift in her hips as she gathered herself onto his lap, her knees bracketing his thighs. The towel—thin to begin with—came loose and draped over her shoulders like a ceremonial stole, exposing a river of steamed skin. The spa’s air was heavy with jasmine and cedar, but Marissa’s own scent was sharper, saltier, something that burrowed into Andy’s brain and set it quietly on fire.

She kissed him with a slow, predatory patience that said she wanted to catalog every sensation before letting herself surrender. In the diffused gold of the spa, their bodies looked as if they belonged to some ancient sculpture: two figures, knotted together, timeless and unashamed. Marissa moved with a confidence that was both clinical and animal, as if every motion was chosen for maximum effect. Her body was softer than he remembered, but the new curves only seemed to concentrate her power, turning each brush of skin into a deliberate, suffocating pleasure.

He buried his face in her neck, tasting the heat of her skin and the sharp tang of her sweat. She arched her back, guiding him in with a slow, practiced motion, and Andy nearly lost himself at the first sensation of her—wet, engulfing, a velvet vice. She was so focused, so present, that for a moment Andy forgot where they were. The spa, the walls, the world outside dimmed to nothing but the rhythm they built, together.

They set a slow pace, at first. Marissa teased him, alternating between gentle rolls of her hips and sudden, biting shifts that left Andy gasping. She braced herself with one hand on his shoulder and slid the other up the back of his neck, curling her fingers into his hair with practiced insistence. When he reached for her, exploring the newly exaggerated contours of her body, she shuddered and ground down on him harder, her breath stuttering into open-mouthed moans.

Minutes passed in a breathless haze. The only sounds were the sluice of water in the nearby tub and the pulse of their bodies colliding. When Marissa came, it was as if she’d barred herself from making any noise until the last second; then she bit his shoulder to muffle a scream, her whole body locking tight, thighs trembling with the **** of it. Andy barely held himself together, holding her steady, letting her ride out every aftershock until she lay collapsed against his chest, panting, skin radiant and slick with sweat.

He stroked her back, just above the curve of her spine, marveling at the way she still trembled. She pressed her lips to his ear, voice hoarse but sweet: “Don’t stop. Not yet.” She shifted again, this time more gently, and Andy felt himself getting closer, the edge impossibly sharp. Marissa must have sensed it, because she slipped a hand between their bodies and wrapped him in her palm, stroking with a clinical, perfect precision that left him no escape. He looked up at her face—hair wild, eyes wide—and saw pure satisfaction, as if she’d solved an impossible equation and was savoring the proof.

He came, shuddering, her name on his lips, and Marissa smiled as if she owned the moment. They stayed like that, together, for a long, suspended interval, only the sound of their breathing and the spa’s lazy hum filling the room.

Eventually, Marissa sprawled beside him, legs entwined, her head pillowed on his chest. For once, she seemed content to be quiet. Andy traced slow circles on her bare shoulder, feeling the thump of her heart against his ribs. They were at peace, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this loose, this safe.

“You know,” Marissa said, her voice thick with the dregs of pleasure and fatigue, “I’m convinced there are pheromones in the spa. Or maybe the towels are laced with aphrodisiacs.” She propped her chin on his sternum and looked up at him with mock seriousness. “It’s the only explanation for how horny I get every time I’m in here with you.”

Andy laughed, feeling looser than he had in months. "It’s possible. But I think it’s just you."

Marissa grinned, the expression unguarded. She shifted so that she was sprawled fully across him, not caring at all about her nudity. "You’ve ruined me for all other men," she said. "Which is very considerate, given the selection here."

He snorted. "If I’m the bar, we’re all in trouble."

She traced his jaw, then, unexpectedly, grew serious. "Can I tell you a secret?"

He nodded.

"I never thought I’d get to have this. Not even once, let alone every day." She blinked, a tear threatening but never falling. "Thank you for not giving up on me. Even when I was impossible."

He kissed her, gentle this time. "You’ve never been impossible. Just improbable."

She laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

They lay like that for a while, the minutes stretching out until the world outside the spa felt like a distant rumor. Eventually, Marissa rolled off him, grabbing her towel and wrapping it loosely around her hips. She sat up, bracing her arms behind her, breasts bared to the empty room.

"I guess you have to go soon," she said, the tiniest quaver in her voice.

He sat up, reaching for his shirt. "I do. But… I wanted to give you something first."

Marissa looked at him, skeptical. "Is this another one of your terrible hoodies?"

He shook his head, grinning. "No, I gave those to Liesa and Sam. This is a real present." He reached into his bag and pulled out a battered paperback, the cover soft and creased from too much handling.

Marissa took it, turning it over in her hands. "The Hidden Dimensions of Bereavement," she read aloud, then snorted. "God, I forgot how pretentious I was when I wrote this."

Andy chuckled. "You weren’t pretentious. Just… yourself."

She flipped it open, then stopped, staring at the inside cover. There, in neat blue ink, was her own signature: "To Andy—May you find meaning in every loss. Warmly, M.H."

Marissa stared at it, the color draining from her face. "How did you—?"

He shrugged, sheepish. "A year before I ever booked that first appointment with you, I went to a guest lecture you did at NYU. It was around the time of the anniversary of Laura's ****, and I needed to hear whether my grief was still justified. I sat in the back row, trying not to look like a stalker, but after you spoke, I waited in line and bought your book. You signed it. I didn’t know what to say to you, so I just stammered and fled."

Marissa traced the signature with her finger, as if it might vanish. "I’m sorry, I… I don’t remember that. And you never told me."

"I couldn’t," Andy said. "Not then. But I read the whole thing. Twice. It made me realize I needed help. And eventually, it made me realize I needed you."

She looked up at him, eyes wet now, lips trembling. "You kept it all this time?"

He nodded. "I kept it because I knew, even then, you could help me. You helped me before you ever met me."

Marissa clutched the book to her chest, suddenly shy. "I don’t know what to say."

Andy wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. "You don’t have to say anything."

She let herself cry, then, just a little. He held her until the tears stopped, and when she looked up, her smile was luminous.

"You are the best patient I’ve ever had," she teased, dabbing her eyes.

He grinned. "You’re the best therapist I’ve ever fallen in love with."

She kissed him again, salt on her lips, and the world was perfect for a little while longer.

When the moment finally broke, Marissa stood, wrapped the towel more securely, and picked up her book. "Go," she said, pointing to the door. "Before I make a complete mess of myself."

Andy laughed, grabbing his bag. "I’ll come back for you," he said, meaning it.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was pure sunshine. "I know you will."

As Andy stepped out into the bright corridor, he glanced back to see Marissa perched on the bench, book clutched to her heart, eyes shining.

Achievement Earned (Andy Cooper): The Confidence Whisperer!