Weary Steps

The headache began before Norah opened her eyes. It was one of those skull-wringing, full-spectrum jobs that pulsed behind the eyelids and made even the darkness of the closed curtains seem several notches too bright. She lay very still, cheek pressed into the pillow, waiting to see if her body would rebel at the prospect of movement. When she risked a swallow, her mouth was so dry her tongue felt borrowed.

She waited. No nausea. Small miracles. The rest of her ached—shoulders, the small of her back, even the toes—but she counted this as an overall success. The party had not killed her. It had merely left a tax.

She sat up, wincing as the room did a slow, leftward tilt. The first real thought to make it across the synapses was pure complaint: I will never do that again. She reached for her phone, remembered there was no phone, and made do by staring at the bedside clock. The numbers glowed: 9:43 AM. Early enough to pretend it was still morning, late enough to know everyone else was probably feeling it too.

On the second try, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet touched the floor, which was cool, and for some reason—maybe lingering dream logic—she felt the urge to count her toes just to be sure. All there. No transformations overnight. This was a possibility she now lived with.

She sat for a long time, elbows on knees, pressing her fingers into her temples in slow, hard circles. It hurt, but not as much as the headache. After several minutes, she **** herself to her feet, found her heels after a few fumbling attempts and some ill-advised crawling, and tottered to the bathroom. Water first. Then more water, then aspirin, and then—if she survived—coffee. The bathroom lights were set low, but it still felt like the sun itself was drilling directly through her corneas.

She rinsed her face, splashed cold water on her pulse points, and finally risked a glance at her reflection. The damage was considerable. The hair was an exploded diagram of her usual curls, a tangled halo framing an equally chaotic mask of mascara and eyeliner. Her skin, already a deep caramel, looked slightly ashen, as if someone had dusted her with cocoa powder and regret.

She wiped the worst of the makeup off, then attempted to reconstruct her hair with a little water and several hopeless comb attempts. In the end, she surrendered, accepting that this was not going to be a glamour morning. She considered, not for the first time, how much her mother would have freaked at the sight: a grown woman, in sleep-rumpled pajamas, sporting last night's makeup and not even trying to hide the evidence. Somewhere, in a universe where Norah still had to go to Mosque, the entire Rahman lineage was probably praying for her soul.

By the time she’d slipped on the only presentable clothes she could stand—faded blue jeans, oversized hoodie, hair pulled back with a sad-looking scrunchie that was more surrender than statement—it was past ten. She made her way to the Banquet Hall in a silent shuffle, the click of her mandated heels a quiet drumbeat in the empty corridor.

The Banquet Hall was, for once, not a beehive of activity. There was one person at the table: Sam, hunched over a coffee mug, the long line of her body folded into a posture of pure morning-after defeat. The sight was so perfect, so absolutely correct, that for a second Norah was certain she’d hallucinated it.

She crossed to the table and sat heavily in the chair across from Sam, who lifted her head and regarded Norah through bloodshot eyes. They exchanged a look that contained at least eight years' worth of silent suffering.

Sam spoke first, voice gravelly and low. “You look like **** warmed over.”

Norah grunted. “You look like **** skipped the warming.”

Sam almost smiled. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Some. Not enough.” Norah glanced at the mug in Sam’s hand, saw the tremble in her friend’s knuckles, and felt a weird pride. “I see you found the good stuff.”

Sam nodded, then pushed a second mug across the table. “Made it extra strong. You’ll need it.”

Norah took the mug, sipped, and nearly recoiled at the bitterness. “Jesus. Did you use the entire canister?”

Sam shrugged. “Ratio is a suggestion, not a rule.”

They sat together in a silence that was not awkward, just battered. Norah felt every minute of last night, from the moment she’d joined the karaoke debacle to the very last round of "Truth or Dare" that had ended, if she remembered correctly, with Tracy and herself making out on the balcony and Myra giggling so hard she fell off her chair.

She looked at Sam, who appeared to be reconstructing her own night from scattered fragments. “Any casualties?” Norah asked.

Sam considered. “I think Chloe cried at some point, but it was the happy kind. Riley started a limbo contest with Candy, which turned into a conga line, which I think ended up on the roof.” She paused, searching memory. “I remember Dani hitting on the bartender.”

Norah nodded. “She did that.”

Sam rubbed her temples. “How are you holding up? Like, emotionally?”

Norah sipped again, then set the mug down. “I don’t know. I keep expecting it to get easier, but every day it’s like—” She made a vague gesture that meant everything and nothing. “I don’t know what the endgame is.”

Sam leaned back in her chair, stretching. “Who says there is one?”

“Easy for you to say. You’re built for this.”

Sam snorted, the sound almost a laugh. “Built for what, bad decisions and hangovers?”

Norah wanted to argue, but it was too early and she was too tired. She settled for a one-shoulder shrug.

They lapsed into a gentle quiet, the only sound the faint humming of the kitchen appliances and the birds that never seemed to sleep outside the window.

It was Chloe who broke the spell, shuffling in from the hall, hair a tangle of gold and brown, eyes wide and blinking like she’d just survived a cave-in. She moved with **** caution, as if any sudden movement would cause her body to disintegrate.

She paused just inside the threshold and whispered, “Is it safe?”

Sam gestured to the table. “Depends what you’re hiding from.”

Chloe padded in, sliding into the nearest chair. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the table. “Sorry if I’m too loud,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “My ears are ringing.”

Norah gave her a look of sympathy. “You look worse than both of us combined.”

Chloe moaned, then peeked at Sam through her hair. “Do you think they have ginger ale? Or like, a banana?”

Sam said, “I can check,” and stood slowly, as if her joints had been individually glued overnight. She disappeared into the back kitchen, leaving Norah and Chloe alone.

Chloe didn’t move. “Last night is a blur,” she said softly. “Did I… Did I do anything really stupid?”

Norah tried to remember. “You sang karaoke. You gave Riley a pep talk. You told Emily her hair was a ‘miracle of engineering.’ Nothing criminal.”

Chloe let out a relieved exhale. “That’s not so bad. Sometimes I’m afraid the transformations will, I don’t know, leak out? Like, I’ll start saying what I’m thinking instead of just thinking it.”

Norah almost said, That’s not how it works. But she’d learned better. Instead, she reached across the table and gave Chloe’s hand a squeeze. “You’re good, Chloe. Honest.”

Chloe smiled, weak but real, then rested her head on the table again.

Sam returned with a can of ginger ale and a bunch of bananas, which she placed in front of Chloe with a flourish. “Breakfast of champions,” she said, her voice only marginally more alive.

Chloe managed a grateful nod. She opened the can, sipped, and visibly relaxed. “Thank you,” she whispered, like she was in a library.

The three of them sat together, orbiting their own hangovers but anchored by the shared gravity of survival. The Banquet Hall remained quiet, the world outside moving at half-speed. Norah felt a little less alone. She even managed a small smile, which lasted until Chloe, halfway through her banana, asked, “Do you think anyone died?”

Sam grinned. “My hyper-gin did pack a punch. But if anyone did, I’m sure they’ll haunt us by lunch.”

Norah snorted, and the headache dimmed by just a notch.

---

Twenty minutes later, Riley shuffled in, eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. The rest of her was last night’s clothes: black jeans, fitted top, boots untied. She didn’t so much walk as float, her motions slow and underwater.

Sam saw her and, without a word, poured a fresh cup of coffee and slid it down the table. Riley caught it, sipped, and grunted in approval. She didn’t sit with the others, just parked herself at the far end of the table, legs stretched, one arm curled protectively around the mug. She looked like she was about to audition for a B-movie remake of The Breakfast Club, and Norah had to stifle a smile.

Chloe, who was now halfway through her second banana, waved at Riley. “Hi, Riley.”

Riley lifted a hand, then let it fall. “Hey. If anyone asks, I’m dead.”

Chloe nodded. “You sound better than I do.”

Riley exhaled, then muttered, “I only threw up once. I call that a win.”

Sam raised her mug. “Never let the stomach defeat you.”

Norah watched the dynamic with interest. The night before, Riley had been a minor hurricane, swirling from one conversation to another, always with a drink in hand and a punchline at the ready. Now she was the eye of the storm, perfectly still, the chaos spinning out around her.

The next arrival was Erin, who walked in looking as if she’d run a marathon and then gotten lost on the way home. Her mint green skin was, if anything, darker than usual—more blue than green, as if her blood chemistry had switched allegiances overnight. She moved carefully, every step deliberate, as though she expected some hidden trap to go off if she put her foot wrong.

She saw Norah, nodded, then made her way to the fridge. She grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewed it with shaking hands, and chugged half of it in one go. When she joined the table, it was beside Chloe, who glanced at her and whispered, “You okay?”

Erin shook her head. “Not even close.”

Norah slid a mug of coffee toward her, but Erin shook her head again, more emphatically. “I need real water. Not poison.”

Riley, who was listening despite appearances, called out, “Drink a glass of pickle juice. It’s the only thing that works.”

Erin grunted. “If you have a pickle, I’ll eat it. But nothing fermented.”

Sam snorted. “Since when are you the lightweight?”

Erin shrugged, the motion stiff. “I think my metabolism is broken. Or maybe the plant in me is just dying.”

There was a beat of silence.

Liesa entered with all the ease of someone immune to suffering. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her skin was dewy, and her walk—always a little too slinky for morning—had the effect of a cat stretching on a windowsill. She carried a small potted succulent, which she set down in front of Erin with a flourish.

“Goeiemorgen,” she said, smiling with just a hint of the predator. “I brought you a friend.”

Erin stared at the plant. “Is this a joke?”

Liesa grinned wider. “Plants don’t metabolize **** like humans. But you are not only human, yes? I think you will be hungover for at least twice as long as the rest of us.”

Erin closed her eyes, counting to something. “Thanks, Liesa.”

Liesa patted her hand, then took the seat next to Sam. “You are all so dramatic,” she announced, scanning the table. “After university parties in Belgium, we would run five kilometers before breakfast. Sweat it out.”

Sam gave her a side-eye. “If you try to make me run, I will **** you.”

Liesa laughed, not unkindly. “You would not last ten steps.”

Norah watched the plant, watched Erin, and felt a strange pang of camaraderie. The last time she’d been this hungover, she’d sworn off parties forever. Now, she had to admit, the company helped.

Chloe looked at the succulent, then at Erin. “You should name it.”

Erin squinted. “Why?”

Chloe shrugged. “It’ll help you feel better about yourself. I think that’s how therapy works.”

Riley, from the end of the table: “Name it Absinthe.”

Sam said, “Name it Survivor.”

Liesa, deadpan: “Call it Klein, because it is small but mighty.”

Chloe brightened. “Klein. I like that.”

Erin stared at the plant, then shrugged. “Fine. Klein. But if I still have a headache tomorrow, I’m going full herbicide.”

They all laughed, and for a second the world seemed less terrible.

The conversation settled into a loose circle, each woman cataloging her aches and disasters. Norah found herself enjoying it: the slow, bantering back-and-forth, the way nobody pushed too hard, the shared acceptance that they were all, in their own way, a little bit broken.

Sam ran a hand through her hair, yawned, then said, “What was your favorite part of last night?”

Chloe didn’t hesitate. “The group hug at the end. I know it was silly, but—” She trailed off, a little embarrassed.

Liesa leaned in. “It was nice. Even if Riley kept trying to get out.”

Riley grunted. “I was afraid of suffocating under Chloe’s boobs.”

There was general agreement on this point. Even from Chloe.

Erin sipped her water, then said, “I liked the karaoke. Not the singing, but the way everyone kept daring each other to go up.”

Norah said, “I never understood the appeal. Isn’t it just public humiliation?”

Chloe shook her head. “It’s about being together. Making a fool of yourself on purpose, so nobody feels left out.”

Norah wanted to argue, but found she didn’t have the energy. Maybe Chloe was right.

Liesa stretched, then tilted her head toward Sam. “And you? Favorite part?”

Sam thought, then smiled. “Watching you all be idiots. It was like herding cats, but worth it.”

The group quieted, each woman sipping her drink, watching the light shift across the table as the morning advanced. Norah felt the last of the headache ebb away, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with coffee.

---

The Library was always coldest in the morning. Emily sat in the broad-windowed alcove, knees hugged to her chest, hair a perfect pink-and-gold wave that half-covered her nakedness and all but disappeared in the rising sun. She had been there for over an hour, reading nothing, simply listening to the tick of old heating pipes and the feathery shuffle of Mildred’s dusting in the stacks.

When Dawn appeared, it was with the air of someone who’d already gone for a run, written a few thank-you notes, and was now checking off "friendly intervention" on her daily list. She wore shorts, an ancient Harrington Hotel t-shirt, and a big, loose braid; her black-furred bunny ears pointed forward with interest, and her skin glowed as if she’d swallowed the sunrise.

Dawn didn’t bother with a greeting. She grinned, then slumped to the carpet, half-kneeling. “Are you okay?”

Emily thought about lying, but she had never been good at it. Not before, and certainly not now. “I’m not hungover, if that’s what you mean.”

“Are you hung under?”

Emily let out a real laugh. “Maybe a little.”

They sat in silence. It was a gentle, library silence, not the fraught quiet of people who had too much to say. Outside, a flock of small white birds clattered off the roof, and the dust motes in the air danced for a few seconds before settling.

Dawn spoke first. “Mildred said you wanted to talk to me.”

Emily considered pretending not to have heard. It was the sort of gambit she used to play in her previous life, before transformations and harems and being known for what she actually was. But Dawn waited, not a hint of impatience in her stance, and it made ignoring her feel less like a strategy and more like cowardice.

"I didn't mean to bother you," Emily said at last. Her voice was smaller than she'd intended.

Dawn snorted. "If you bothered me, I wouldn't be here. Or I'd be here to bother you back." She let her head fall against the wall and just watched Emily, not judging, just present.

They sat in that for a little while, until the silence threatened to become a new equilibrium.

"You look like you slept twelve hours and then ran a marathon," Emily said. "It should be illegal to look that awake before lunch."

Dawn gave a tiny bow. "It's the Wake Up Call transformation. Honestly, it's probably the best thing that's happened to me since this started. Well, second-best. First-best is meeting you all." She stretched her arms overhead, as if to show off how limber and energized she felt. "Six AM, every day, bright-eyed, no matter what. I don't even need coffee."

Emily tried to imagine a world where morning felt like a beginning instead of a punishment. She failed.

After a beat, she said, "Did Mildred really tell you I wanted to talk?"

Dawn shrugged. "She didn't use words, exactly. She just walked by me in the hall at six-fifteen and pointed, like, directly at the Library. Then she gave me this look." Dawn tried to imitate Mildred's signature glassy-eyed smile, and came pretty close. "I think she ships us," Dawn added. "Not in the, uh, sex way. Like, emotionally."

Emily laughed. She didn't want to, but it came out anyway, a soft bubble in the cold air. It helped.

She dropped her chin to her knees and picked at a frayed edge on the library's window seat. "Can I ask you something and you'll keep it just between us?"

"Of course," Dawn said instantly.

Emily searched the ceiling for words. "In my last... season, most of my transformations were about obedience. Suggestibility. You know, doing what I was told. At first it was a nightmare, but then it kind of... grew on me?" She glanced at Dawn, who nodded once but didn't interrupt.

Emily found herself twisting a lock of pink hair around her finger, watching it spiral. "I think I like it. I like how it feels when someone tells me what to do. Especially Andy. When it's him, it's... better than anything." She blushed, but pressed on. "But our last date night, he asked me if I had any boundaries. Like, hard limits. At first I said no, but the more I think about it, the more I wonder if maybe I'm just broken. Like, maybe normal people have boundaries, and I don't because I'm defective."

Dawn let that settle before answering. "I don't think that's true," she said, matter-of-fact. "You're the opposite of broken, actually. You're like—" She frowned, then restarted. "Boundaries aren't just about what you don't want. They're also about what you want, and how you want to be cared for. Sometimes it just means trusting someone enough to let them know."

Emily chewed on that for a second, then let her legs drop and pulled them crosswise on the window seat. "I'm not sure I know what mine are, though. My brain is basically a sieve for anything except 'yes.' If someone tells me to do something, I just... do it."

Dawn tilted her head, ears flopping slightly. "Maybe start with the easy stuff? Like, is there anything you actually wouldn't do, no matter what?"

Emily bit her lip. "No kids. No animals. No public sex in front of actual strangers. I guess that's about it." She made a face. "That sounds so dark out loud. I feel like a fraud for even needing to say it."

Dawn shook her head. "That's not fraud. That's just knowing where the line is. You can have boundaries and still be a good sub, or whatever word you like for it."

Emily smirked, but her heart wasn’t in it. "It feels like I'm betraying him, if I even admit I have lines. Like I'm supposed to be all-in, no exceptions."

Dawn slid closer, staying at ground level so she didn't intrude on Emily's window seat. "Can I tell you what my grandma used to say about this?"

Emily nodded.

"She said people are like trains—everyone runs on rails, but there are switches along the way. If you don't tell the conductor which switches to pull, you either end up going nowhere, or you crash and burn. It's not weak to have a switch. It's how you get to the right place." Dawn shrugged, a little sheepish. "Sorry, that’s kind of corny."

Emily shook her head, slow. "No, I like it. It's... comforting, actually."

They fell quiet again, but this time it was a more hopeful sort of quiet. A silence with a seam of light in it.

Dawn spoke again, softer now. "You should tell him. Andy, I mean. He cares a lot. I think he’d rather know what you want than be left trying to decode it."

Emily's lips twitched. "I'm not sure I even know what I want, besides more of him."

"Then start there," Dawn said, smiling.

Emily reached up, reflexively smoothing the hair across her breasts, though with Dawn she didn't really need to. Her hand hovered, then dropped back to her lap.

"Can I ask you one more thing?" she said. "Promise you won’t think it’s weird?"

Dawn smiled wider. "After the last month, you’d have to work hard to weird me out. Go for it."

Emily took a breath. "Sometimes I think about tying my hair back. Like, all the way, so there’s nothing to hide me. But I’m terrified what everyone else would think. I… I do it sometimes, but only with Andy. Only when I want to feel ****, when I want him to see it." She ran both hands through her mane, as if picturing it. "I know it’s stupid."

"It's not stupid," Dawn said, and her eyes were so kind it made Emily want to cry. "It’s your call. But I bet if you try it, you’ll feel braver than you think. Look at Erin. She doesn’t have your hair, and she walks like she owns the world."

Emily pressed her hands together, the way she did before a big exam or an impossible job interview. She looked at Dawn and found herself smiling for real, just a little.

"I’ll think about it," Emily said.

Dawn grinned. "Happy to help."

They sat like that, not speaking, but not needing to. The library air was cool and a little dusty, the sun pouring in behind Emily's silhouette and making her hair look like spun sugar.

After a while, Dawn stood, dusted off her shorts, and offered a hand to Emily. "Breakfast?"

Emily nodded. "Breakfast."

They walked out together, and Mildred, who had been dusting the top shelf with something that looked very much like a saber, watched them go with her inscrutable smile.

---

The Banquet Hall was already alive with motion by the time Emily and Dawn arrived. The big table, so recently ground zero for a parade of hangovers, was now a low-key hive: Chloe in a loose cardigan and leggings, arms folded tight around her chest; Sam, feet up on another chair, doing a crossword with a battered pen; Norah, fidgeting with the heel of her hand and occasionally glancing at the clock; and Erin, who looked like she had been airlifted directly from bed, mint skin damp with a cold dew, but very much present.

Emily slipped in behind Chloe, who, sensing another body, immediately shuffled three inches left to make space. Chloe had a sixth sense for personal boundaries even before the L-cup transformation, and now moved with the wary, careful physics of someone navigating a major infrastructure project above the waist.

Dawn beelined for the kitchen, ears bobbing. "I'll make eggs," she called, already rooting through the fridge. "Anyone want cheese?"

"Yes," said Sam, not looking up.

"No," said Norah, making a face.

"Whatever," said Erin. "I'll eat anything."

"Anything?" Chloe murmured, and immediately blushed, as if even thinking the joke was forbidden.

Emily stifled a laugh. She liked the way this group worked. It was like a sitcom pilot where everyone already knew their lines.

The conversation, as it always did, veered back to last night's drama.

"Okay, place your bets," said Sam. "Did Myra actually say a whole sentence to Andy, or did she freeze up at the ten-yard line?"

Chloe chewed her lip, then said, "She rehearsed for hours. But I don't know if he even heard her—she was so nervous she might have whispered it into her sleeve."

Norah snorted. "I bet five bucks she couldn't even get close to him. Did you see how green he looked at midnight?"

"He wasn't green," said Erin. "That was me. He looked fine." She slumped, then muttered, "I'm just glad he didn't explode."

Sam circled a clue, then pointed at Erin with her pen. "That's growth. I remember week two, you would have had a meltdown if Myra got five minutes alone with him."

Erin shrugged, eyes down. "I'm over it. If it makes her feel better to see him, I say let her have it."

Norah raised an eyebrow. "You do know there's only one prize at the end, right?"

Sam grinned. "Nope, he keeps you all forever."

Chloe's cheeks went pink. "That's not—" She cut herself off, then changed the subject with a practiced flick. "Does anyone know where Marissa is? She's usually here by now."

"She was out back," said Erin. "I saw her through the patio door when I came in."

Chloe nodded, as if that explained everything.

Emily listened, letting the flow of the group settle around her. The rhythm was easy, a gentle push and pull with no clear leader. Dawn called out from the kitchen: "Toast in three minutes! If you don't like brown edges, grab it now!"

Sam called back, "Burn mine, please!"

Erin made a face. "That's not toast. That's trauma on bread."

Chloe laughed, then turned to Emily, her voice lower. "Did you sleep okay?" she asked, genuine concern behind the question.

Emily nodded. "Surprisingly well. I was the bartender, so I didn’t drink very much. Maybe that helped."

Chloe smiled. "You did a great job."

Emily was about to thank her when the conversation at the table was interrupted by the slow creak of the Banquet Hall door.

Myra stood in the doorway, her eyes focused on nothing. Her tail, usually a nervous metronome, was looped in a slow, lazy arc behind her, and her ears were half-pinned in a way that was more bashful than defensive.

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and walked in. For once, she didn't hover at the threshold. She moved straight to the table, paused, and waited.

Marissa, who had somehow materialized from the side hallway without a sound, pulled out the empty chair next to Emily. "Sit," Marissa said, voice soft but precise.

Myra sat.

Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Dawn emerged from the kitchen, four plates stacked in one hand, and called, "Eggs up!"

---

By midafternoon, the Banquet Hall was nearly empty. The party's shockwave had passed, and the survivors had retreated to naps, walks, or whatever version of self-care was available when trapped in a magical resort with no internet and no caffeine left in the coffee machine. Norah was at the bar, nursing a ginger ale with the resigned air of someone who knew her body would mutiny if she tried actual ****. She'd chosen a spot facing the entrance, elbows spread, like a bouncer for a very exclusive, very boring club.

She noticed Myra first, before the fox-tail, before the uncertain walk. She saw the way Myra’s ears scanned the room, then shrank as if hoping to become invisible. Norah smirked. “Myra!” She called.

Myra approached warily, pausing a chair’s width away. "Am I in trouble?"

"Not yet," Norah said. "Sit. Report." She pushed the other ginger ale across the bar.

Myra sat, hands in her lap, tail looped tight around her calf. She sniffed at the drink, then sipped.

"Well?" Norah said, all business. "How'd it go with the Master? Spare no details. If you lie, I’ll know."

Myra turned her head around, as if seeking escape. There was none. "We went for a walk. In the gardens. He let me talk, or tried to. I mostly babbled."

"Expected," Norah said. "Did you get more than five words in?"

"Maybe six," Myra said. "After that I lost count."

"Good." Norah nodded approval, then steered: "Did you touch?"

Myra blushed, a vivid, fast blush that ran from her throat up to her hairline. "He held my arm, so I wouldn't fall over the stepping stones."

Norah made a face. "That's not touching, that's OSHA compliance. Did you make a move?"

Myra was about to answer when Marissa appeared at her left shoulder, moving with a silent authority that made the barstool look like it had always belonged to her. She was dressed in a pressed button-down (white, perfectly tucked), with hair pulled back so severe it looked like a warning. The only sign she was even aware of the hangover was the faint flush above her cheekbones and the way her gaze drifted, sometimes, to the ice in her glass.

"Are you grilling her already?" Marissa said, without greeting. She folded onto the stool next to Myra, set her phone on the bar face down, and fixed Norah with a look that was both clinical and indulgent. "Let her recover first."

Norah rolled her eyes. "If you give her more time, she'll chicken out."

"I'm right here," Myra reminded them, but it was clear the dynamic was long established. She wondered if she was invisible.

Norah shrugged, then gave Marissa the floor with a dramatic sweep of her hand.

Marissa looked to Myra, voice soft. "Did you want to share?"

Myra shook her head, then changed her mind. "It was fine," she said, trying to keep her tail from betraying her with its anxious twitch. "We walked through the gardens. He asked about my sight. We talked about old stuff. He was… nice."

"Did you tell him how you felt?" Norah pressed.

Myra tried to find the words. "I told him I was scared. Of screwing it up." The memory of Andy listening, really listening, still felt weird and **** in her chest. "He said there was nothing to screw up. That he was just glad I wanted to talk at all."

Marissa nodded, as if this confirmed some unspoken theory. "And how did that make you feel?"

Norah cut in: "Don't analyze her, just tell her what to do. Myra, you need to escalate. Private dinner. Low lighting. Maybe a story about something embarrassing you did in college. Men love a damsel."

Marissa sighed, but with the fondness of someone who knew better than to argue. "Or," she countered, "you could slow it down, let things happen at their own pace, and see if he makes the next move. Sometimes giving someone space is the best way to figure out if they really want it."

Norah snorted. "Yeah, if you want to get friendzoned."

"Better than coming off ****," Marissa replied, and it was clear this was not the first time they had crossed this particular sword.

Myra put her face in her hands, partly to hide the flush but mostly to give herself time to regroup. "Is it always like this?" she asked, voice muffled.

"Pretty much," Norah said. "But I won last time."

"Nobody wins," Marissa said, serene. "There is only survival and learning."

There was a lull while the three of them nursed their drinks, the air full of a tension that was more sibling rivalry than true animosity.

Myra risked turning towards Marissa. "What would you do?"

Marissa thought about it, which was already an answer. "I'd watch him. Listen more than I talked. If he wants to move closer, he'll find a way."

Norah made a rude sound. "That's the most passive thing I've ever heard. Just waiting? Please."

"It's not waiting," Marissa said, the faintest edge to her voice. "It's observation. You can't win a game you don't know the rules to."

Norah pointed at Myra. "You're not a game, and Andy's not a game. He's a guy. If you want something, you take it."

Marissa: "Some people need time. Maybe you were built for blitz chess, but some of us play the long game."

Norah: "I don't even play chess. That's your thing. And for the record, I've never seen you win at it."

Marissa's eyes narrowed, but she didn't rise to the bait. She turned to Myra. "What do you want?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than it should have been.

Myra let it settle. "I don't know," she admitted. "I want to not be scared. Or, if I am, I want to do it anyway."

Norah grinned. "That's the right answer. Do it scared."

Marissa, gently: "And if you're not ready?"

Norah: "Then you'll never be."

They stared at each other across Myra, the contrast so sharp that it almost hurt. Myra couldn’t see the glares, but felt the tug between them, like two magnets set to repel.

Finally, Marissa gave a thin smile, almost but not quite defeat. "I think," she said, "that you should spend more time with him. See what happens."

Norah shook her head, but not with anger. "So passive," she muttered.

"It's called patience," Marissa said.

There was a beat, then Norah said, "You realize you've never actually dated anyone before Andy, right?"

Marissa paused, caught. "And you have?"

Norah grinned wider. "I know what I want, at least. And I get it."

Myra burst out laughing, unable to hold it in. It was a bright, sharp sound that surprised her as much as anyone. The two women joined in, first reluctantly, then full-throated, until all three were giggling and snorting at the sheer absurdity.

When the laughter faded, Marissa gave Myra a small, encouraging nudge. "You know, I think you'll be fine."

Norah tapped her glass to Marissa's. "For once, we agree."

Myra stood, still smiling. "Thanks for the advice," she said, and meant it, even if it was contradictory and mostly unhelpful.

She left them at the bar, bickering but not unkindly, and made her way into the main hall, her tail swishing with a little more confidence.

---

The Dance Hall was silent as a confession booth when Riley slipped in. No trace of the previous night's bedlam—just the faint, floral ghost of spilled wine and the patient orderliness Mildred imposed on all things. The tables had been reset. The lights, now pale and indirect, gentled the edges of every chair and curtain. It was too bright, really, but Riley didn't mind. Sometimes you had to let the light hit you, even if it hurt.

She padded to the far wall, boots muffled by the polished floor. The memory wall still ran the length of the Dance Hall, a whole lifetime of Andy mapped in a line of photos. Riley had ignored it during the party—too busy pretending she didn't care, too smart to risk being seen looking nostalgic. But now, alone, she allowed herself to stand in front of it, arms folded, and scan the images.

The earliest ones were all grins and puppy fat, braces and awkward shirts—suburban boyhood distilled to its purest awkwardness. Riley smirked at the volcano one: Andy, maybe ten or eleven, holding up a science fair ribbon with the smug confidence of someone who didn't know he was about to become a haunted man. Every year, Andy got a little taller and his jaw got a little more set, but his smile never changed—at least not until the midpoint.

The Polaroid.

After that, something shifted. There were fewer group shots, more of Andy by himself. His smile, once all teeth and optimism, became rare. It shrank to a thin line, sometimes missing altogether. Even in pictures with friends, he was turned slightly away, eyes narrowed as if squinting into a future only he could see. There were photos of him at company launches, on stage with other CEOs—always in a nice suit, but he looked like he couldn't wait to get out of it.

Riley counted the years. Sixteen since Laura. Sixteen years in which every joy, every relationship, every milestone had been run through the filter of that loss. She wondered what it did to a person, to have your whole adult life built on a hollow foundation.

She reached out and traced the timeline with one finger, not quite touching the glass. It was an old habit, comforting in its futility. She could almost hear her adopted father's voice: "The past is a wall, but there's no sense in banging your head against it." She snorted at her own cliché, then let her hand drop.

A faint rustle behind her. Riley didn't turn—she didn't need to. Chloe's approach was quiet, tentative, but never secretive. The teacher in her couldn't help it: even when entering a room, she moved as if she might disturb a classroom in progress.

Chloe stopped a few feet back. She didn't speak. Just stood there, arms wrapped around herself, waiting for Riley to set the terms.

Riley waited a beat, then said, "They left up the photos." Her voice sounded hoarse, like it hadn't been used all day.

Chloe nodded, even though Riley couldn't see it. "I think Andy likes them. Or maybe he doesn't, but he doesn't want to erase anything."

Riley kept her eyes on the wall. "Most of those were new to me. I didn't realize how much of his life was... after."

Chloe edged closer, but didn't invade. "It's a long time. Longer than it feels, sometimes."

"Yeah," Riley said. She didn't know why, but it felt right to keep going. "It's like he remembers Laura being the whole world. But for Andy, most of his world happened after she was gone." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Does that make sense?"

Chloe came to stand next to her, still not touching, but sharing the air. "It does. I know the feeling, a little."

They stood together, neither talking for a while. The light shifted, dust motes spinning in slow currents. Riley could have walked away, but something in the quiet kept her rooted.

"I didn't expect to feel this," Riley said, softer. "Last night, it was—" She searched for a word. "Happy. Too happy. Like if I let myself enjoy it, I'd forget why it mattered."

Chloe didn't answer right away. She took her time, which Riley appreciated. "I think you can be happy and still remember," Chloe said. "I think... if Laura and John were here, they'd want you to be able to enjoy things."

Riley snorted again. "Easy to say. Hard to believe."

"Maybe," Chloe admitted. "But it doesn't make the joy fake. Even if it's only for a little while."

Riley bit her lip, felt the sting, and let the pain ground her. "You ever feel like it's all just built on sand? Like one day you'll wake up and realize it was all just... a trick?"

Chloe considered. "Yes. Sometimes I do. But I try to think about how even sand can hold you up, if you don't fight it."

Riley let that settle. She didn't fully buy it, but she didn't dismiss it, either. "Thanks," she said. Then, softer: "I don't really want to talk about it anymore."

"Okay," Chloe said. She didn't seem hurt. "If you change your mind, I'll be around."

Riley nodded, turned away from the wall, and walked for the door. Her steps echoed, louder than they'd been before.

As she left, she called over her shoulder, "Don't let anyone clean these off, okay?"

"I won't," Chloe promised. "I'll guard them with my life."

Riley managed a smile. It wasn't a big one, but it was real.

She slipped out into the daylight, the memory of Laura, of Andy, of all the years in between, pressing against her back like a gentle hand. She didn't know what she'd do with it, but for now, it was enough just to walk forward.

Chloe stood alone in the Dance Hall, eyes on the photos, as if she could hold back time by watching them hard enough.

For a few minutes, it almost worked.

---

The beach was a flat line between blue and gold when Liesa found Erin. The sky had gone cloudless again, the afternoon sun beaming with that surgical precision unique to late summer on the island. The only movement on the whole stretch of sand was a mint-green silhouette, legs drawn to chest, toes half-buried in the foamy edge of the surf. Erin.

She looked, from a distance, like she might still be sleeping off the night before, but as Liesa came closer she saw Erin’s eyes were open, watching the movement of her own hand as she trailed it in lazy loops through the water.

Liesa dropped her towel next to the other woman and sat, knees up, arms loose around her shins. She said nothing at first. They both watched the tide for a while, the gentle pulse of it, the slow hiss and retreat.

“Sorry about earlier,” Liesa opened, “I can be mean when I don’t sleep enough.”

Erin shook her head dismissively. After a time, she said, “It’s fucked up how even after a hangover, my skin still wants more sun.” Her voice was rough, but steadier than Liesa expected. “If I stay in shade too long, I get sluggish. But if I go out, I feel a cross between a horny teenager and a salad under a heat lamp.”

Liesa considered this. “You need the sun. But you’re not made for the ocean, are you?”

Erin let out a short laugh. “I grew up in Chicago. Neither sun nor ocean over there.”

“The sun works for you. You have the best color,” Liesa said. “I wish I could be minty. I just burn, then peel. Is the Belgian way.”

They let this sit, the humor a bridge but not a destination. A few gulls argued overhead, then vanished along the shoreline. The resort buildings looked very far away.

Eventually, Liesa asked, “Are you happy?”

The question wasn’t loaded, just gently curious. Erin shrugged, staring at her knees, then shifted so her hands were wrapped around one ankle, elbows pressed to thigh.

“I should be,” she said. “It’s stupid, but every time I think I am, I start waiting for the next bad thing to happen.” She made a face. “That’s not very inspiring, is it?”

Liesa shook her head. “It’s normal. All the best things I’ve had, I spent the whole time afraid of losing them.”

Erin’s laugh was hollow, but not mean. “You think if you say it out loud, it won’t happen. But it always does.”

“Sometimes,” Liesa agreed. She waited for Erin to look up before she went on. “But sometimes you keep it. Or it comes back, in a different way. Maybe that’s how you know it’s real.”

Erin looked at her, searching. “Are you happy?”

Liesa shrugged. “Some days. Today? Yes. Sitting here? It’s… enough. Sam and Andy here… they make it happy.”

They watched the waves a little longer, letting the words settle where they wanted.

Erin said, “I don’t know how you do it. How you let go of things.”

Liesa smiled, a small, private one. “I don’t. I just pretend until it’s true. Or I find someone to talk to, and hope they don’t think I’m crazy.”

Erin didn’t answer right away. She pulled her knees tighter to her chest and let her hair (auburn, curling in the salt air) fall forward, half-hiding her face. “Andy proposed to me,” she said, almost too quiet to hear.

Liesa’s eyebrows rose. “You said yes?”

Erin nodded, staring at the horizon. “Of course. I mean… it’s not official, not with the show still running. But he said he meant it.” She paused. “I think he does.”

“I think so too,” Liesa said, and meant it. She let the wind and the crash of water say the next few lines for her.

Erin eventually said, “I’m terrified. I’m really, really happy, and I’m terrified.”

“You can be both,” Liesa replied.

Erin shot her a look, surprised and grateful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Liesa said. “That’s how you know it’s big enough to matter.”

Erin let herself smile, and this time it stayed. They sat side by side, the silence comfortable, the sky a deepening blue that hinted at evening but still held on to the day.

After a long while, Erin kicked off her shoes and stood. She walked into the water, letting the first cold shock of it chase the rest of the hangover from her bones. Liesa followed, less boldly, but with a confidence she hadn’t felt in a long time.

They spent the rest of the afternoon wading the shallows, talking sometimes, sometimes not. Erin floated on her back, hair spread like a red-brown sunburst, skin drinking in the light. Liesa watched her, let herself be still, and thought that maybe happiness wasn’t always about what you got or lost—it was sometimes just being there, alive, with someone who understood.

When the sun began to dip, and the light softened to a gold neither of them had words for, they walked back up the beach, footprints erased by the waves before they ever turned to look.