The Waiting, Part 4

Mid-afternoon pressed in around the Suite like a heavy, wet blanket. Emily sat on the balcony, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins, her bare skin slick with the impossible heat and the faint trace of coconut from the hotel soap. She leaned her cheek against the coarse mesh of her thigh, staring out at the ocean but not really seeing it. The view was spectacular: aquamarine water, neat white crests, sunlight ricocheting off the ripples as if the world wanted to prove how alive it was. But all Emily saw were echoes of the morning—the blur of Andy’s back as he’d carried Laura up the sand, the way the air had shivered with a kind of awe that left everyone else a little bit less real.

Liesa stood at the balcony’s edge, her hips canted against the metal rail, arms braced wide as if she was holding up the whole sky. The wind snatched at her strawberry-blonde hair, whipping it around her face, but she didn’t push it away. She just stood there, every line of her body perfectly posed and perfectly at odds with the way her shoulders trembled, barely visible except when the sunlight caught the tightness under her skin.

Neither woman spoke for a long time. The air was too thick, too charged; every word felt like it would land with a thud, or worse, simply vanish in the space between them.

It was Liesa who broke the silence. "Is it wrong," she said, voice pitched soft, "to wish she hadn't come back?"

Emily let out a small, choked laugh. "If it is, we can both go to hell together," she said, her voice dry and brittle. "I think I wanted it, I thought it didn’t matter to me, and now that it happened, I just—" She stopped, unable to finish. The words bunched up in her throat like a sob.

Liesa glanced over her shoulder, eyes shadowed. "I keep thinking I am going to disappear. If the Producers wanted the perfect ending, we would all just… fade out of the picture. Andy and Laura, and the rest of us as footnotes."

Emily nodded, digging her nails into her knees until she felt the tiny shocks of pain. "That’s exactly how I feel. Like we were always extras in someone else's story." She risked a glance at Liesa, then away again. "It’s so stupid. I knew I was never his favorite, but I didn’t realize how much it would hurt to be replaced by someone who was literally dead."

"Is not replacing you, and Andy loves you," Liesa said, but the words were hesitant, half-formed. "Is just—" Liesa stopped, jaw working. "She is the reason for everything. It makes sense she would come back."

Emily wiped her cheek with the heel of her hand, finding it damp without having noticed the tears start. "I know it does. I know he loved her. I saw his face—" She shook her head. "It’s not just love. It’s like she’s part of his body. Like we’re all just stand-ins until he could get her back."

Liesa made a sound—a mix of agreement and protest. She let her head fall, then pushed herself away from the railing and paced the length of the balcony, her feet moving with sensual, deliberate grace even as the rest of her seemed **** to unravel. "Do you really think it erases everything else?" she asked, turning back to Emily. "What about what happened here? What about the things we did, the things we wanted?"

Emily shrugged. "I don’t know. Maybe not. But it feels like it. It feels like nothing I ever did, nothing I ever was, matters anymore." She picked at a loose thread on the chair’s cushion, watching the pink-tinged fiber curl around her finger. "I used to think I was special, you know? Now it just feels like another way to disappear."

Liesa perched on the railing, arms folded tight around her ribs. "You are not the only one who feels that way," she said quietly. "The more I think about it, the more I realize I am just repeating things to myself so I do not fall apart." She laughed, but it was a sad, brittle sound. "Am not even good at pretending. Not anymore."

Emily studied her. For the first time, she saw how deep the fatigue ran in Liesa’s face—how her gloss of bravado and sexuality was just a thin shell over something **** and scared.

Emily reached out, hesitated, then let her hand rest on Liesa’s. The contact was soft, tentative, but Liesa didn’t pull away. She let Emily’s fingers curl around hers, as if the anchor was the only thing keeping her from slipping off the edge of the world.

For a while, neither said anything. The sun moved, the breeze shifted.

Liesa let her shoulders drop, the fight bleeding out of her. "I keep hoping Andy will come back and tell us everything is going to be okay. That we are all going to make it out together. But I do not think that is possible."

Emily gave her hand a squeeze, not to comfort, but to let Liesa know the fear was shared. "I don’t either. But maybe we can survive the next part together. Even if it sucks."

They sat in silence, the heat and the wind and the salt air pressing in around them, and for a brief, flickering moment, it was enough.

Emily watched Liesa breathe, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips pressed together as if she was fighting the urge to say something else. But she didn’t. She just leaned into the touch, letting the contact be the message.

The surface of the fountain was warm to the touch, sun-soaked stone radiating up into Myra’s hands. She sat on the rim, cane folded beside her, fingers spread wide over the edge as if she might steady the whole world by sheer will. She listened to the water’s low, steady gurgle, the slap of feet on wet tile, and the soft, rapid breathing of Chloe next to her, the kind of breathing that only came from either a panic attack or a miracle.

Chloe was perched on Myra’s left, knees drawn up, both hands tangled in the hem of her sundress. She hadn’t said anything since they’d left the lounge, but Myra could feel the tension rolling off her in waves—spikes of fear, spikes of hope, then a rolling surf of guilt, never settling for more than a heartbeat.

On Myra’s right, Marissa sat cross-legged on the ground, skirt fanned out around her, posture flawless even on the concrete. Her arms rested on her knees, hands folded with the habitual precision of a woman who could always find the center of her own gravity. She wasn’t projecting anything Myra could sense, but Myra could hear the tiny squeak of fabric as she squeezed her own wrist.

Behind Myra, Dawn leaned against the marble dolphin at the fountain’s apex, her hands resting gently on Myra’s shoulders, thumbs tracing light circles at the base of Myra’s neck. Dawn’s scent—vanilla lotion and the clean mineral tang of pool water—was a comfort, and Myra let herself lean back into it, just a little.

For a while, nobody spoke. The sky was blue and hard and cloudless, the air heavy with the kind of hush that comes only after something irreversibly good or bad has happened.

Chloe broke first, as she always did. “I can’t stop replaying it,” she said, her voice thin as vapor. “It’s like—every time I close my eyes, I see her on the sand. And Andy, with her in his arms, like nothing else existed. Like—” She bit her lip, hard, and exhaled shakily. “It’s not jealousy, it’s just… the shock of it. Like my whole body’s been vibrating since it happened.”

Marissa’s voice came from Myra’s right, cool and matter-of-fact. “When he knelt beside her, I thought I was watching history put on a body and start walking. Like everything we’d ever done here just got edited out and replaced.” She paused. “I know I’m supposed to be happy for him. But all I could think was, What about us?”

Myra tilted her head to the left, toward Chloe, then to the right, seeking the center of their voices. “I didn’t even have to see her,” she said. “The minute Andy called her name, I heard the air change. Like everyone’s breath got pulled out at once.” She let her hands slide through the little waterfall spilling from the dolphin’s mouth, feeling the spray prickle her skin. “I’ve never felt anything like it. Not even when I lost my sight.”

Dawn’s hands squeezed her shoulders a little, a silent show of solidarity. “She’s not a ghost,” Dawn murmured, her voice as soft as the spray. “That’s the part I keep coming back to. She’s real. She’s alive. And for the first time, it feels like this place actually kept a promise instead of just… twisting it around.”

Chloe’s hand drifted over and found Myra’s forearm, her touch feather-light. “I kind of envy you,” Chloe whispered. “Not having to see her face. Not having to—” She hesitated, then pushed on. “Not having to realize, all over again, that Andy loved someone else before any of us even existed. That she’s the reason we’re here, not the other way around.”

Myra flinched at the truth in that, but Chloe’s touch was gentle, not accusatory. There was only longing in it. Myra let the pause expand, then admitted, “What scares me isn’t being left behind. It’s that her coming back will make Andy’s kindness, his forgiveness… all of it, meaningless.” She squeezed Chloe’s hand in return. “I’m not proud of that. But it’s worse than envy. It’s like—I was forgiven by accident, and now the accident’s been undone.”

Marissa leaned back, letting her palms find the sun-warmed tile. “I think we all feel replaceable today,” she said. “Like the world just tilted toward someone who never had to earn her place here. Maybe that’s what makes it so hard to celebrate.”

Dawn’s hands, still on Myra’s shoulders, stilled. “We can’t control what Laura means to Andy,” Dawn said, her voice steady and strong. “But we get to decide what we mean to each other. And I don’t think he’s going to stop caring about any of us just because the past came back.” She looked up, catching each of their gazes in turn. “I have faith in him.”

Nobody interrupted. Dawn was not often the one to make speeches, but when she did, people listened. She kept her hands on Myra’s shoulders, but her voice carried.

“He’s fought for all of us,” she said. “From the first round, when he found the way to game the system and kept everyone safe, to the way he gave each of us a gift before the second challenge. He doesn’t always say it, but he wants us to believe in ourselves. Remember how he handled the Third? He gave that speech, the one about how we had to work together, and he used his connection with Claire to warn her when she was in danger. Even now—” She glanced at Marissa. “Even in the Garden, he tried to find a way to save everyone. I think he’s been trying to fix the world for as long as he’s been alive.”

Marissa made a small, skeptical sound. “That’s sweet. But people don’t change just because they want to.”

Dawn shrugged, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe. But I don’t think Andy’s ever going to let any of us go if he can help it. Not now.” She squeezed Myra’s shoulders again, a deliberate gesture. “I think he belongs to all of us as much as we belong to him. That’s not going to change. Not for her, not for anyone.”

The words hung in the air, soft but absolute. Myra folded her hands together, tight as a prayer, and let the hope Dawn offered settle inside her like a warm stone. Chloe leaned into Myra’s side, her breath slow and deep, and Marissa, after a moment’s hesitation, reached around Dawn’s waist and pulled her closer so that the four of them became a single, sunlit tangle on the rim of the fountain.

For a long, precious minute, no one spoke. They just breathed the same air, felt the same warmth, and let the world reassemble around them. Laura’s resurrection had shaken them loose, but it hadn’t scattered them—not completely. There was still something binding them together, even in the face of a miracle that might erase everything they thought they’d built.

Myra rested her head against Chloe’s, inhaled the clean scent of hair and sun and the barest hint of pool chlorine. She tried to let the other women’s feelings flow through her, tried to see if she could hold onto the hope and not just the fear.

By dusk, the Banquet Hall filled with the awkward choreography of anticipation. Every Contestant, even the most reclusive, showed up for dinner—not out of hunger, but out of necessity, a need to be seen, counted, not left behind. The buffet was set to perfection: silver chafers gleaming, stacks of fresh bread, salads studded with improbable fruit. But nobody touched anything until the last possible minute.

They sat in a jagged, incomplete circle at the center table, the unclaimed seats multiplying the sense of absence. No sign of Arabella. No word from Andy. Only the steady drone of crickets outside and the click of the ice machine in the next room.

Dawn was the first to speak. She’d braided her hair and even applied a touch of lipstick, but her bunny ears hung at half-mast, limp and colorless. “Do you think he already knows?” she asked, not looking at anyone in particular. “Who’s eliminated, I mean.”

Marissa, seated two spots down, crossed her arms over her chest. “Probably. Arabella said the elimination was decided when we dropped out of the Garden.” Emily winced.

Across the table, Liesa shifted in her chair, her every movement unconsciously graceful. She wore a vintage sundress, but it couldn’t disguise the anxiety in her knuckles, the way she dug her nails into her palms. “Maybe this time is different,” she said. “They never brought someone back before. Not like that.”

Chloe, eyes swollen and red, managed a weak smile. “Maybe it’s a reset. Like nobody gets eliminated, because the numbers changed.”

Norah scoffed, but the sound was brittle. “That’s not how this game works.”

Sam, propped on her elbows at the end of the table, gave a small, encouraging shrug. “If anyone could hack the rules, it’d be Andy. He’s stubborn.”

The conversation faltered, the words circling but never landing. In the silence, Emily hummed quietly, her hair—long enough to reach her knees—bunched up in a messy knot. She didn’t speak, but every so often her eyes darted to the door, as if she half-expected Arabella to materialize and declare the round over.

Dawn tried again. “I just wish she’d get it over with. The waiting’s the worst.”

Riley, next to Chloe, grunted her agreement. “She wants us to sweat. Builds drama.”

Nobody laughed, but Chloe’s lips twitched at the edge.

At the far end, Liesa’s face had gone thoughtful. “Arabella said the decision was made when we left the Garden,” she said. “Which means it was decided hours ago. All this—” She waved at the food, the table, the trembling air. “It’s just for show.”

Marissa’s voice was steady. “She always does this. She thinks if we sit together, we’ll become a family.”

Dawn’s ears drooped further, but she nodded.

There was a kind of comfort in the shared dread, a solidarity built not on hope but on resignation. Even Norah, who could usually be counted on for a muttered complaint, just picked at her napkin and said nothing.

Emily finally broke her silence. “What if it’s me?” she said. Her voice was small, but everyone heard. “What if I’m the one who goes?”

Nobody answered. For a minute, it was just the clink of utensils, the shuffle of restless feet.

Then Sam, who’d been watching the others closely, said, “I don’t think it matters who. Not anymore.” She glanced around the table, meeting every eye. “We’re all in the same boat.”

Liesa smiled at that, the first real one of the night.

As the sky darkened outside, the Hall took on the feel of a last supper: every word measured, every glance weighted with the possibility of finality. They spoke of nothing—food, the weather, the color of the sunrise—and yet the silence that followed each line was a reminder of everything left unsaid.

At some point, Myra and Marissa wandered to the windows, cups of tea in hand. Norah and Chloe bickered gently over whether to try the carrot cake. Sam and Emily stood side by side at the dessert bar, neither reaching for anything.

It was almost normal. Almost.

Then, as if by silent consensus, the group gathered at the edge of the terrace, staring out at the moonlit lagoon. The ocean was a mirror, perfectly flat, the kind of calm that meant a storm was coming.

Dawn leaned on the railing, her voice barely a whisper. “You think he’ll come for us? When it’s time?”

Riley, uncharacteristically gentle, said, “He always does.”

Liesa shivered, and Sam put an arm around her, the gesture both awkward and necessary.

For a long moment, they just stood there, a collection of broken, changed, and stubborn souls, holding tight to the one thing none of them could name but all of them knew.

In the end, the question was simple, and none dared speak it aloud: If Laura was back—if Andy had his other half—was there room for any of them in his heart?

As the moon climbed higher, the Contestants lingered, unwilling to be the first to leave, to risk being the one left behind.

And still, Arabella did not come.

Sam had been a shoulder for others before, but never like this—never for some many people who needed her so badly just to stay upright. As she crossed the hallway outside Liesa’s room, she rehearsed the first line a dozen times in her head. None of them worked. None would.

She knocked once, just to be polite, then let herself in. The door was unlocked, the room half-dark, illuminated only by the blue wash of the pool outside and a single bedside lamp. Liesa sat at the far edge of the king bed, knees together, arms wrapped around her legs. She’d changed out of her dress; now she wore a t-shirt and black panties, her hair unbraided and hanging long, the soft gold-pink of it clouded over one eye. She looked small for the first time Sam could remember.

Sam shut the door behind her and kicked off her shoes, padding over in socked feet. She wanted to say “I’m here,” or “You okay?” but Liesa’s expression made it clear that any platitude would break her open. Instead, she sat on the mattress a foot away, letting the springs carry her arrival in a silent wave.

For a minute, neither of them spoke.

Sam let the silence settle, then inched closer. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you today," she said, voice low with regret. "Everyone was falling apart and I—"

"Don't," Liesa interrupted, chin still resting on her knees. Her accent thickened with exhaustion. "I saw you running between rooms all day. Holding Dawn while she cried. Talking Erin down from punching walls. You kept everyone together. Even Norah." A small shrug.

Sam smiled, a quick flash of white. “It’s easier when you know what people are afraid of,” she said. “Most of them just need someone to say it’s not their fault.”

Liesa tilted her head, resting her chin on her knees. “And me? What am I afraid of?”

“Same as the others,” Sam said, her voice gentler now. “That there’s no place for you anymore. That with her back, you don’t matter. But you would be wrong, because I know Andy, and you will always matter. To him, and more importantly, to me.”

Liesa absorbed that in silence. She seemed, for once, to lack a ready answer. Instead, she stretched her legs and let her feet slide into Sam’s lap, the bare soles brushing against the rough denim of Sam’s shorts. She didn’t flinch at the contact; if anything, she pressed closer, as if touch could replace words she didn’t know how to shape.

Sam cupped Liesa’s left foot in her hand, kneading at the arch with practiced, absent-minded care. “You wanna talk about it?” Sam asked. “Or should I just shut up and rub your feet until you forget your name?”

Liesa snorted. “Both?” she said, and the faintest smile curled her lips. She watched Sam’s hands, the way the knuckles went white, the delicate yet deceptively strong fingers, the way they knew how to press and rub just the right spots.

After a while, Liesa said, “I know you are worried, Sam. But you do not have to lie for me. I saw how you looked at Andy. How you looked at her.”

Sam considered this, thumb working slow circles on the ball of Liesa’s foot. “Yeah, I worry. But not about Andy. Not even about her. I worry about you. The last time I saw you look like this, you almost ran for the next plane home.”

Liesa let that sit. Then: “I am not running. There is nowhere left to run.” She flexed her toes, then pulled her legs up, tucking them under her so she was eye-level with Sam. “I am scared,” she said, her voice so soft it was barely air. “But I want to be better than I was. Only, I do not want to be alone tonight.”

“You’re not,” Sam said, and she meant it. “Can I?” Sam asked, and when Liesa nodded, she gently pried the hands apart, holding them in her own. Liesa’s palms were cold and slightly damp.

Sam squeezed once, then waited. “You want to talk?” she asked, soft. “You don’t have to tell me what happened in the Garden,” Sam said. “But if you want to—”

“I do not,” Liesa said, quick and quiet. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of Sam’s skin, the warmth of her palms. “I am sorry. Maybe in the future. But I am glad you are here.”

Sam brought Liesa’s hand to her mouth and kissed the inside of the wrist, a slow, reverent press. “Me too.”

Liesa shook her head. “No words tonight,” she whispered. “Just… don’t leave?”

Sam didn’t let go. “I’m not going anywhere.” She meant it more than she’d ever meant anything.

A few seconds passed, then Liesa leaned in, head against Sam’s shoulder, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. “I am not scared of Laura,” she said, her voice muffled. “I am scared of being the reason someone else has to go.”

Sam could feel the pulse of need running through the woman’s body. “You’re not the reason. None of us are.”

Liesa snorted. “You say that, but we both know it’s not true. There is always a price.”

Sam hesitated. She remembered the look on Liesa’s face as Andy carried Laura up the sand. It was grief, but more than that: it was the fear of being cut from the frame, the background becoming so dark she’d disappear into it.

Sam rested her cheek on Liesa’s hair, breathing in the scent of salt and floral shampoo. “I’m not going to let you disappear,” she said. “Even if I have to follow you into whatever black hole this place drops us into.”

Liesa’s arms loosened, and she let them fall around Sam’s waist, clinging not in need but in relief. “Thank you,” she said, and the tears came then, slow and silent, soaking into Sam’s t-shirt. Sam stroked her hair, slow and gentle, not pushing, just anchoring her to the present.

“I keep thinking about Andy,” Sam said, after a while. “How hard it must be, having the one person you lost come back. How that doesn’t fix anything, but it changes everything.”

Liesa nodded against her. “He is a good man. But I don’t think he knows what to do now.” She sighed. “Maybe none of us do.”

Sam felt the truth of that. The world after Laura was a new universe, and none of them had learned its rules.

She let Liesa rest, the two of them breathing in sync, until the trembling stopped.

“I’m here as long as you need,” Sam said.

Liesa looked up at her, eyes red-rimmed but clear. “You will stay?” She hesitated, voice barely audible. “Even if… even if tomorrow it is you who goes?”

Sam smiled. “I’ll stay until they drag me away by the hair.” She reached up, looping a blue curl around her finger. “Yours or mine. Dealer’s choice.”

This got a real laugh from Liesa, and Sam let the moment breathe, letting the tension break.

They stayed like that for a while, the two of them tangled together on the edge of the bed, neither needing to move. Sam could have slept like that, but she felt Liesa’s body uncoil, felt the shift in her energy as need morphed from panic to hunger.

Liesa straightened, pulling her knees up cross-legged, then looked at Sam with a faint, mischievous glint. “You know, if it is my last night, I would like to make it memorable.” Her accent thickened, the vowels drawing out like warm honey.

Sam grinned, catching the signal. “Is this the part where you seduce me with your tragic European beauty?”

Liesa rolled her eyes, but she was already sliding closer, legs pressing against Sam’s. “You Americans think sex is for forgetting, not remembering,” she said. “I think it is both.”

Sam leaned in, brushing her lips to Liesa’s. The kiss was slow, searching, not urgent; it was a promise that whatever happened tomorrow, they were still here, still alive, still able to claim something for themselves.

Liesa melted into it, hands on Sam’s hips, then running up her sides under the t-shirt. Sam was not as soft as most women, but Liesa mapped every muscle, every edge, as if learning a new country by touch.

Sam pressed her palm to the small of Liesa’s back, drawing her in. The warmth of their bodies met in a shared current. Liesa was more aroused than she let on; Sam could feel the heat radiating from her, the subtle tremor in her thighs. The sensation made Sam dizzy, not just from her own desire, but from the knowledge that this, right now, was the only place in the world where the pain stopped.

They tumbled onto the mattress, Liesa giggling and shushing herself, her bare legs sliding around Sam’s waist. Sam kissed along her jaw, then down her throat, nuzzling the faint perfume of sweat and vanilla that clung to her skin. Liesa’s hands were everywhere, coaxing, inviting, greedy for connection. She pulled Sam’s shirt up, exposing her stomach, and ran her hands along the abs as if they were a miracle.

Sam returned the favor, inching Liesa’s t-shirt up and over her head. Liesa was topless now, her D-cup breasts soft but full, the nipples already peaked from arousal. Sam took a moment just to look at her—at the line of her collarbones, the birthmark on her hip, the way her hair fanned out on the pillow.

“You’re beautiful,” Sam said, and meant it.

Liesa smiled, not coy but grateful. “You always say that when you want to get inside me.”

“Maybe I just like looking,” Sam countered, and kissed her again, this time with more ****.

They undressed each other in increments, savoring the act, not rushing it. Liesa’s panties were gone first, revealing the pale skin and the slight shadow where she’d shaved that morning. Sam touched her with a reverence that bordered on worship. Liesa moaned, arching her back, her breath hot against Sam’s ear.

Sam wanted to take her time—wanted to make every second last, as if by slow accumulation she could build a buffer against whatever was coming for them. But Liesa’s hands were insistent, more direct than Sam had ever felt from her. She was usually a queen of the slow tease, the lingering eye contact, the feather-light caress along a jawline or hip. Tonight, she didn’t want to be courted; she wanted the ache soothed, the void filled, the need met. There was a kind of purity to it, maybe even desperation, but Sam didn’t judge. She understood it intimately, the urge for presence when the world felt poised to erase you.

So she let Liesa guide her, let her fingers run through Sam’s curls with a grip that left her scalp tingling. Sam moved down, kissing the delicate pale skin at the hollow of Liesa’s throat, tasting the faint sweetness of vanilla and sweat, then lower, where the collarbone curved toward a shoulder. Liesa arched her head back as Sam kissed there, giving access, surrendering her vulnerability. Sam’s hands skimmed upward, tracing the outside of Liesa’s ribcage, then palmed the fullness of her breasts, thumbs circling the nipples until they stiffened, drawing out a low, appreciative moan from Liesa.

Sam could have spent all night there, mapping the gradient of pleasure across Liesa’s body, but the hands in her hair grew more urgent, tugging her downward. She obeyed, dropping kisses along the midriff, pausing at a birthmark on the hip that she traced with her tongue, then lower, to where Liesa’s thighs parted without hesitation.

She knelt between them, savoring the view: Liesa’s legs, sculpted by years of running, now quivering with anticipation; her hands, gripping the crumpled duvet like reins; her eyes, storm blue in the lamplight, glazed with desire and something like gratitude.

Sam started slow, kissing the inside of Liesa’s knees, moving inward with deliberate patience, letting the tension build. The skin there was impossibly soft, the warmth radiating upward. She tasted the salt of Liesa’s skin, inhaled the scent that was uniquely her—something like rosewater and anxiety, electric and floral at the same time. Liesa’s breathing hitched with every advance, every inch that brought Sam closer to her core.

She paused at the apex of Liesa’s thighs, drawing a circle with her tongue just above where the heat was most intense, teasing, watching Liesa’s hips lift off the mattress in anticipation. Only when Liesa was nearly whimpering did Sam press her lips to her clit, at once gentle and sure, the pressure just enough to make Liesa gasp and arch.

The reaction was immediate and profound. Liesa’s thighs locked around Sam’s head, her hands clenching Sam’s hair in a fist that was almost painful. She bucked against Sam’s mouth, not shy about her neediness, not embarrassed by the sounds she made—high, keening noises muffled in the crook of her own arm, as if she didn’t trust herself not to cry out too loudly.

Sam worked her tongue in slow, lazy circles, then flicked it, then slowed again, always keeping Liesa just off-balance, never letting her fall into a predictable rhythm. She’d learned this technique from an ex-girlfriend who’d claimed she could “eat pain away,” and Sam had thought it a joke until she saw it work, saw the way a body could shake and reset after a climax, the way trauma or stress sometimes came out in a sob as the orgasm passed through.

Liesa was wound tighter than a watch spring, every nerve ending on fire. The more Sam teased, the more **** she grew; her hands abandoned Sam’s hair for her own breasts, pinching and twisting the nipples in time to the rhythm of Sam’s tongue. She squirmed, cursed in rapid Flemish, then in English, then in a hybrid of both. Sam smiled against her, taking a perverse pleasure in reducing the famously unflappable Liesa Claes to a mess of sensation and incoherence.

It didn’t take long. When the orgasm came, it took Liesa by storm: her whole body convulsed, her hips pressing Sam’s face tighter, her mouth opening in a wail that was quickly stifled against the bedsheet. The wave lasted longer than Sam expected, extra aftershocks rippling through Liesa’s body, each one drawing another gasp, another writhing twist of the torso.

Sam kept going, gentling her touch, letting Liesa ride it out. When the sensation became too much, Liesa’s hands returned, this time to push Sam’s head away with a plea: “Too much, too much, please.” Her voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges.

Sam eased off, kissing her way back up Liesa’s torso, pausing again at the birthmark, then the hollow between the breasts. She lingered there, letting Liesa recover, then propped herself up so they were face to face. Liesa’s hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she sucked in deep, ragged breaths.

“You’re amazing,” Liesa managed, eyebrows twitching toward the middle as if still not quite believing what she’d just experienced.

Sam grinned, pride and affection mixing in her chest in equal measure. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, and kissed Liesa’s cheek, then her mouth, tasting the salt of her own sweat on Liesa’s lips.

Liesa pulled Sam in for a deeper kiss, hands roaming up her back, kneading the taut muscles there. She rolled Sam over with surprising strength, straddling Sam’s hips and pinning her to the mattress. For a moment, Liesa just held her there, catching her breath, eyes bright with post-orgasmic clarity.

“Let me,” Liesa said. It wasn’t a request. She wanted to reciprocate, to give as much as she’d received. Sam relaxed into it, letting herself be devoured.

Liesa’s kisses were methodical, almost scientific. She mapped Sam’s body with her lips, her tongue, her hands—starting with the jaw, then the collarbone, then down to the hollow of the throat. She paused there, nipping gently, drawing out a gasp from Sam, before moving lower. At each stop, she watched Sam’s face, checking for a reaction before pressing onward. It felt less like seduction and more like a dialogue, a question and answer in the language of sensation.

When she reached Sam’s breasts, she took her time, alternating between soft, lingering kisses and more forceful attention to the nipples—sucking, biting just enough to send a jolt through Sam’s body. Sam arched into her, letting the pleasure roll upward in a slow crescendo. Liesa’s hands were everywhere, moving with purpose, as if she knew the exact map to Sam’s undoing.

She didn’t hesitate when she reached Sam’s waist. She hooked her thumbs under the waistband of Sam’s boxers, pulling them down with a single, practiced motion. Sam was already wet, and Liesa made a show of noticing, arching an eyebrow and giving Sam a look that was equal parts mischief and triumph.

She lowered herself between Sam’s legs, kissing up the inside of each thigh, pausing millimeters short of her destination just to watch Sam writhe in anticipation. Then, when Sam was practically begging, Liesa flicked her tongue over the clit in a motion so precise it made Sam see stars.

The Cunning Linguist transformation was not a myth. Liesa’s tongue worked in ways that defied biology: slow at first, then with a flick that sent pleasure racing up Sam’s spine, then soft again, coaxing the orgasm to the surface but never letting it arrive until Sam was trembling, her thighs clenched around Liesa’s ears. As Liesa' s tongue worked Sam's body, her own back arched in mirror pleasure. Each slow circle she traced made her gasp against Sam's skin; each flick that sent electricity up Sam' s spine triggered a shudder through her own hips. Sam watched, transfixed, as Liesa's eyes fluttered closed in ecstasy while coaxing Sam's orgasm to the surface.

When Liesa hummed against Sam' s clit, her own body trembled in response. Their climaxes built in tandem— Sam's thighs clenching around Liesa's ears as Liesa's hips bucked against nothing but air. When Sam finally came, Liesa cried out against her, experiencing the same white-hot explosion of release. When both recovered, Liesa she slid up, holding Sam’s face in her hands, kissing her softly.

They lay tangled in the sheets, arms and legs everywhere, catching their breath.

After a while, Liesa tucked herself under Sam's arm and rested her head on Sam's shoulder. "Promise me," she said, voice fragile but sure. "Promise me you will help the harem survive this. All of us. Even Andy. Even if—" She hesitated. "Even if I am not here tomorrow."

Sam ran her hand through Liesa's hair, stroking it gently. "I promise," she said. "I'd promise it a thousand times."

Liesa smiled. "Even Laura?"

Sam thought about it, then nodded. "Even her. Because if there's any version of this where nobody gets hurt, it's the one where Andy and Laura are together. Even if she's one of the harem." She exhaled, feeling the honesty settle into her bones. "I want everyone to make it out, Liesa. Including you."

Liesa looked at her, searching for any sign of a lie, then kissed her softly on the lips. "I believe you," she said. "And I am glad I have you, Sam."

Sam hugged her closer, holding her tight. "You'll have me as long as you want," she said.

They drifted off, not quite sleeping, but resting together in the hush that followed the storm. Outside, the world was still—no footsteps in the hall, no voices, no sign of elimination or miracles or anything at all. Just the two of them, cocooned in warmth, refusing to let the night steal another second from them.

The room had grown darker, just the faintest silver of moonlight tracing the curve of Liesa's shoulder. Sam thought she was asleep until she felt Liesa's fingers tracing patterns on her collarbone, feather-light. When Liesa spoke, her voice was barely audible, as if the words were too precious, too dangerous to be spoken at full volume.

"I love you, Sam."

Sam's breath caught. The world seemed to still, everything suspended in that moment between heartbeats. She'd never heard those words from Liesa—not during their most intimate moments, not even as a joke. The confession hung between them, delicate and perfect.

Sam shifted, turning to face Liesa fully. In the near-darkness, she could just make out the vulnerability in Liesa's eyes, the slight tremble of her lower lip. Sam cradled Liesa's face between her palms, thumbs brushing away tears neither of them had noticed until now.

"I love you too," Sam whispered, her voice breaking on the words. "God, Liesa, I love you in ways I didn't know were possible."

Their kiss was different from all the others—not **** or hungry, but reverent. An oath sealed with the press of lips, the mingling of breath. When they parted, Liesa's smile was luminous in the darkness, a beacon Sam would follow anywhere.

They lay there until the light in the room faded to nothing, and the only thing left was the steady, shared rhythm of their breath, the silent promise of their hearts beating in time.