Winding Down, Part 1

As the echoes of the birthday toast faded, a different current swept the room. The wall of glass flickered again, and the ballroom’s lights dipped to a drowsier warmth. Marissa had somehow appeared by the DJ stand, playing music via a speaker system so concealed you couldn’t tell where the pulse came from. It started slow—soft bossa nova, brushed snare, a groove that tugged at the hips and promised not to judge. Then, with each minute, the beat thickened, until even the most decorous guests found themselves bobbing, swaying, and trading cake crumbs for the urge to move.

The harem was first to surrender. Norah led the vanguard, dragging Myra (who still looked dazed from her earlier hug) by the wrist, both of them howling with mock-indignation at the other. Behind them came Riley and Liesa, the latter gliding, the former more a series of low-key head-nods and sharp footwork. Dawn and Emi tumbled onto the floor together, Emi’s six hands windmilling in time, Dawn’s arms locked around her waist as if she were the world’s happiest centrifugal ****. Chloe, hair glowing in the dim, held out a hand to Erin, who looked at it, then shrugged and let herself be led, mint skin and all, into the tangle.

Andy watched this happen from the edge, still not used to being the reason or the recipient. He caught Marissa’s gaze from across the DJ table—she smirked, then pantomimed a tiny “come here” gesture with her pinky finger. The message was clear: If you’re not on the floor in ten seconds, I’m coming to get you. He complied, but not before he found himself intercepted by Sam, who clapped him on the back so hard it knocked his hair into his face.

“Come on, Birthday Boy,” she said. “You’re leading. Show the guests how it’s done.”

He didn't have to: the moment he joined, the room seemed to close ranks around him. The harem moved as a single, many-limbed beast. Norah took the left, her heels digging perfect trenches in the parquet, Emily counterweighted her on the right. Behind them, Emi's six arms created a hypnotic kaleidoscope of motion, while Dawn bounced on her toes, her movements light as air. Liesa's arms traced slow arcs above her head, wrists loose, fingers always in motion. Myra managed a delicate sidestep, her tail making small corrections for every bump and nudge from the others. Claire slid between dancers with balletic precision, her eyes never leaving Andy's face. At the center, Chloe and Erin formed a tangle—one part grace, one part accidental chest-bump, both of them laughing at every misstep.

Behind this nucleus, the other guests gathered in twos and threes. Mark, massive and content, hovered with Ellen; they did not so much dance as gently sway, but Ellen had her head tipped back, eyes closed, as if drinking in the sound. Laura led the charge for the Haunted Castle guests, her wings spread half-open, her arms around both Candy and Tracy, and the three of them moved with the precision of people who’d practiced party dancing more than once. The Sapphic set formed their own orbit—Harper and Scarlet took the lead, while Skye hung back, clapping and egging on the others. Even the shyest among the group found someone to lean into, or at least a place to stand and watch.

The air shifted. Champagne found its way into every hand, save for Candy’s and Mary’s, who sipped fruit punch with visible pride. Chloe, who was not a drinker before the show but had since discovered she liked the taste of celebration, downed hers in two gulps and promptly demanded a refill. Emi, holding six glasses but somehow still standing, pilfered the glass from Dawn’s hand and swapped it for her own, never breaking the rhythm.

On the second pass of the dance floor, the music changed. The bossa nova faded; in its place came a remixed classic—something with enough bass to move the walls, but enough nostalgia to keep people from fleeing. The lights shifted to a slow, rolling blue. Tracy, emboldened by the wine, pulled Liesa into a dramatic tango, which Liesa instantly parried, spinning Tracy and then letting her go so she careened into Erin, who caught her (barely) and then dipped her, mint arms solid and showy.

“Who knew you were a dancer?” Tracy called, upside down, her cybernetic arm flicking a salute.

Erin grinned, dew already beading on her brow. “I wasn’t until today,” she deadpanned. “Guess it’s just that kind of night.”

From the sidelines, Emily and Stella watched, the former visibly nervous but swaying with the beat, the latter making occasional, almost predatory eye contact with whoever drifted close. At one point, Stella caught Emily’s gaze and winked. Emily blushed, looked away, then looked back. The tension was comical, but the room was too loud for anyone to call it out.

Andy, never the best dancer, found himself in a loop: every time he tried to break off, someone else would tug him back in. Marissa pressed close, her hand on his chest, her laugh vibrating against his collarbone. Then Riley shouldered in, locked arms with him, and did a full, exaggerated dip that sent both of them off balance. Chloe took the opportunity to hug him from behind, her head pillowed on his back, and for a second Andy could smell her hair—clean, with a hint of almond. Then Norah yanked him free, spinning him until he nearly collided with the cake cart, which by now had been denuded of all but crumbs and one lopsided slice of fondant Erin.

From somewhere in the back, Sam howled, “Twerk contest in five minutes!” and the Sapphic crew erupted. Even Harper—usually composed—rolled her eyes and declared, “Only if there’s a judging panel.”

“I volunteer!” called Candy, flapping her wings for emphasis.

“Me too,” added Emi, arms raised, her voice high and earnest.

The song ended and, true to Sam’s word, a new one picked up: low, thumping, and just suggestive enough to change the vibe. Sam grabbed Andy and pulled him to the stage. “You’re the chief judge, Birthday Boy!” The first volunteers hit the floor—Liesa, Tracy, Stella, and Dawn, who lined up with the bravado of Olympic athletes. Sam narrated the proceedings in a fake British accent, drawing out the names with ridiculous panache. “First up: the Belgian Bombshell! Will she deliver, or will she merely... bounce?”

Liesa accepted the call, turned her back to the crowd, and executed a move so deliberate it shut down all conversation for a solid five seconds. Her ass, weaponized by recent transformations, moved with physics-defying grace. Tracy, not to be outdone, tried to mimic the move and nearly toppled forward, only to catch herself with a catlike somersault and end up on her feet, arms raised in victory.

Liesa: Twerked for the Master! +1 VP

Stella’s turn was a mess of improvisation: she alternated between wild, imp moves (including several quick flourishes of her demon tail) and calculated, almost acrobatic shimmies. At one point, she tried to grab the spotlight by jumping on a table, but her heels slipped on the glass and she had to clutch Emily’s shoulder to avoid a spectacular wipeout. Emily caught her, blushed furiously, and gave her a supportive squeeze before letting go.

When Dawn’s turn came, she hesitated—then, with an “oh what the hell” look, launched into a bunny-hop that had the whole room dying. She could barely keep a straight face, and when she realized she was winning purely on effort, she doubled down, making her butt do a figure-eight that defied description. The entire room, harem and guests and even Anna, cheered like they were at a World Cup final.

Dawn: Twerked for the Master! +1 VP

Andy, after deliberating with Candy and Emi, equitably declared the contest a four-way tie, and the group dissolved into laughter.

From there, things loosened further. The music shifted again, the dance floor became a whirling, undirected storm. People paired off and then drifted, the boundaries between harem and guest, friend and rival, melting into the air. There were no slow dances, only close ones—bodies leaning, arms around shoulders, heads bent together in conspiratorial laughter.

Andy found himself in a slow orbit, sometimes at the periphery, sometimes right in the middle. He watched as Marissa, emboldened by the wine, pulled Arabella onto the floor and, with surprising confidence, led her through a complicated box step. Arabella played along, her professional distance faded, and for a second she looked as if she could stay in this moment forever.

He saw Myra and Emi, the former’s tail flicking with every beat, the latter guiding her through the moves with gentle hands and constant reassurance. Myra’s face, so often pinched with worry or pain, was open now, her mouth turned up at the edges, her eyes clear and bright.

He saw Chloe and Riley, the two of them locked in a mock-wrestling match that was mostly just an excuse to tickle or trip the other. At one point, Chloe tried to escape, but Riley pounced, wrapping her arms around Chloe’s waist and held her fast, both of them laughing so hard they nearly slid to the floor.

On the balcony, Harper and Anna and Laura watched the crowd, passing a bottle of something clear and potent, courtesy of Sam, between them. Anna sipped first, then handed off to Laura, who took a long drag before passing it to Harper, who drank with the ease of someone who’d been through worse and lived to tell the tale. They leaned together, their voices lost in the music, the shapes of their smiles visible even from the far side of the room.

At one point, Norah—hair wild, face flush—stole the microphone from its stand and declared, “Everybody find a partner, or else!” The guests obliged, and for the next song the dance floor was a riot of unplanned pairings. Candy ended up with Erin, their height difference ridiculous, particularly once she shrunk to fairy size and flew literal circles around the plant-girl; Andy and Marissa did a stately waltz for a full ten seconds before collapsing into laughter.

It was a beautiful, chaotic thing, and Andy—at the center, but not the focus—let himself drink it in. He danced with Dawn, with Liesa, with Scarlet, with Arabella, and even with Tracy, who used her cat tail to trip him on the third beat and then helped him up, unrepentant.

By now the air was humid with sweat and laughter, the cakes half-eaten, the champagne mostly gone (although several new bottles had suspiciously appeared on the table). Someone had spilled punch on the stairs, and a cluster of guests stood around it, debating whether to clean it or dance through it. The latter won, and the next few minutes became a contest to see who could slide the farthest without landing on their ass.

Erin, not to be outdone, joined the fray. She took a long run-up, hit the puddle at full speed, and nearly collided with the wall. Tracy, who had clearly expected her to crash, reached out at the last second and caught her by the wrist. The two of them slid to a stop, locked eyes, and then laughed so hard they doubled over.

Emi and Chloe tried it next, holding hands; they slid less far but made up for it with style, landing in a gentle, spinning embrace.

Dawn, determined, attempted the slide but tripped halfway and fell directly into Andy’s lap as he knelt to clean up a dropped fork. She yelped, but Andy caught her, and she immediately wrapped her arms around his neck, both of them wheezing with laughter.

The song ended, and for a moment there was quiet. Just the rush of blood, the sound of breathing, the glow of light on flushed faces.

Andy looked around. Every single person was smiling.

He stood, dusted off his knees, and helped Dawn up. She was weightless in his hands, her face radiant. “Best party ever,” she whispered, and he believed her.

Someone queued up the next track, louder, faster, even more ridiculous. And the dance floor filled again, this time with no hesitation.

---

It was only a matter of time before the nerds found each other.

Tracy caught Andy’s eye after the third round of punch slides, her own drink sloshing over the edge of a plastic cup labeled “CAFFEINE BOSS.” She beckoned him over with two fingers and an up-nod, then steered him away from the crowd and toward a little alcove flanked by potted palms and a tiki statue with a very judgmental frown.

“You know what I realized,” she said, pausing only long enough to fish a USB stick from her bra and twirl it like a cigarette, “is that, between your new cheat sheet and my entire degree in breaking things, we could probably do some real damage around here.”

Andy grinned, feeling the warmth of gin and the low hum of the party. “You mean, like, hack the place?”

Tracy arched one eyebrow. “Not ‘like,’ my man. I mean actually.” She leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “Arabella’s infrastructure is good. Like, scary good. But I’ve been sniffing around the edges and I can see at least three legacy ports they never patched.”

He blinked, brain parsing the word “legacy” with the distinct flavor of a college flashback. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“It means I could get in, but I might trip a kill-switch, and then I’d probably be forcibly re-rendered into a lower life form.” She shrugged, unconcerned. “But if we use your access, it’s like a skeleton key. Nobody expects the Master to go rogue.”

Andy considered this. He pictured a scenario in which Arabella’s voice poured from every ceiling speaker, scolding him in that exasperated-British way, and realized he was fine with it. He nodded. “What’s the play?”

Tracy produced a battered, sticker-bombed netbook from behind the potted plant. “You supply the magic codes. I supply the shell script. Together, we turn this ballroom into a ****-mystery dinner in three minutes flat.”

He opened the envelope from Ellen—still stashed in his pocket—scanned the lines, and found three code phrases that looked plausible: “ELEVATE.SUDO.ALL,” “SHOW_OPTIONS.ON,” and “SKIP_FINALE=TRUE.” He showed them to Tracy.

“Oh my god,” she said, cackling. “These are so on the nose I’m offended. And delighted.” She hunched over her keyboard, fingers flying in an erratic but weirdly competent rhythm.

“Should I be worried?” he asked, mostly as a joke.

“Absolutely,” she replied. “But only if you value continuity. Okay, I’m tunneling now—ah, there’s the host daemon, cute.” She turned the screen so Andy could see: a phalanx of ASCII smiles and hearts, all blinking out a progress bar.

Tracy punched a return. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the palm fronds above them shook, the tiki statue’s mouth moved a millimeter, and every glass in the room vibrated in sympathy.

The wind howled across the barren expanse, carrying grit that stung his face. Above, the sky burned rust and amber—or was it sunset? Andy couldn't remember. His feet found purchase in the sand, and as he walked, shapes emerged from the dunes: a doorframe, a column, the curve of a ceiling fan frozen mid-rotation. The HH rose around him in fragments, beautiful and broken, like a song played backward. He knelt beside a piece of ornate tilework—he recognized it from the ballroom—and pressed his palm against it. Still warm. Still humming with something like music, or memory, or both.

He found that he was crying.

Blink.

Andy knelt on the beach, the sand still warm beneath his knees, and reached for her. Arabella smiled—really smiled, not the polished Host smile, but something sad and true—and let him take her hand one last time. It was already dissolving, already becoming translucent, already turning to dust that caught the light like gold leaf.

"Thank you," she said, and her voice was everywhere and nowhere. "For understanding that this was always the ending."

His fingers closed on dust. It scattered on the wind, and somewhere behind him, he heard women weeping.

Blink.

Sunlight filtered through climbing vines as Andy sat at the long table, the wood worn smooth by hands he'd held and hands he'd yet to hold. Beside him, a woman glowed with the particular heaviness of late pregnancy, her free hand reaching for bread while the other rested on the table. Across from her sat someone in an identical dress—mirror-image twins, or something stranger—and Andy knew without looking that there were others he couldn't quite focus on, their faces sliding away whenever he tried. Laughter rang out, genuine and tangled, and someone was pouring wine, and someone else was telling a story that made the pregnant woman throw her head back and laugh so hard she had to hold her belly.

He reached to touch her face, to see it clearly, but the light shifted, and the garden pixelated like a dream collapsing, and he was back in—

Blink.

Andy lay in the dark, his hand splayed across the taut curve of her belly, feeling the shift and roll of the child beneath. Days away now, maybe hours—the midwife had said soon, and her body hummed with that electric readiness.

The woman beside him breathed slowly, deeply, one hand resting over his.

"Sarah," he whispered, testing the name like a prayer. "We could honor her that way."

He felt the baby move under his palm, a long roll from one side to the other, and thought of that namesake, the ghost story that had shaped everything. It would be beautiful. It would be right.
"No," she said quietly, with a hint of sadness. "Bad luck."

They lay there in the heavy darkness, his hand on her belly, her hand on his, both of them understanding without words that some ghosts were meant to stay ghosts. The baby rolled again, insistent, alive, utterly itself and unnamed.

Somewhere in the walls, he could have sworn he heard the faint hum of something like music, or anticipation, or both.

"We'll know when we see her," the woman said, and he believed it was true.

“Yo! Birthday boy!” Tracy snapped her fingers in front of Andy’s face, and he blinked awake. “Did you feel that?”

“I did,” Andy said, confused. The world seemed exactly the same—except it didn’t. The lighting was a shade bluer, the music was half a step faster, and every woman in the room had shifted one degree closer to “uncontrollable” on a scale he’d never known existed.

Tracy looked at him, eyes wide. “That’s… probably not good. But also extremely good, depending on your goals.”

Andy shrugged, still feeling unmoored. “What did we do?”

She closed the netbook, slid it under her arm. “With your codes? Let Arabella figure it out.” She grinned, slapped him on the back. “Let’s get back out there and see what broke.”

They walked onto the floor just in time to see Riley hoist Marissa up in a fireman’s carry and spin her in a tight, perfect circle, both of them shrieking with laughter. Chloe, next to them, had taken it upon herself to start a conga line—at least six people deep, and gaining—while Skye and Candy attempted to limbo under a streamer someone had knotted between two chairs.

Nothing seemed out of place, but everything was… amped. Brighter, louder, slightly unhinged.

Andy caught Tracy’s eye, and she just shrugged, as if to say: “Whoops.”

They melted back into the crowd.

---

Not everyone on the island was built for spectacle. Some people needed three rehearsals, two drinks, and a gentle push from a friend before they could say what mattered.

Myra had been working up the nerve for nearly an hour.

She stood at the margin of the dance floor, her fox ears pinned low, her tail weaving tight circles behind her. Emi hovered beside her—six hands, all offering comfort in different ways: one smoothing Myra’s hair, one circling her shoulder, one fidgeting with the hem of her own skirt. Every few seconds, Emi would lean in and whisper, “You can do this,” or, “He’ll be so happy you did,” or, “If it’s easier, you can practice with me first.”

Myra shook her head. “I’ll just mess it up again.”

“You won’t,” Emi whispered, this time more insistently. She nudged Myra forward with the gentle certainty of someone who’d spent her whole life coaching others through hard things.

Andy, meanwhile, was by the buffet table, his hair damp with sweat and his cheeks flush from dancing. He was laughing with Dani and Sam, both of whom had managed to fit three mini-cakes each onto a single plate and were daring each other to finish the lot.

Myra gathered herself. She let her tail uncurl, braced both hands at her sides, and started across the floor.

She moved in a careful zigzag, head cocked to follow the sound of Andy’s voice. More than once, someone called her name, but she just smiled and kept walking. Emi trailed a respectful distance behind, guiding her when she got too close to a dancer or another, just in case.

When she reached the table, she hesitated at Andy’s elbow, then tapped the air in front of her with a practiced motion. He turned, saw her, and smiled in greeting. “Hey, Myra. Want to try some cake before Dani and Sam inhale the rest?”

She shook her head, but her mouth worked for a second before she spoke. “Can I… talk to you?” Her voice was steadier than she’d feared.

Andy nodded, instantly attentive. “Sure. Here, let’s—” He guided her to the edge of the room, away from the noise, and stopped beside a low window bench. “What’s up?”

Myra licked her lips, feeling the skin at the corner catch and sting. She’d practiced this in her head for a couple of days, rehearsing every variant of what she wanted to say and all the ways it might blow up. Now the words were stacked behind her teeth, wobbling.

She drew a breath, then said: “I wanted to say thank you. I know I’m not always easy, and sometimes I screw up, and it’s not like I bring a lot to the table—” She could feel her voice getting thinner, so she tried to laugh. “Sorry, I’m rambling. I just wanted you to know I appreciate it.”

Myra’s tail curled tight against her calf, every muscle in her face tensed in a way Andy recognized faintly from the old days, when she was trying to ask for extra credit in science class without sounding like a try-hard. He’d expected her to start with something casual, or maybe a little rehearsed—but what came out was a direct hit of rawness, like she’d been holding the words in a pressure cooker for too long.

“I just wanted you to know I appreciate it,” Myra said again, a brittle echo of her first attempt. Her hands had gone white-knuckled on the window seat. For a second, she was so still that Andy worried she might lose the thread and fall back into the swirl of the party.

He waited, giving her space. The silence drew out, then shuddered as Myra sucked in a lungful of air.

“Sorry, I’m…” she started, then winced. “I should just say it, right? I wanted to ask you if—if there was ever a time you… wanted to talk? I mean, just the two of us. Or, not talk, but, you know, hang out, or…” She trailed off, tongue caught on the hook of her own nerves.

Andy considered her, noting the tremor in her jaw and the way her blind eyes flicked to his shoulder instead of his face. It reminded him of the first time he met her, in eighth grade, and she’d used the same strategy to avoid making eye contact during a group project: focus on a neutral point, then try to project confidence into the vacuum.

“I’d love to,” Andy said, gently. “Was there something you wanted to do?”

Myra’s mouth worked, but no words arrived for a full two beats. “I—uh—I don’t know. I haven’t really gone anywhere in months, so… the bar is low. Just not… here.” She let out a laugh, more breath than sound. “I thought maybe a walk, or maybe the garden? I can still smell flowers, so it’s like… proof I’m not totally broken.”

The self-deprecation made Andy wince, but he hid it. “You’re not broken, Myra,” he said. “And the garden sounds great. It’s my favorite part of the island. We could go tomorrow morning, if you want.”

He was careful to leave the question open. He’d learned that sometimes, Myra needed a way out as much as she needed a way forward.

She bobbed her head, a little foxlike nod. “Tomorrow,” she said. “Please. I want to remember what the world smells like when it’s new.”

Andy almost laughed, but not at her—at the strange, perfect specificity of her request. “Tomorrow, then. After breakfast?”

Myra gripped the windowsill so hard her knuckles went from white to red. Then, as if the tension left her all at once, her tail unspooled and thudded gently against the baseboard. She exhaled a shaky, relieved sigh.

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you,” she said. “I’ll try not to get lost.”

“If you do, I’ll come find you,” Andy said, which earned a small, surprised snort from Myra—her old, pre-blindness laugh, the one that said she was okay with being found, at least this once.

They sat in the aftermath a moment. Then Myra, with a surge of momentum, stood abruptly. “Thank you, Andy. I mean it. I—” She looked down, realized she had no idea where to aim her expression, and settled for facing the cake cart. “I should go before I say something even dumber.”

She walked away, tail swishing in a giddy staccato, and Emi met her at the edge of the floor. Emi’s arms circled her waist from behind, and Myra almost collapsed into her—then straightened, grabbed Emi’s forearm, and squeezed like she’d just finished an Olympic sprint.

Andy watched the whole exchange, feeling something strange settle in his chest. He found himself smiling as he watched Emi walk Myra around the perimeter of the dance floor, both of them brighter than when they started.

He stood, glanced at the slice of cake still left on the cart, and decided to finish it. The party thrummed in the background, but his focus was caught on the window, where the faintest reflection showed a version of himself he almost recognized: not the man who frightened blind women he remembered from the first day of Myra’s arrival, but a man capable of making her feel wanted. Even if it was just for a walk in the garden.

He went to look for Claire.

---

Meanwhile at the refreshment stand...

A trembling blonde was gripping the table, barely able to keep herself upright. “Tish...drink...ish quite delicious *hic*”

Her black-haired companion looked over at her with an annoyed expression. Not only did the two of them arrive late, Marcie immediately headed for the bar to drink herself brave or some stupid bullshit like that.

“Marcie, for fucks sake”, Gina grumbled annoyed. “You know you can’t drink for shit!”

“Ah shadup! Gina...y-ya, do ya know this is Andy’s birthday?”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“D-do you think hesh in hish birthday suit?”

“I sure fucking hope not”, Gina hissed. She wouldn’t put it past some of the other hosts, but Arabella was more tasteful than that. Still, looking around, Gina could certainly make out some girls in less than proper attire. Quite a lot of them also looked absolutely shitfaced.

“I’m...I’m gonna do eeeet, Gina! I’m gonna do iit!”

“No, Marcie, you won’t”, Gina urged, regardless of what that drunk moron has thought up. Normally, she would enjoy nothing more than see the stuck up bitch absolutely humiliate herself. However, drunk Marcie was...dangerous.

“Gina, still got that cactus from...the….the usheless bimbo?”

“Yes…?”

“Gimme to me!”

Gina reluctantly obeyed. “Marcie, what are you planning?”

“Two thingsh!”, the boozed up blonde grinned. “Firshth..I’m...gonna tell Birthday Boy I love him! And then I shove thish thing up that Bimbohs butt!”

Gina gave Marcie a blank stare.

Marcie nodded. “And y-you...ya gotta have shome fun too! Let shee! Give every girl ya like here a big shmooch!”

“Marcie!..Noo...mpfff!”

It was too late. Gina already pushed herself forward and gave Marcie a kiss. On the lips.

Then she whirled herself around, scanning and finding her first proper victim, Emi.

“Gyaaaahh!”

Marcie watched with a grin as her friend dove into the arms of the shocked beauty, four of those arms not at all **** to the sudden show of affection.

Ya go girl!”, Marcie cheered, before pushing herself away from the stand, cactus in one hand, alcoholic beverage in other. “Now...*hic*, were ish that Randy Andy?”

Why ish everyone swimming, ugh? Tish ishnt’ a pool! Sho uncivilized.

With her vision blurred, she had trouble making out anything. And those anti spoiler glasses she received from Arabella as a gift were definitely not up to par.

“Ah, there ish...the birthday...boy…!” Marcie waltzed straight (more like wobbled), to one of the few male guests at this party and grabbed him by the collar.

“Listehn here...ya Gary Cooper...I...I like the cut of yer jip...and yer looking very debonair in that Hawaian sshirt, but yer tashte in women is horrid. If ya really want to become a tech bro billionaire ya need to get with someone shmart and composhed. Get the picture? And yesh, that wash a Katherine joke.”

While talking (or traumatizing) Caleb, Marcie brought the cactus to her face and...

“Hawwy Barthfwa…”

Prick.

Foompf!

Marcie’s moderately sized breasts immediately ballooned outwards, popping the buttons of her uniform one after the other before being liberated completely.

Even in her bacchanal state, Marcie blushed. Baring breasts at birthday party’s? Barbaric behavior!

“Curshe yoouuuu, Bimboooo!”

With a loud roar, Marcie twirled around, tossed the cactus through the room before boob planting herself on the cake remains and passing out.

Gina, meanwhile, was still busy molesting girls. She just got Stella (somehow) and was now stalking a certain teal catgirl through the venue.

Norah came upon the scene a few moments later, finding Arabella standing over a passed-out blonde woman whose comically large breasts had exploded out of her dress, laying among the buttercream and crumbs that were all that was left of the harem cake. The Host studied the woman contemplatively, almost clinically.

“Party crasher?” Norah asked. Arabella turned her head to look at her.

“Not at all. They were invited. Norah, meet Marcie. And over there,” The Host gestured gracefully towards a brunette being deep-tongued by Tracy, “you can see Gina.”

“Wait. Marcie and Gina?” Norah frowned. “From the review?”

Arabella nodded.

Norah looked down at Marcie, then her eyes shifted to the helpless brunette trapped in the cybernetic grip of the teal catgirl. A slow smile spread on her lips as she took in the misery of the two. “Fucking figures. Pansies.”

“What is this?” Cassandra asked, approaching warily.

Arabella’s lips curled up into a smile. “This, my dear Cassandra, is why Marcie and Gina are never invited anywhere.”

---

Chloe did her third lap of the ballroom before anyone caught on.

She started at the buffet, checking that the serving spoons hadn’t fallen into the potato salad, then moved to the drinks table, adjusting each glass by a quarter inch so that they lined up in a straight shot. She righted toppled napkin holders, rewound a streamer that had lost its tape, and gathered up four empty glasses on a single tray, because it “just looked neater that way.”

It was the most Chloe thing ever, and Andy watched with fondness as she fussed over every detail, her cheeks flushed and her step more wobbly than usual. The second round of champagne had hit her hard, and now she was floating from group to group, dispensing little bursts of affection and concern with every touch.

She paused by Stella and Emily, who were deep in conversation at a window seat. “Do you need more ice?” Chloe asked, voice pitched high and careful, as if afraid to interrupt something sacred. Stella grinned, Emily blushed, and both assured her they were fine. Chloe nodded, then leaned in and whispered, “You two look so cute together,” which set off a chain of giggles that echoed down the hall.

Next, she found Norah and Liesa, who were locked in debate over the merits of different dessert cakes. “You have to try both,” Chloe insisted, “otherwise how will you know which you like best?” She sliced a piece for each of them, serving it with the reverence of a wedding coordinator. Norah took a forkful, her eyes rolling in pleasure, and told Chloe it was “the best thing I’ve had in months.” Liesa, never one for moderation, took a bite, then faked a faint, letting her head land on Chloe’s shoulder. “You are a goddess,” she murmured, and Chloe’s face went the color of strawberry jam, legs clenched to keep herself from squirming.

Every compliment, every thank-you, seemed to charge Chloe up, her body buzzing with some invisible current. By the time she made it to the far end of the room, she was vibrating, her eyes a little too bright, her smile holding the shape of something that might tip into tears if provoked. She'd had to go to the bathroom twice already.

At the punch bowl, she collided with Erin, who was trying to open a new bottle of prosecco using only her thighs and one palm. Chloe, with her customary tact, offered, “Here, let me,” and took the bottle. She popped the cork, careful not to spill, then poured a perfect glass for Erin, topping it off with a little flourish. “You’re amazing, you know,” Chloe said, the words slipping out with surprising ****. “I mean, you just… you always show up. Even when you act like you don’t want to. I admire that.”

Erin blinked, taken aback. “Uh. Thanks, Chloe.” She set her free hand on Chloe’s arm, the gesture solid, grounding. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Chloe’s eyes swam a little. She blinked, trying to clear the tears before they breached the surface, but a drop managed to escape anyway. “Sorry,” she said, wiping her cheek with a knuckle. “I don’t know why I’m so emotional. I just—” Her voice cracked. “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been, and I’m scared it’s not going to last.”

Erin nodded, her mint-green skin surprisingly soft in the evening light. “Maybe it doesn’t have to last. Maybe it just has to be real, for now.”

Chloe did her best not to break down in public. She really, really did.

But the party was beautiful, the cake was gone, and everyone was just so happy. She’d never seen so many people smiling, or laughing, or holding hands, or just… being okay. She’d always imagined she’d be part of something like this one day—surrounded by a big found family who really saw her, not just the girl who brought snacks or organized the seating chart—but she’d secretly never thought it would happen for real.

And now she was here, and it was happening, and the thought of it ending—of waking up tomorrow and finding out it was a trick, or a spell, or that she’d accidentally said something to ruin it all—was almost too much. The feeling settled in her chest like a handful of live wires. Also, the gin she’d been given by Sam wasn’t fully sitting well in her stomach.

She tried to hide it by busying her hands. It was an old trick from teaching: if you were about to cry, stack napkins. Set out straws. Refold the cocktail napkins so nobody could see your shaking fingers. But when she reached the punch bowl to top off a glass for Riley, she fumbled it and spilled a whole ladle across the table. The noise wasn’t loud, but it was enough to draw stares from the nearest cluster of guests.

“It’s fine, I’ll clean it!” Chloe stammered, snatching napkins and mopping furiously. It was not fine. Her chest was squeezing tight, and she could feel the tears boiling up inside. She blinked fast, but her vision was already swimming.

She didn’t notice Emily until the other girl had slotted herself in on the far side of the table, hands working quickly to intercept the runaway rivulets of punch with a practiced efficiency. Emily was, as ever, entirely nude, her hair flowing around her like a pink-and-gold aurora, but somehow she made the gesture look both natural and modest.

“Hey,” Emily said softly, and she offered Chloe a damp cloth. “It’s okay, you know. You’re not the only one who gets emotional at parties.”

Chloe let out a helpless little laugh, half-cry and half-relief. “I thought I was being so sneaky,” she whispered. “I was trying not to be a downer. I just—” She sniffled, then scrubbed her cheeks. “Sorry. I’m not usually like this.”

Emily leaned closer, her voice pitched for Chloe alone. “Of course you are. You’re always like this. It’s just that here, you can finally show it.”

Chloe gaped, not sure if that was a compliment or the worst kind of exposure. “I—I don’t want to mess up the party,” she said, voice cracking. “I just want everyone to have a good time. I want Andy to be happy. I want—” Her throat closed, then the tears won out, running hot down both cheeks.

Emily scooted in closer, blocking the rest of the room with her body. Her hair made a soft curtain, hiding Chloe from view. “You are the party,” she said. “If you disappeared, nobody would have remembered to chill the punch.” She smiled, eyes big and blue. “I’m glad you’re here. I think everyone is.”

Chloe sniffled again, but she was already laughing a little. “Thank you, Emily. Really. You’re—you’re really good at this. Is that your magic? Comforting people?”

Emily thought about it for a second. “Not officially. But maybe it should be.” She poured a glass of punch, careful to keep it just below the rim, and handed it to Chloe. “We can take a break in the kitchen, if you want. Or we can just keep pretending to clean. It’s a solid cover.”

Chloe took the punch, her hands trembling less than before. “Let’s clean,” she said, and together they fussed over the table, righting glasses and lining up the cake plates. Emily was good company: she didn’t talk too much, she didn’t press or ask for secrets, she just worked quietly, making sure Chloe could hide behind her if she needed to.

After a minute, Chloe found her voice again. “Did you ever think you’d end up here?” she asked. “Like, with all these people?”

Emily shook her head, a wry smile twisting her mouth. “I always dreamed about having a big group of friends. Or, you know, even just one. But I figured I’d be the weird kid forever.” She shrugged, as if nakedness had cured her of embarrassment. “I guess this is what happens when you get thrown in with a bunch of other weirdos.”

Chloe beamed at her, feeling the last of the sadness retreat. “I like being a weirdo,” she said. “It’s way better than being alone.”

They shared a laugh—small, but real—and Chloe realized she was still clutching Emily’s hand. She let go, blushing, but Emily didn’t seem to mind.

“Come on,” Emily said. “Let’s go sit. I think Marissa has a secret stash of cookies, and she’ll only share if you look like you need it.”

Chloe nodded, grateful for the excuse to move away from the mess and the lingering eyes of the room. They found a quiet corner, and Chloe let herself relax for the first time all night.

She didn’t have to fix anything. She didn’t have to be perfect. She just had to be here, with people who wanted her around.

Chloe leaned against Emily’s shoulder, and Emily rested her head against Chloe’s. For a few precious minutes, they didn’t say a word. They just sat together, soaking up the hum of the party, letting the world turn without them.

When they stood, the party felt easier. The lights seemed warmer. The music sounded like something Chloe had loved as a child, back when birthdays were just cake and dancing and nobody worried about who got invited or if anyone would show.

Chloe knew the sadness would come back, someday. It always did. But tonight, she was ready for it. She was part of something, finally, and for once she didn’t have to cry alone.

She squeezed Emily’s hand, and the other girl squeezed back.

“Let’s go have fun,” Chloe said, and this time, she meant it.

---

It started as a joke.

Marissa, her thoughts still swimming from Sam-enhanced champagne, swayed onto the balcony for air. She flopped her elbows onto the cool marble rail and blinked at the tangle of sensations in her head: the twerk contest that turned into a full-on dance-off, the way Andy’s eyes went wide when everyone cheered for him, the pounding bass still thrumming in her bones.

From her perch she could hear the muffled music inside, see the kaleidoscope of partygoers through the sliding glass doors—Chloe and Emily practically tumbling over one another in the center of the room, Dani teetering on the arm of a couch like a tipsy statue, Harper and Scarlet spinning in a flawed but joyous duet, even Liesa and Tracy leaning close at the cake cart, whispering and giggling as if no one else existed. It felt like some absurd fever dream, but in a fantastic way, like she’d stumbled into the most beautiful hallucination possible.

She was just starting to ground herself again—feeling her feet, the world righting itself—when Stella lurched into view, wobbling like she’d just tumbled down five flights of stairs in heels. Her arms were folded across her chest, wings hitching in little spasms, cheeks glowing ruby-red. Stella didn’t walk so much as teetered, her eyes bright and sloshy with mischief.

“Whoa,” Stella long-drawled, voice all slurry warmth, “didn’t ex-pect t’find the party’s num-bah one…thera—therapist, hidin’ out ‘ere.” She grinned, canine teeth gleaming, and hiccuped softly.

Marissa blinked. “Diagnosis?” she asked, voice a notch too loud, slurring her own words just the tiniest bit. “Over-stim-u-late—over-hydrated? Under-hydrated? I swear I can get a contact high just from orbiting this many weirdos.”

Stella lurched closer, shoulders nearly grazing Marissa’s. “Only if you’re, like, reeeally open to it,” she slurred, leaning a hand against the rail so she wouldn’t fall backward. She blinked at Marissa, eyes huge. “You know, I never bought the whole…harems thing. But after tonight? I get it now.”

Marissa giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m surprised you can even stand,” she teased.

Stella tipped her head and wobbled. “I’m totally horizontal inside,” she confessed, voice dropping into a conspiratorial rumble. “Caleb’s a—well, he’s an asshole, but at least he’s consistent. The rest of the girls? Hot mess. Like, your family if your drunk uncle was demonic and everyone backstabbed each other hourly.”

Marissa laughed out loud, clutching the rail as the balcony swayed under her. Stella turned to her, eyes flickering with that manic spark.

“Not that I mind,” Stella whispered. She paused, then hiccuped again, louder this time. “I’m basically the comic relief. Nobody expects me to save the day or whatever. I kinda love it.”

“I get it,” Marissa said, slurring her words into a sing-song. “Some days I’d kill to just…drift. Not be the one who’s got the plan or has to say the Right Thing.”

Stella gave her an exaggerated wink—lopsided, half-closed, dangerously charming. “You wanna be the fun one, just once?” she slurred, leaning so close Marissa could feel her warm breath, sweet with wine and mint.

“Just once,” Marissa said, her chest fluttering. “I need a break.”

They stared at each other, voices gone silent, but the air felt electric—like static crackling in the space between them. Part dare, part something deeper: that tiny rebelling spark when you meet someone who refuses to be who everyone says she should be.

“Wanna play a game?” Stella asked finally, voice low and soft, as if she were about to confess a conspiracy.

Marissa arched an eyebrow. “What kind of game?” she asked, heart thudding in her chest.

Stella’s wings drooped, her head tilting like a dizzy baby bird. “First one to break the no-flirting rule has to…” She blinked, searching for the word. “…has to tell one true thing about herself.” Her cheeks dimpled into a grin. “Fair?”

Marissa’s grin got wider. “You’re on. But just so you know, I…um, I never really flirt.”

“Oh puh-lease,” Stella snorted, hiccuping between words. “You’re flirting righ—” she stopped, hiccupped again, “right now.”

“Am not.” Marissa crossed her arms—badly.

“Are too,” Stella insisted, her voice an octave higher.

They stood those beat seconds, inches apart, neither blinking, gazes locked.

“Fine,” Marissa whispered, leaning so close their noses nearly touched. “I’ll go first. True thing: I once got kicked out of a wine bar for psychoanalyzing the bartender.”

Stella burst into a high-pitched cackle that rattled the rail. “Was he hot?”

“He was a total mess,” Marissa slurred, “but his tattoos were…tempting.”

Stella wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. “My turn.” She rocked forward, wings fluttering like crazy. “Sometimes I wish I could be the… good girl. Just for one day. See what it’s like to not… mess things up.” She hiccuped, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

Marissa blinked, surprised. Stella shrugged. “Being me is awesome,” she babbled, “but also? Lonely.”

They fell quiet, the distant thump of music the only other sound. Marissa wanted to say something—anything—but settled for leaning closer.

Without warning, Stella reached out and tucked a damp curl of Marissa’s hair behind her ear. Then, before either could think, their lips collided—quick, fierce, barely a kiss but also everything. The world around them snapped to still life for a heartbeat.

They jerked apart, faces flaming.

“Uh,” Stella hiccuped, voice small. “Guess I lose.”

Marissa covered her mouth, then burst out laughing. “Me too.”

They peered back inside. Of course everyone had seen: Chloe and Emily clutching each other and giggling, Andy gesturing like he’d just witnessed a moon landing, Harper and Laura pretending not to stare. No one said a word. Then, as if by magic, a glass of red wine slid across the ledge to Marissa—Myra’s doing, no doubt, myra’s little wink following it.

Stella grinned drunkenly and snagged the glass. She lifted it toward Marissa.

“To weird parties,” she toasted, voice thick.

“To new friends,” Marissa answered, clinking her lip-stained rim against Stella’s. They drank, letting the bubbles fizz between them as the music inside shifted, calling them back.

Stella looped her arm through Marissa’s. They stumbled inside together, laughter wobbling behind them like the world’s most obvious secret.

---

Eventually, the night’s biggest egos found each other.

Andy was trying to sneak a third helping of cake (nobody would miss it, and if they did, they’d blame Norah), when he felt a large, reassuring hand clap his shoulder. He turned and found Mark looming above him, somehow even taller when tipsy and even more at ease in his own skin.

“Hey, Andy,” Mark said, voice pitched confidential. “We need to talk.”

Andy nodded, mouth full, and followed Mark to the far end of the hall, where Laura was already waiting with a glass of something suspiciously blue and the posture of a woman who’d been at enough of these to know the next move.

“We’re forming a support group,” Laura announced, deadpan.

Andy swallowed a bite of cake. “A support group for what?”

“For tall people,” Mark quipped.

Laura shrugged. “The whole mess. Harems, reality TV trauma, being held hostage by British supervillains. Everything.”

Mark leaned in. “It’s for Masters only. We need to… you know. Process.”

Laura nodded. “The trauma. The endless parade of boobs.”

There was a pause.

Andy considered. “You know, that’s not the worst idea I’ve heard tonight.”

Mark looked proud. “I knew you’d get it. I mean, the girls have each other—they talk, they bond. But who do we have? The Hosts? The Producers? Hell no. We need a space to vent.”

Laura pulled a napkin from the table and started writing in a crisp, no-nonsense scrawl: “Masters Support Group. Motto: ‘It’s Not About the Numbers.’”

Andy read it upside down. “Is that the motto?”

“It is now,” Mark said, signing his name with a flourish. “We’re not many. But we’re really good at what we do. Next up: recruiting.”

Laura pointed across the room, where Nick was holding a spirited debate with Mary and Dani. “We start with him. I feel like he’s got what it takes.”

Andy nodded. “He’ll need it. The guy looks like he’s already aged ten years. Prematurely.”

Laura arched a brow. “Dick, and then Caleb. Poor bastard has to deal with demons and imps every day. It’s a wonder he hasn’t snapped.”

“Should we include Harper?” Andy asked. “She’s… kind of a Master, but also sort of, like, a Host-in-training?”

Laura weighed it. “Honorary. Or emeritus status. She can advise but not vote on the bylaws.”

Andy scribbled this onto the napkin. “Emeritus. Nice.” Then he looked at the napkin, which now read:

MASTERS SUPPORT GROUP

“It’s Not About the Numbers”

Founders: Mark, Andy, Laura

Emeritus: Harper

Goal: Support, commiseration, cake

BYLAWS:

1. No Hosts allowed (except Harper, in an advisory role)
2. No magic (without majority vote beforehand)
3. No discussing the Numbers, unless absolutely required
4. Cake and/or **** at every meeting

He handed the napkin to Laura, who glanced at it, then shrugged and set it down. “Good enough.”

Mark raised a hand. “Change ‘cake’ to ‘dessert.’ Some of us aren’t into cake. Also, what do you mean, ‘and/or ****?’ There should be **** at every session.”

“Fair point,” Andy said solemnly, adjusting the bylaws. “I’ll get Sam to make us a bottle each time we meet.”

They moved as a pack to find Nick, who was mid-gesticulation and only slightly less tipsy than the rest of them.

“Nick,” Andy said, “do you want to join our secret society?”

Nick hesitated, then looked around the room, as if double-checking that the offer wasn’t a setup. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Mark said. “Just Masters being Masters.”

Nick thought for a moment, then nodded. “Sure. I mean, my wife says I need more friends.”

“Perfect,” Laura said. “We’ll induct you at the next session.”

“Are there snacks?” Nick asked, glancing hopefully at the cake cart.

Laura gave him a look. “Always.”

They spotted Richard Turner next, leaning against the bar with that trademark half-smile that had launched fanpages for the young Congressman. Mark nudged Andy. "Turner's a must-have. He’s got political influence.”

"Good call," Laura said, making her way over. But by the time they reached him, he was busy talking with Sam. The blonde girl who had come with him, Aubrey, slid in front of them. “Can I help you?” she asked.

Laura solemnly nodded. "We're forming a support group. Masters only.” She waved the napkin like it was a flag. “He in?"

Aubrey blinked ,staring worriedly at the napkin. “Uh, I’ll take whatever info you have. If he sees this it’ll be the rest of his night.”

Satisfied, Andy grabbed another napkin, transcribed the notes (Mark and Laura providing impromptu modifications) and handed it over to Aubrey. “Here you go.”

Next, they found Caleb in a quiet alcove, trying to coax the corgi out from under a chair with a trail of smoked sausage. He looked up, wariness in his eyes.

“We’re forming a support group,” Mark said. “For us.”

Caleb blinked. “Just us?”

“Just us,” Andy confirmed.

Caleb glanced at the corgi, then at the crowd of women on the dance floor. “God, yes. Count me in.”

They stood there for a minute, just four men, a woman and a dog, watching the room. The women were, by any measure, having more fun. Dawn (from Nick’s set) and Claire were laughing together near the balcony, arms around each other’s waists; Candy was attempting to braid Myra’s tail, which Myra seemed to tolerate only because she was so distracted by whatever Ellen was saying. Chloe and Emily had become some sort of team, ferrying drinks and snacks with military precision. It was chaos, but it was beautiful chaos.

“I feel like an anthropologist,” Nick said, “studying a herd of rare, aggressive butterflies.”

Caleb nodded. “Sometimes I have nightmares about them unionizing. Like, taking over the set. Locking us in a box and making us do their makeup.”

Mark grinned. “That’s not the worst possible outcome.”

“Speak for yourself,” Laura muttered. “You’ve never met my sisters.”

Andy found himself laughing.

They were joined a moment later by Harper, who entered with her usual calm, hands clasped behind her back.

“What is this, the Master’s Club?” she asked, eyes glinting.

“Support Group,” Andy corrected.

She nodded, taking it in stride. “I approve. Just don’t let it become a fraternity. Nothing good ever comes of those.”

Laura gestured to Harper’s boots. “You’re emeritus. You can sit in, but don’t get to make bylaws.”

Harper nodded solemnly and slurred, “Fair.”

Mark poured a round of whatever they’d brought with them, and the group toasted in silence. For a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just this—just five people and a dog, standing in the corner of a party that made no sense but, for tonight, needed no explaining.

Somewhere in the background, the women had started another conga line, led by Emi and followed by half the room. The music was too loud, the lights too bright, and the scent of cake and sweat and perfume made everything feel a little soft around the edges.

Laura looked at the others. “You know this will never actually work, right? We’ll get back to our own sets and never meet again.”

Caleb shrugged. “That’s not the point.”

Mark nodded. “Tonight’s enough.”

Nick grinned, lopsided. “We should do a group chat, though. For, you know. Emergencies.”

Andy nodded. “And maybe a spreadsheet. For comparing notes.”

Laura rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “Men.”

They toasted again, this time with more laughter than solemnity.

---

Myra found the edge of the world at the margin of the deck, where the party noise thinned and the night wind rushed in from the sea. It was quieter here, just the distant thud of the subwoofers and the rhythmic crash of waves a hundred feet down the cliff. The bench was wood, old and warped; she ran her palm along its rough grain, grounding herself.

She’d needed a break. The talk with Andy had gone better than any previous “big conversation” in her life—he didn’t condescend, he didn’t make it weird, he didn’t even try to hug her again—but the aftershocks were still rolling through her nerves. She’d meant to say something simple. Instead, she’d told him more than she’d told most therapists, and now her body was lit up with an urgent, diffuse electricity that wouldn’t shut off. The whiskey in her hand helped a little, but not nearly enough.

She took a slow breath, then another. Her vision was useless, of course, but her other senses were maxed out: every molecule of salt in the air, the bite of the whiskey, the faint perfume of spilled cake from the buffet inside. It should have been peaceful, but her body was betraying her—heat rising in her cheeks, her tail twitching at irregular intervals, the foxfire dancing in steady pulses along her arms.

If someone had looked, they’d see her glowing like a candle. Myra was aware of this, but also past caring. She just wanted to settle, to let the storm inside ebb for a while.

The bench creaked under new weight. Myra sensed it a half-second before the seat even shifted: a low, deliberate scuffle of boots, the metallic tinkle of a bracelet, the telltale synthetic whoosh of mesh against skin. She braced.

“Hey, Doc,” said Tracy. “Room on this log for a fellow burn-out?”

Myra snorted, more relief than humor. “I’m not a doctor anymore. I just—”

“Yeah, you are,” Tracy countered. “You got the eyes and the presence.”

She could hear the grin in Tracy’s voice, the way it curled at the edges of every word. Myra relaxed—slightly. She knew Tracy. Not well, but enough to expect the pattern: a volley of off-color jokes, followed by a weirdly thoughtful non sequitur, then a pivot into hacker talk or competitive banter. She liked Tracy’s energy, if not always the content.

Tonight, though, something was different.

Tracy said nothing for a moment, just let the silence stretch. Myra felt the other woman’s body settle beside her, the warmth radiating like a space heater set to “confessional.” Tracy’s arousal was an overwhelming presence, not directed at anyone, just there, strong and burning. Myra was so shocked she let her own guard down, just a notch.

“Wild party,” Tracy said.

Myra nodded, the motion more for herself than for Tracy. “Loud,” she said. “But good. It’s been a while since I—since anyone let me out.”

“People suck,” Tracy said, without judgment. “But not tonight. Tonight’s all right.”

Myra sipped her drink. The foxfire ebbed a little. “Agreed.”

For a few seconds, there was just the sound of wind and, beneath it, the scratch of a nail file. Tracy must have produced one from somewhere; the rasp was methodical, relaxing.

“So,” Tracy said, “I’m not great at the soft approach, but I figure it’s safer than sneaking up and getting decked in the nose. You cool with a little company?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” Myra said.

“Nice. I’ll try not to scare you off.”

Tracy’s arousal flared suddenly, bright as a bug zapper, and Myra’s body responded by tightening every muscle in her lower back. She bit the inside of her cheek and tried to redirect her focus to the whiskey.

“Can I be honest?” Tracy asked, voice dropping a notch.

“Sure.”

Tracy leaned closer, the motion telegraphed with exaggerated slowness, as if to make sure Myra wouldn’t startle. “You’re hotter when you glow,” she said, the words coming out like a punchline.

Myra snorted again, this time with genuine laughter. “Wow. Subtle.”

“I’m not paid to be subtle,” Tracy said, breezily. “I’m paid to be efficient. Plus, if I didn’t say it, someone else would.”

“That’s the logic?”

“Always.” Tracy’s tone was easy, but the intent was there, burning like a second sun.

Myra tried to think of a response that wouldn’t sound like flirting. “You’re not too bad yourself, catgirl. I heard about you on the dance floor earlier. I’m told you have impressive moves.”

Tracy preened audibly, then gave a mock-sigh. “Please, you’re the only one who appreciates true art. Everyone else just wants to see if I’ll fall over.”

“I think you did, actually.”

“That was on purpose,” Tracy lied. “It’s called committing to the bit.”

Myra let herself smile. “Duly noted.”

For a while, they sat in companionable silence, the foxfire on Myra’s skin dimming with each pass of the breeze. She felt better: less like an exposed nerve, more like a person again.

Then Tracy said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” Myra shot back, but she meant it kindly.

“Okay, smartass. For real: do you like girls?”

Myra froze, tail going rigid. She’d never answered that question out loud, not since she woke up blind and more concerned with survival than with dating. But it was obvious, wasn’t it? She’d made no secret of her past, the weird college trysts, the brief, intense crushes that always burned out before they got complicated. Maybe not romantic, but certainly she had had hookups.

“Yeah,” she said, soft. “I do.”

Tracy nodded, metal beads on her braids clinking softly. “Same. So, here’s my next question: if I asked you out, would you laugh in my face?”

Myra felt her body go molten. The foxfire flared, green-white on her arms and up the side of her throat.

She swallowed. “No,” she said. “But I’d probably panic and run.”

“That’s fair,” Tracy said. “I like a challenge.”

Myra shook her head, at once mortified and giddy. “You’re ridiculous.”

Tracy grinned, audible in every syllable. “And you’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.”

Myra groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Stop.”

“Never,” Tracy said, triumphant.

Mortification burned hotter than the foxfire along her skin. Myra tossed back her whiskey in one **** gulp, the **** searing down her throat. She fumbled with the empty glass, letting it knock audibly against the bench.

"I should—" she gestured vaguely with the glass, already half-standing. "Refill."

Tracy's grin widened, knowing and somehow victorious despite the obvious retreat. "Sure thing, fox girl. Don't let me keep you."

"Thanks for the... conversation," Myra managed, foxfire pulsing in embarrassed waves as she backed away, glass clutched like a shield.

The deck boards creaked beneath her careful steps. She could feel Tracy's gaze following her, amused rather than disappointed. Somehow that made it worse.

"Hey," Tracy called after her, "this bench'll be here when you're ready."

Myra didn't answer, just nodded once, sharply, and fled toward the distant murmur of the party, her tail twitching with each hurried step. The foxfire refused to dim, broadcasting her embarrassment to anyone with eyes to see.