Written in the Night, Part 1

That evening they gathered, as always, on the landing outside the elevator. There was no stated rule about waiting for the Master to descend, but the tradition had calcified since the last challenge: the first one to wait would trigger a chain reaction. They would loiter in clusters, still crackling from the challenge, waiting to be led like a processional down the glass corridor and out to wherever Arabella had chosen to stage the postmortem party. Tonight, the logic was simple: if Andy could keep his nerve watching the harem mow through a gauntlet of trigger-happy Mildreds, the least they could do was present themselves as a united front.

He stepped out at precisely 7:01, blue dress shirt rolled at the sleeves and hair barely tamed. His eyes widened at the sight of them gathered there—bruised, disheveled, triumphant. He emerged from the elevator with his hands outstretched, a gesture somewhere between supplication and gratitude.

"You were incredible out there," he said, his voice catching. "All of you." His eyes found Riley, who stood slightly apart from the others, arms folded tight across her chest.

Riley shifted her weight, arms folded tight across her chest. "Could've gone smoother if we'd had better intel on the number of Mildreds," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. But her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "Next time, maybe they'll give us decent equipment."

Andy grinned. "Next time, I'll make sure you have everything you need."

Riley shrugged, then looked away, arms folded tight. The group was still raw from the earlier breakdown, but nobody was holding it against her. Least of all Andy. He looked at Claire, and when he saw her, he did a double take. She was standing, clutching her notebook and surrounded by the other women. She wore a white sleeveless blouse, and for first time since arriving, a blue miniskirt behind which her tail swished lazily. She looked incredible, and it took him a few moments to process. He could sense her happiness, her pride, her relief, and understood why she had donated her VPs to Riley. It wasn’t just payment for services rendered, it never had been: it was a way for Claire to finally make up for what she still deemed her failure of leadership in the Second Challenge, despite the fact that none of the women saw it the same way. He smiled at her, sending her a pulse of affection, and she blinked, responding in kind.

Arabella stood sentinel by the open glass doors, luminous in another improbable gown—this one blood-orange, clinging and almost translucent in the right light. Andy approached her as the others gathered.

"Will you join us tonight?" he asked, voice low enough that only she could hear.

Her smile turned wistful. "I'm afraid I have a prior engagement, but please—" she gestured toward the lawn with an elegant sweep of her hand, "enjoy yourselves. You've earned it."

Something in her eyes—a genuine warmth—made Andy pause. She was truly happy for them. The group moved as a pack down the path, everyone barefoot, Dawn leading with her arm looped through Chloe's, while Emi and Emily brought up the rear, their entwined bodies a single undulating silhouette against the evening light.

Down the manicured slope, over the soft grass, and then the whole world opened: torches, a blazing bonfire, a table groaning with food and drinks, all the trappings of a homecoming for the victorious. The fire was surrounded by a loose drift of beanbags and low couches, and already the air smelled of roasted fruit, melting chocolate, and the ocean, sweet and wild. The beach ran out a hundred yards in either direction, but the party was anchored to this one circle of light and warmth.

Andy watched them all slip into place: Emi coiled in a hammock, two arms behind her head and two more gesturing wildly as she recounted her “sniper shot” that had ricocheted into a Mildred’s backside and caused a chain reaction of concussions down the line. Emily perched beside her, long hair perfectly covering everything but her knees and the suggestion of pink at each breast, her laughter ringing above the others.

Chloe and Dawn burrowed into a beanbag, their legs tangled, sharing a bowl of something sweet and violently red. Chloe’s eyes kept darting to the fire, as if she half-expected another attack, but every time Dawn nudged her, or whispered something, she’d relax again, the anxiety ebbing with each laugh.

Liesa settled cross-legged on a pile of throw cushions, her arms folded in her lap, eyes wide and shining as she watched Sam refit the cap to a bottle of tequila with her teeth. Sam handed it to Liesa, then let her hand rest—just for a second—on the other woman’s knee, grounding her in a way that needed no words.

Erin, naked but for a pair of battered old trainers, had commandeered the end of the picnic table and was now two drinks deep, holding court to an audience of Norah, Marissa, and Claire. Marissa, as always, was cool and composed; she sipped white wine, voice velvet, as she explained the difference between “true suppression” and “sensory override.” Norah rolled her eyes at every third sentence, but she didn’t actually argue, and every now and then, when Marissa said something particularly brainy, Norah would thump her back and go “Ha! See, that’s what I mean.”

Claire clung to Andy’s side. She’d written him a note—folded neatly and tucked into his hand at the elevator—that said, simply, Please let me stay next to you tonight. He couldn’t have refused even if he’d wanted to. Now she nestled close, head on his shoulder, tail wound tight around her own thigh.

Andy could have stood there all night, watching the scene build itself: the way the women bled back into one another, lines of rivalry sanded off by adrenaline and the sugar rush of freedom. All that exhaustion, all that oddball love—he’d have stayed on the periphery forever, just listening. Instead, he let Claire keep his arm as an anchor and walked her down to the fire, where they found Erin already at the table, pulling apart a mound of roasted chicken with both hands.

“About time,” Erin said with a smile. She jerked her chin toward the nearest cushion, a not-so-subtle order for Andy to take a seat. Marissa was beside her, glass in hand, the fire reflected in the curve of her breast. She looked up at Andy and gave a wink, then shifted to make space for Claire, who curled immediately into the offered warmth.

For a minute, there was nothing but the low hum of voices, the soft pop of wood in the flames, and the way the night seemed to wrap itself around the group, holding them together like a secret.

Emi’s six arms blurred in the torchlight as she narrated her “legendary” sniper moment, each limb doing a different pantomime: one finger sighting down a barrel, one hand balled in a fist to show the ricochet, two arms holding up invisible binoculars while the last two clapped for her own performance. Emily sat next to her, eyes wide, gasping and laughing at every detail.

“She’s exaggerating,” Norah called from her spot behind the table, her hair still streaked with paint and sand. “The first shot missed by a mile. The only thing she hit was Mildred’s dignity.”

“It counts!” Emi protested, which made Emily laugh harder, hair falling across her eyes in a pink-gold curtain.

Chloe, sprawled beside Dawn on an enormous beanbag, groaned at her own flashbacks. “I still can’t believe I screamed like that,” she muttered, covering her face. “It wasn’t even pain, it was—” She mimed a shiver, then clamped both hands over her mouth.

Dawn smiled, nudging Chloe’s shoulder. “I thought it was impressive. You managed an octave jump and everything.”

Chloe’s blush rose to her hairline, and Norah thumped her back in approval. “Nothing wrong with a little drama, Velvet. It’s not like any of us were cool under fire.”

Sam raised her hand, as if in class. “I was extremely cool. Threw tables and display cases, even smashed a pillar. And I caught two of those bastards with a single shot. Liesa, tell them.”

Liesa, her arms folded tight in her lap, didn’t speak at first. She looked from Sam to the fire, then finally up at the others. “She really did,” Liesa said, her voice small but steady. “And she kept me from getting hit, too.” The admission was a little shaky, but Sam only squeezed her hand tighter, and the moment settled without further comment.

Andy watched the group settle in, each person orbiting in their own weirdly perfect way: Erin and Marissa, dominating the food and the table; Emi and Emily, pure chaos; Chloe and Dawn, sharing a bowl of berries and finishing each other’s sentences; Norah and Sam, both pretending they didn’t need anyone, but never quite breaking out of the pack; Liesa, hugging her knees but never alone; Claire, velcroed to Andy’s side, tail winding under the bench to brush his ankle every time she laughed.

He could see the lines that connected them, now—some thick and tangled, some new and tentative, but all binding them into a unit that felt almost unbreakable.

After a while, conversation turned from the heist to the aftermath, and then the future. Marissa steered the talk, her voice velvet and measured as she explained how “transformation-induced neural adaptation” might affect the group, and why some of them could expect side effects.

Erin cut in, grinning: “So what you’re saying is, our weird is going to get weirder?”

“Exponential growth in weird,” Marissa agreed, tapping her glass to Erin’s. “But that’s not always a bad thing.”

From the hammock, Emi shouted, “I volunteer to be the first experiment!” and everyone cheered.

Emily grinned, looking down at her bare arms, then at her hair. “I think we’re already the experiment,” she said. “But it’s a good one.”

Chloe glanced at her lap, tracing circles in the sand with her toes. “I never thought I’d be part of a team like this,” she said, voice soft. “I didn’t know I could.”

Dawn put her arm around Chloe, pulling her close. “You belong here,” she said, firm enough that it didn’t feel like a platitude.

Norah nodded. “Forcibly.” But she grinned.

The words hung there, burning in the firelight. Nobody moved to break the silence. For just a second, they were a family.

The rest of the night blurred, time losing meaning as the sky deepened. More food, more laughter. A drinking game—Andy lost spectacularly, **** to say “meow” after every sentence for the next half hour, which delighted Claire and mortified him in equal measure. Chloe and Dawn sang duets, their voices rising in the dark, and Emi staged an impromptu puppet show using driftwood and a pair of socks. Liesa drew quick charcoal sketches of everyone on napkins, quietly gifting them around the table. Marissa and Norah argued philosophy until they were both too drunk to finish a sentence, and Sam, true to her word, offered to arm-wrestle every single person at the party—an offer only Emi took her up on, only to realize she couldn't use her extra arms.

The fire burned down by the time Riley approached. She moved through the penumbra at the edge of the party, chin tucked, arms wrapped around herself. The others noticed, but didn’t comment. If anything, the hush that followed her arrival felt like a curtain, closing the group off from the rest of the world.

Riley didn’t speak at first. She just jerked her head in the direction of the shoreline, a silent summons that Andy understood without thinking. He caught Erin’s eye, said nothing, but she grinned and smacked his thigh, then leaned in and kissed him, sharp and quick, before releasing him to go.

Claire, sensing motion, latched onto his other side. For a second, Andy thought she might let go, but she just clung tighter, eyes huge behind her glasses, tail wound around her own wrist. He didn’t have the heart to shake her off. So they went, the three of them, leaving the warmth of the fire for the darkness of the surf.

It was colder near the water, the sand damp and firm under their feet. The tide was out, leaving a flat strip of wet beach that reflected the moon and the slow drift of clouds overhead. Riley walked ahead, barefoot, leaving a string of prints that the next wave would erase. Andy followed, Claire clinging to his arm, their shadows stretching out in front of them. He understood the catgirl. The challenge must have been overwhelming to her senses, and she needed to ground herself.

For a long time, nobody spoke. They just walked, the silence broken only by the hiss of foam and the distant crackle of the bonfire. Riley didn’t look back, didn’t slow. Andy thought about what he’d say, whether he should say anything at all. He didn’t want to break the spell, but he also knew—sooner or later—words would have to do what bullets never could.

Finally, Riley stopped. She stood at the edge of the world, the hem of her jeans soaked, the wind plastering her shirt to her back. Andy watched the way her hands fisted at her sides, the tremor in her jaw. She looked out at the water, not at him.

“Why?” she said, voice so low he almost missed it. “Why waste your shot on me? After everything?”

Andy didn’t answer at first. He watched the ocean, the wind carving black lines into the troughs of the waves. Claire pressed tight to his side, her tail wound like a tourniquet around his wrist, and he let her stay. He thought about the question—why waste your shot on me—and realized Riley still didn’t believe she mattered enough to anyone for it to count as a loss. He wondered how long that belief had been with her. He wondered what it took to make a person live with it for so long.

When he spoke, his voice was so soft that the wind almost pulled it away. “I’ve seen what elimination means here, Riley. I’ve seen what it does. What it turns people into.” He stared at the darkness, not at her. “I couldn’t do that to you. Not to anyone, but especially not to you.”

Riley’s posture didn’t shift, but Andy saw her shoulders rise with each breath, every one sharp and purposeful, as if she were holding herself together by ****. She didn’t look at him. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the black horizon, where the clouds erased the edge of the sky.

“I’m not worth that,” she said, almost a snarl.

“Laura would have disagreed,” Andy said, and then waited for Riley to kill him for it. She didn’t.

Instead, she shuddered. “Laura’s gone.”

He nodded. “But you’re not. I won’t insult her by letting you go, either. She loved you, Riley. So do I, in the way people do for the ones that mattered to someone they can’t stop missing.”

There was a pause. Claire loosened her grip, just a little, as if trusting Andy to manage on his own. Riley’s jaw worked, her teeth biting hard on her lower lip, until the skin there went bloodless and white.

She didn’t speak, but her breath was shaky and uneven. Andy waited. He was good at waiting. He’d spent years at it.

After a while, Riley said, “You don’t get it.”

She sucked air through her teeth, and when she looked at him her eyes were alive with pain and a strange kind of disgust.

“You think I did something brave. Like it was hard for me to run at that door. But you don’t understand at all.” She laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh; it was the sound of someone clinging to the ledge of a building, knowing the drop was inevitable.

“I used to think I was strong. That I could take it. Whatever life gave me. You get married, you try to keep someone safe, and then the world fucks you over anyway. And you try to put it back together, one piece at a time, even when everyone else walks away.”

She wiped her face, annoyed that tears were already there.

“John deployed five months after we got married. He said it was nothing, just training, he’d be back in time to paint the nursery.” She shook her head. “I knew that was a lie. Even then. He just wanted me to believe it. So I did. I believed every single thing he said, right up until the day they rang the bell and told me he was gone.”

Andy swallowed. He thought about his own life, how grief could calcify around a person, turn every memory into either a weapon or a weight.

“I still had the baby,” Riley went on, “so I told myself that’s what I had to live for. I told myself that if I could get through the first day, then the first week, then a month, then it would get easier.” She smiled, sharp and brittle. “It never did. The people who were supposed to help you—they just… fade away. One by one. My friends stopped calling because they didn’t know what to say, or they didn’t want to watch me break down, or maybe I was just a reminder that it could happen to them, too. My family, they’re all two thousand miles away and terrified of me.”

Her voice hitched. She pulled something out of her pocket—a small silver ball on a chain. She rolled it in her palm, her fingers working the metal in tight, compulsive circles.

“I carried him for almost seven months,” she whispered. “Seven. I could feel him move at night, kicking. John said—he said it meant the baby would be stubborn, just like his dad.” She clamped her eyes shut. “Then one day, he just… stopped moving. They said it was stress. Or maybe it was just luck. The kind of luck I always get.”

She drew a shaky breath. “The delivery was quiet. No crying. No noise at all. Just this little—” She stopped, then started again. “I didn’t get to hold him. He was too small, too premature, they said. The next day, he was gone, too.”

No one said anything. The ocean filled the silence.

Riley kept rolling the necklace, a little harder now. “This is an angel caller. It’s supposed to protect the baby, or maybe guide them home if they get lost. I wear it every night so I don’t forget what I lost.” She snorted. “Now all it does is remind me I’m empty. That I can’t do anything but survive. Not like you, not like Laura.”

Andy wanted to reach out, but he let her finish. He’d learned that much, at least, from Marissa. Sometimes touch was a wound, not a salve.

The silence lasted. The wind cut lines through the foam, the cold stinging at their ankles as they walked. The party was just a scatter of orange on the horizon now, distant and irrelevant; only the three of them, and the sea, and whatever needed to be said.

Claire pressed close to Andy, her breath coming in short little sips. Her arm found its way around his, latching just above the wrist, as if she thought she might be swept away by the tide if she didn’t hold tight. He let her.

Riley stayed five paces ahead, not looking back. When she finally stopped, it was as if she had hit an invisible wall. She dropped to a crouch, knees in the sand, staring at the water like it was the only thing in the world that might make sense.

Andy caught up and stood beside her. Claire, tentative, settled just behind him, eyes wide and watching. He could sense her concern, her uncertainty. This was uncharted territory for her.

For a long time, no one spoke.

Riley was the one to break the seal. “I told myself I wouldn’t cry,” she said, and even then, her voice was steady—almost as if she were reciting a poem she’d memorized. “I don’t want to be that woman. The one who makes everything about herself. I just wanted to get through this thing. One round at a time.”

Andy nodded, but didn’t reach out. He just stood there, the sand cold under his toes.

“I used to be good at surviving,” Riley said. “Not just the big things. The little ones, too. I could take any hit, roll with it. That’s what I did when Laura died. That’s what I did when…” She trailed off, then shook her head. “But it’s not true, is it?”

She looked up at him. There was nothing accusatory in her gaze—just a deep, exhausted honesty.

Andy shook his head. “No. It’s not.”

The tears started then—slow at first, then faster. Riley wiped at them with the heel of her hand, almost angry, but the effort only made them come harder. “God, I’m such a fucking cliché,” she muttered. “I’m the woman who lost everything and never learned how to ask for help. I make everyone else miserable because I’m too fucking scared to move on.”

She snorted. “The truth is, I haven’t even left my house in months. Not for more than groceries, or work, or visiting John and the baby’s graves. I keep it clean, but it’s empty. Always empty. You know what I do every night?” She looked at Andy, then at Claire. “I drink, and I go through every contact in my phone. Sometimes I call them. Most of the time, I just stare at the names. People from another life. I can’t delete them. If I do, it’s like they never existed.”

The wind whipped her hair across her eyes. She let it stay.

“John died, and then the baby, and then the world just… shrank. My parents, my friends—they don’t know what to say. They don’t want to talk about it, because it makes it real. So they stopped calling. I stopped answering, so I can’t blame them. But it’s so fucking lonely. It’s like I’m not even a person anymore.”

Claire’s grip tightened on Andy’s arm, nails digging crescents into his skin.

Riley’s voice broke then, a sound so raw and fierce it scared Andy. “I stopped believing. Not just in God. In everything. Even poetry. I tried to write, but it just felt fake. Like I was writing elegies for a life I never actually had.”

She pulled the angel caller from her pocket, showing it to Andy as if it were proof of something she couldn’t say out loud. “This is all I have left. I thought if I wore it, I’d keep something alive. Even if it’s just a memory.” She closed her fingers around it, squeezing tight. “But the truth is, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be anymore. All I am is what’s gone.”

The waves pressed up the beach, saltwater prickling Andy’s feet.

He listened. There was nothing to say that would fix it. But he knew, from a thousand sleepless nights, the power of having someone just stand next to you and not look away.

For a long time, they stood in silence.

Then Riley said, “I know you hate me. I would, if I were you.”

Andy shook his head. “I don’t.”

Riley’s laugh was rough. “That’s what makes it worse. I wish you would.”

She turned to Claire, her face blotched and red but unguarded. “You too. I know you think I’m poison. That I am hurting Andy.” She let the words hang. “You should hate me. It would be easier.”

Claire shook her head, slow. The catgirl pressed her face into Andy’s sleeve, then pulled free her leather notebook, flipping to a fresh page. She wrote for a long time—her handwriting careful and slow, as if every letter was a promise. Then she tore out the sheet and offered it to Riley with both hands.

Riley took it, blinking at the words.

I never blame you, it read. No one gets to blame you for surviving.

I want you to stay.

That’s all.

Riley stared at the note until the tears blurred it into a blue mess. She tried to speak, but couldn’t. So she just folded the paper in half, tucked it into her back pocket, and nodded.

Andy waited for a time. He let the sound of the surf fill the space between them, then placed his hand gently on Riley’s shoulder. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away.

“You’re not alone,” he said. His thumb traced a small, grounding circle on her jacket, and the gesture felt more real than any words could have. “Whatever you’re carrying—about Laura, about John, about the baby—you’re not the only one.”

Riley laughed, a raw, bruised thing. “You’re not the one who sent her to that bridge. That was me. I told her to confront you there, and I thought—” Her voice caught. “I thought it would fix everything. But she died, and because of me.”

Andy shook his head. “She made her own choice, Riley. You may have suggested the bridge, but it was Laura’s idea to go in the first place. She always did what she wanted, no matter what anyone said.” He felt Claire lean against him, silent but fierce, as if adding her own weight to his words.

He looked at Riley, waited until her eyes met his. The words were hard to say, but Riley needed to hear them. “You didn’t push her in. It wasn’t your jealousy that killed her. It was hers. That was a piece of her that I loved and that I hated, too. It belongs to both of us, but it doesn’t define either of us.” He exhaled, steady. “I won’t hold it against you. And you shouldn’t hold it against yourself.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the wind and the distant laughter from the bonfire. Riley looked away, jaw clenched so tight her teeth must have ached.

“I can’t bring back what you lost,” Andy said softly, sadly. “Not John. Not your son. I can’t even imagine how that feels. But I can tell you what I’ve seen, here. The elimination transformations, the cruelty. How they hollow women out, how the world doesn’t let them keep the parts that make them human.” He let that hang, knowing how it would sound.

“Maybe I’m selfish, but I don’t want to lose anyone else. Not when I can do something about it.”

Riley’s chin trembled. She closed her eyes, as if shutting out the world, then opened them again, the rage in her gaze replaced by something rawer—fear, maybe, or hope.

He squeezed her shoulder. “What I’m saying is, you can stay. You can be a part of this. I don’t know what it’ll look like, or if it’ll even work, but you don’t have to survive alone anymore.”

He looked down at Claire, who still gripped his arm. “Neither do any of us.”

Claire swallowed, then let go of Andy just long enough to retrieve her notebook again. She scribbled furiously, her hand shaking, then thrust the page at Riley.

This time, the message was longer. Riley read it, voice hoarse as she spoke the words aloud.

I never lost like you did. Not really. But I always felt alone. Like I was made to stand on the other side of the glass, and just watch other people get to live. I never thought I’d have anything close to a family.

She looked up, tears returning, but **** herself to keep reading.

I’m on the spectrum, she read, the words slow and careful. I always thought it meant I couldn’t be… like other people. But then I got here, and Andy was here, and it was so weird, and so hard, but for the first time I wasn’t broken, or wrong. It was just different. The other women—they made room for me. They treated me like I was just Claire, not a problem to be solved.

Riley’s hands shook as she held the note. I have a family now. I have sisters. And Andy. And it’s not perfect, but it’s real. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

She finished, then looked at Claire, her eyes searching. The catgirl took a step forward, shoulders hunched, and offered her hand, palm up.

Riley stared at it as if it might bite her. But Claire waited, patient and unblinking.

Andy, emboldened, extended his own hand—one on each side of Riley, flanking her in the moonlight.

It took a long time, but eventually, Riley put her hand in Claire’s. The touch was uncertain at first, but Claire’s grip was strong, anchoring. Andy covered both their hands with his own, sealing the circle.

Riley tried to say thank you, but the tears made a mess of it. She pressed both hands to her face and sobbed, body shaking so hard she nearly doubled over. Andy caught her, pulling her into his arms, and this time Riley didn’t fight it. She clung to him, the way a drowning person clings to anything solid. Claire pressed in on the other side, her head resting against Riley’s shoulder, the circle complete.

Riley didn’t release them for a long time. Maybe she couldn’t. Andy felt the shake of her shoulders, the tension as she tried to wrestle herself back together. She wasn’t light, but she was all muscle and angular bone, and she clung so hard his own ribs started to ache. Still, he kept his arms around her, letting her take whatever she needed. Claire, small and silent, wrapped in on the other side, one hand flat on Riley’s back, her tail coiling a little tighter every time Riley’s breathing hitched.

When the tears slowed, Riley peeled her hands from her face and let out a laugh—half-strangled, but real. “Shit,” she croaked, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Sorry for the mess.”

Andy snorted. “I’ve seen worse at this party.”

Claire, wordless, reached up and brushed the streaks from Riley’s cheek with the back of her hand, careful and soft. It surprised Andy to see her so unguarded—usually Claire hesitated before any touch, even from him—but now she seemed to know exactly what was needed. Riley blinked, then managed a watery smile.

They stayed that way for another minute, letting the surf and the wind be their audience. Andy didn’t push for words. He could feel, in the way Riley’s body slowly uncurled from its defensive posture, that some of the weight had shifted. Maybe not gone, but no longer something she had to hold by herself.

Finally, Riley straightened, rolling her neck with a click, and stared at the horizon. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll call the producers and tell them you violated the Code of Conduct.”

Andy shrugged. “I’ll add it to the pile of other threats. Wouldn’t be the first time. Besides, they’d just run it in the next promo.”

“Assholes,” Riley muttered, but the word had lost its bite.

Claire opened the notebook to another page. This time she wrote quickly, then tore the page and gave it to Riley. Riley turned it over, squinting at the precise handwriting.

You get to stay, the message read. That’s the rule.

Beneath it, in smaller print: If you need someone, you can call me. If you need to not talk, we can just sit.

Riley snorted, then closed her hand around the boat. “Thanks, Catgirl. You’re all right.”

Claire’s mouth curled in a shy smile, and she nudged Riley with her elbow—a gesture that was probably meant to be casual, but which Andy recognized as a full-on declaration of trust.

They started back up the beach together, the wind pushing them toward the fire. Riley kept her hands shoved deep in her pockets, head low, but every once in a while she’d glance sideways at Andy or Claire, as if to check that they were still there.

As they reached the party, the sounds grew louder and brighter: Emi’s wild six-armed gesticulation, the cackle of Norah and Marissa arguing over the merits of different “post-mortem” cocktails, Chloe’s syrupy giggle as Dawn tried to teach her how to whistle with her fingers. The warmth of the fire hit them even before the light did, and Andy watched Riley’s shoulders un-hunch just a bit more as she stepped into the circle.

It happened so naturally that no one remarked on it: Marissa, always alert, slid over on the bench to make room for Riley, patting the space beside her with a warmth that Andy suspected she reserved only for the most battered souls. Emi, spotting Riley from across the fire, called out, “Welcome back, Red!” and shot her a thumbs-up, four of her hands at once.

Riley paused, then took the seat beside Marissa, stretching her legs toward the flames. She didn’t say much—she almost never did—but when Sam tossed a fresh beer across the circle, Riley caught it in one hand, popped the tab, and gave an acknowledging salute.

Andy felt a presence at his side, and turned to find Claire looking up at him. She reached for his hand, squeezing it once, then looked away toward the fire. The gesture spoke volumes.

He watched as the group recalibrated, every woman adjusting her orbit to accommodate the change: Liesa, smiling and sketching Riley’s profile with a bit of charcoal; Emily, sliding over to squeeze Riley’s other arm in a wordless show of support, then retreating as if the moment had never happened; Chloe, rolling herself up in a blanket and shuffling closer until her hip touched Riley’s. Even Norah, who had been in full blast-mode minutes before, quieted, tipping her chin in Riley’s direction as if to say, Yeah, you’re good.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke and melting marshmallows. Someone had dragged out a speaker and was cycling through a playlist of “girl power” anthems—Claire’s tail thumped in time with the bassline, and even the stoic Marissa tapped her foot.

Andy was so caught up in watching the group, he almost missed the moment Riley spoke.

“Hey,” she said, voice pitched low for Andy and Claire alone. She hesitated, then added, “Thanks. Both of you.”

Andy shrugged. “Family stuff.”

Claire nodded, eyes shining in the firelight.

Riley glared. “Slow down, now.” But there was no venom in her voice anymore.

The conversation drifted on—inside jokes, bad stories, the kind of talk that only makes sense at three in the morning and only if you’ve survived something together. Riley didn’t join in much, but she never once stepped away, not even when the topic turned, with dark humor, to “The Worst Paintball Hits of All Time.” Instead, she leaned into Marissa’s shoulder and closed her eyes, letting the voices wash over her.

Andy sat with Claire tucked under his arm, both of them content to watch the others. He caught Arabella at the edge of the lawn, her silhouette sharp against the lamplight; she offered him a tiny nod, and then was gone.