Written in the Night, Part 3

By midnight, the party on the beach had relaxed into smaller fires and the lull between songs, the drone of conversation a long way from the water’s edge. Emily Allen picked her way down the slope, leaving behind the laughter and the high, bright chaos of the group. She found a patch of cold, damp sand just above the tideline and sat, drawing her knees up, hair falling in a straight gold-pink sheet over her arms and thighs. With every breath, the night air and salt and memory settled into her bones.

Andy gave her a minute—maybe two—before he followed. He made a point of scuffing his steps in the sand, not wanting to break whatever spell she’d conjured for herself. When he reached her, he didn’t say a word. Just sat, a careful three feet to her left, the way you did when a wild animal needed time to decide if you were safe.

The only sounds were the sea and the distant snaps of the bonfire. The moon hung low and orange over the water, and from here, the shouts and laughter up the beach sounded like they belonged to a different world.

After a while, Emily spoke. “You don’t have to sit with me. I know it’s supposed to be a party.”

Andy shook his head, then remembered she couldn’t always see his face through the veil of her hair. “You’re not the only one who needed a break,” he said. “Besides, the party follows you, if you haven’t noticed.”

She let out a breath that was almost a laugh, then propped her chin on her knees. “I think you’re confusing me with Emi. Or maybe with Sam. I’m just the—” She trailed off, searching for a phrase. “—the ghost in the corner, usually.”

Andy didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up a shell from the sand, turned it over in his palm, then tossed it into the foam. “You know, I remember seeing you on Leah’s season. Just a couple of episodes, after it all started. Even then, you weren’t a ghost. You were the only one who ran toward trouble.”

She went still at that, surprised.

Andy shrugged. “Most people, when they see a bunch of riot Mildreds crash the gallery, their first instinct isn’t to sprint toward the fire. Or to try to drag someone out of the way.” He angled his body toward her, just a little. “You’re a lot more visible than you think.”

Emily buried her face in her knees, then snuck a look sideways. “You watched Leah’s season?”

“Arabella gave Claire viewing privileges,” he admitted. “I might have watched a few episodes after you got here.” He meant it as a compliment, but Emily’s face went red anyway, the blush blooming down her chest in the moonlight. Her hair, as if on cue, slipped forward to cover her breasts completely, a perfect shield of gold and pink.

“I never watched any of it,” she said. “Not after what happened with Jake. I just… didn’t want to see what I looked like. What I did.”

Andy nodded. “I get that. But if you ever change your mind—” He paused, searching her face for permission. “You should know, you come across as brave. And kind.”

Emily smiled, small. “Thanks,” she said, her voice soft. She played with a strand of hair, winding it around her finger. “It’s weird. In the moment, I never thought about being brave. I was just… terrified, I guess. And then afterward, I was too embarrassed to think about anything else.”

Andy hesitated, then said, “Is it the—” He gestured vaguely at her, meaning the transformation. “Or is it something else?”

She laughed, a quick, nervous sound. “It’s definitely the transformation.” She looked down, then back up at the horizon. “It’s the way people see me. Or the way they don’t.”

“Can I ask you something?” Andy said, and she nodded, eyes still on the water.

“What was it like—” He fumbled for the right words. “—going through all that, and then having to do it again? Here?”

For a long time, Emily didn't answer. The waves filled the gap, rhythmic and hypnotic. Finally, she said, "The first time around, I was Jake's girlfriend. I thought that meant something." Her voice caught. "Leah said the audience would hate me just for being with him. That they'd tear me apart unless she 'helped' me." She stared at her hands. "Hannah—his ex—she got to be angry. I got to be... compliant. Like I needed to be fixed to be loved."

Her words faded, but the undertow in them was sharp and real. Andy remembered how she’d moved in the heist: not like a sidekick, but like someone who knew exactly what she was risking, and chose it anyway.

He reached out, just barely brushing his hand against her wrist. “You don’t have to be better for me,” he said. “You just have to be yourself.”

She blinked, eyes wet but not from tears. “You sound like Marissa,” she said, managing a laugh.

“Is that an insult?”

“Only if you start charging by the hour,” she teased, then sobered. “But it’s hard. Being seen. Every time someone gives me an order, a big part of me just… wants it. I know that’s supposed to be the transformation, but sometimes it feels like the only time I’m real.” She looked at him, for real this time, hair parted over her left eye. “Does that make sense?”

Andy nodded. “A lot of sense.” He thought of his own compulsions—the way he sometimes needed to be needed, or to fix things, even when nobody asked. Maybe everyone was built with a hunger that felt like weakness until someone named it, and then it was just a part of you.

Emily hugged her knees tighter, shivering once in the cold. Andy slid a little closer, close enough to feel the warmth rolling off her skin. He resisted the urge to drape his arm around her shoulders—she didn’t seem like the type who liked sudden moves.

Instead, he said, “If you ever want to talk about it, or not talk about it—” He let the offer hang.

She smiled at him, soft and open. “Can I ask you something, too?”

“Of course.”

She turned to face him, the sand shifting under her. “Did you know, when Marissa ordered me to move in the gallery, and I did, I actually—” Her face went scarlet, and she hid behind her hands. “Never mind.”

Andy grinned, but kept his voice gentle. “You got aroused?”

Emily giggled, then nodded, still hiding. “Yeah. Not all the way, but… yeah. It was stronger than an order normally is. I mean, it’s not the same as with you.” She peeked at him through her fingers, eyes wide and shining. “That’s still different.”

Andy felt the words in his chest, electric and grounding at the same time. “Marissa’s ASMR transformation must have interacted with yours. But… how is it different?”

She dropped her hands, finally. “With you, it’s not just the command. It’s that you know I want it. Even when I don’t say it.” She blushed again, but didn’t look away. “It’s like you’re not making me do anything. You’re just… letting me.”

Andy brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, and the touch sent a shiver down her spine. “I never want to make you do anything,” he said. “But if you want me to—”

She nodded, almost frantic. “I do. I want you to.”

He cupped her cheek, thumb tracing the arc of her cheekbone. The fire from the party flickered behind them, but here, at the edge of the world, there was only this: the hush of waves, her breath, his hand on her skin.

Emily leaned into him, her whole body vibrating with anticipation. Her hair slipped forward, framing her face, and her lips parted just a little.

Andy whispered, “Sit up straight for me.”

She obeyed, the motion so instinctive it was almost a reflex. Her back straightened, her shoulders pulled back, and the hair fell in perfect curtains over her breasts and thighs, leaving her face completely visible. Her eyes locked on his, pupils huge in the darkness.

He smiled. “You’re beautiful,” he said, and her breath caught.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he could see the way the praise lit her up from the inside. She looked down, then back up, a tiny smile playing at her lips. “Can I…?”

He nodded, not sure what she meant, but ready for anything.

Emily slid across the sand until their knees touched. She put her hand over his, palm to palm, and the world narrowed to the heat between them. “I’ve never felt this safe,” she said. “Even when I’m scared.”

Andy squeezed her hand, and she shivered again.

“Can I tell you something weird?” she said, her voice trembling.

He nodded.

“Every time I did what you asked, even the little stuff, it felt like—” She searched for the word. “Like a promise. That you’d still want me. Even if I couldn’t say no.”

Andy’s heart broke and healed at the same time. “It’s not weird,” he said. “It’s the opposite of weird.”

She exhaled, relief flooding her face. “Good,” she said. “Because I want to keep doing it.”

He kissed her, then—slow, gentle, and so soft it felt like a secret. She melted against him, her body surrendering in stages: first her lips, then her hands, then the whole of her, leaning until she was half in his lap. Her hair, true to its magic, stayed in place, covering her everywhere but her face.

The kiss broke, and she rested her forehead against his, both of them breathing in time with the tide.

For a long time, they just sat like that. No words. No need.

Eventually, Andy pulled back, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Ready to go back to the fire?” he asked.

Emily shook her head. “Not yet,” she said. “I want to stay here, just a little longer.”

He nodded, and they stayed, the world narrowing to the sound of their breathing and the hush of the waves, the firelight far away and unimportant.

The bonfire had settled into a long, slow burn, sending up the occasional shower of sparks when someone stoked it, but the real heat tonight was further down the shore. Chloe and Dawn sat side by side on an ancient driftwood log, shoulders touching, their knees up and bare feet dug into the cool sand. Each clutched an empty patch satchel on her lap—a badge of honor, really, after what they’d survived. The firelight caught the dried streaks of aphrodisiac paint still sticking to the fabric.

Andy spotted them from halfway down the beach, their hair lit by the orange glow and the sharp white flare of the occasional torch. He took his time crossing, the sand soft and chill under his feet. As he drew near, Chloe saw him first. She nudged Dawn with her elbow and flashed Andy the sort of smile you only managed when you were deeply tired but happy down to your bones.

“Is it safe?” Andy said, meaning the air, or the night, or maybe just the mood.

Dawn grinned. “We did our sweep. The perimeter’s secure.”

Chloe cradled her satchel, then held it out to him. “All empty,” she said, her voice still a little raspy from earlier. “We even triple-checked.”

Andy perched on the log beside them, careful not to take up too much space. The log was cold and a little damp, but it didn’t matter: next to Chloe and Dawn, everything felt warm. He glanced at their hands, then at their faces. “I hope you know what you did last night,” he said, not as a question but a kind of praise.

Dawn looked away, a little bashful, but Chloe grinned even wider. “We weren’t exactly on the front lines,” Chloe said, her tone half-joking but half-defensive. “Mostly we just… patched people up. Tried not to faint.”

“You did more than that,” Andy said, and Chloe blushed, the pink starting at her ears and working all the way down her neck.

Dawn interjected, her smile soft. “It’s true, Chloe. I would’ve lost it if you weren’t there.”

Chloe giggled, then glanced at Andy, almost shy. “I’m pretty sure you only thought that because I was shaking so hard, the patches stuck faster.”

Andy couldn’t help but laugh. “Whatever works,” he said, and the words seemed to put them both at ease.

Dawn lifted her hands, palms up. “I still can’t believe how many we went through.”

Chloe nodded. “I kept counting down in my head. Five left, then three, then two, and every time I thought, what if someone needs one and I don’t have it?” She looked at Andy, earnest. “It’s scary. Wanting to save everyone, but knowing you can’t.”

Andy put a hand on Chloe’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to let her feel it. “You did save everyone. Every time you patched someone, you gave them another shot. That’s hero stuff.”

Chloe’s eyes went wide, she flushed with crimson, and she buried her face against Dawn’s arm, muffling her squeal. Dawn looked at Andy, eyebrows up. “Careful,” she said. “If you keep saying things like that, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

Chloe surfaced, still grinning. “I can’t help it. I’ve never been a hero before.” Her voice was light, but there was a shine in her eyes that suggested maybe she’d never even let herself consider it.

Andy gestured at the patch satchels. “You wore them like a medal.”

Dawn glanced at her own, then at Chloe’s, and started to laugh. “I guess we kind of did.” She reached over, then hesitated before peeling one of Chloe’s hands free from the satchel and interlacing their fingers.

“Best badge I ever earned,” Dawn said.

Chloe’s face went pink again, but she squeezed Dawn’s hand back, then turned to Andy. “Do you want to see something gross?”

Andy snorted. “Always.”

Chloe fished around in her patch bag, then pulled out a small, crumpled mass of wrappers—each one tinted with the residue of whatever mix the last healing patch had contained. “This is what’s left of my confidence,” she said, deadpan, then lobbed it at Andy’s lap. It bounced off his thigh and landed in the sand, where he examined it like a rare artifact.

“Looks like bravery to me,” he said, tossing it back.

Dawn laughed, then lifted her other hand, displaying her own wrapper collection. “We should have Mildred make us a trophy,” she said. “Best Support Team.”

Andy grinned. “You’d deserve it, hands down.”

For a minute, the three just sat there, letting the night settle. The party sounds faded, replaced by the hush of the surf and the faint crackle of the bonfire. Chloe leaned into Dawn, resting her head on the other woman’s shoulder, and Dawn tilted her head to rest on top of Chloe’s. Andy found himself a little envious of their comfort, the way they fit together so perfectly.

He watched the moon cast white stripes across the black water, then said, “Seriously. I couldn’t have picked better people to keep the others safe.”

Dawn’s eyes glistened, and she smiled at him, small but so real. “Thanks, Andy. That… means a lot.”

Chloe, face still half-buried in Dawn’s sleeve, let out a soft hum of agreement.

Andy looked at their joined hands, the way the blue gel had stained their skin, the patch satchels now lying together on the log. “Did it ever get easier?” he asked, curious.

Dawn shook her head. “Not really. The first patch, I was all adrenaline. By the fourth, my hands were shaking so bad.”

Chloe giggled, then mimed the moment: Dawn, hands trembling, Chloe wrapping her own hands around Dawn’s, both trying to line up the patch on Liesa’s arm. “It was like playing Operation with a live wire,” Chloe said, and the memory made them both dissolve into giggles.

Andy laughed, then asked, “What about the time you almost dropped one?”

Chloe’s cheeks flared. “Oh god, I thought I’d die. I was about to slap a patch on Claire, and this Mildred just pops out from behind a display case. I lost all motor function for, like, five seconds.” Chloe grinned, then nudged Andy with her elbow. “Next time, I want a less dramatic job.”

Andy looked at them both, then said, “I think you did exactly what you were meant to do.” He paused, then added, “And you made it look easy.”

Dawn squeezed Chloe’s hand, and Chloe burrowed even closer into Dawn’s side. They didn’t say anything for a while, just let the night and the company wrap around them.

Eventually, Dawn looked at Andy and said, “You know, I always thought I’d be the one who needed saving.” Her voice was small, but strong. “Tonight, I felt like I actually made a difference.”

Achievement Unlocked! (Dawn) Center of the Storm +5 VP

Andy nodded. “You did.”

Chloe chimed in, “We did.”

They sat like that, the three of them, for a long time. Just listening to the water, and the sound of laughter up the shore.

The night was deepest at the edge of the fire, where the heat barely reached and the dark pressed in from all sides. Sam and Liesa sat together on a low bench, shoulders bumping every time one of them shifted. They hadn’t spoken for a while. The hush between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t quite easy, either. The challenge was over, but the aftershocks weren’t.

Andy saw them from a distance: Liesa’s head down, her hands knotted together in her lap; Sam sitting upright, jaw set, the blue-white flames flickering across her cheekbones. He gave them a minute—maybe two—before closing the gap and crouching on the far side of the fire, so the three of them formed a triangle, all lines and angles and shadows.

Liesa looked up as he sat. Her face was streaked with salt and maybe a little soot, her eyes swollen from crying earlier. She opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind, then tried again. “Sorry,” she said, the word small and shy. “Still getting used to… everything.”

Andy nodded, not to rush her. Sam glanced at him, gave a half-smile, then dropped her eyes to the fire. Her hand, though, found Liesa’s and covered it, palm to palm.

“I never thought it would be this hard,” Liesa whispered. “In my head, I always imagined I’d be—” She shrugged, a quick, helpless gesture. “Brave. Or at least not the first to fall apart.”

Sam squeezed her hand, not letting go. “You didn’t fall apart, Waffle. You just… had a moment. Everybody does.”

Liesa shook her head, frustrated. “But I was supposed to be better, this time. I promised myself.” She looked up at Andy, eyes shining with anger and something else. “But when it started, I couldn’t even move. I just froze. And if it hadn’t been for Sam…” She trailed off.

Andy didn’t let her finish the spiral. “You kept going,” he said, his voice even. “Even when you were scared out of your mind. And you helped, a lot. That’s better than brave. That’s real.”

Liesa flushed, but didn’t look away. “It didn’t feel like enough.”

Andy thought about how she’d moved in the museum: terrified, yes, but also sharp, watchful, never missing a thing. He said, “You know, I always thought courage was doing something hard when nobody’s watching. But I think it’s harder when everyone is.”

Sam chuckled, low. “He’s right. Half the time, I was just winging it. It’s like—” She made a vague gesture at the flames. “You just fake being brave until you run out of fake, and then what’s left is you.”

Liesa blinked, surprised. “You seemed so sure.”

Sam grinned, her mouth lopsided. “That’s the trick, isn’t it? Nobody’s really sure. You just go with it.” She nudged Liesa with her shoulder, gentle. “And if you need to fall apart, you do it with someone who can put you back together.”

Liesa’s breath shuddered in her chest, but her hands relaxed, the tension draining out finger by finger. “Is that how it works here?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Andy shrugged. “Pretty much. Or at least, we try.”

For a long minute, the three watched the fire. Liesa’s head came down to rest against Sam’s shoulder, her eyes half-closed, her breathing steady. Sam stroked her thumb over the back of Liesa’s hand, back and forth, like a metronome.

“I’m sorry, too,” Sam said suddenly, voice a little thick. “For before. For doubting you.”

Liesa shook her head. “You had every right. I would have, too.”

Sam’s grip tightened, not rough, but insistent. “That doesn’t mean I want to stop trying.”

Liesa looked up at her, then at Andy. “I want to try, too,” she said, the words a whisper but clear. “I want to do better.”

Andy reached across the fire and tapped the toe of Liesa’s shoe with his own. “I think you already are,” he said.

Liesa gave a shaky laugh, then covered her face with her free hand. “You always know what to say,” she said, muffled.

Sam snorted. “That’s his superpower. He’s a walking fortune cookie.”

Andy rolled his eyes, but took the jab in stride. He watched the way Liesa’s fingers peeked out from behind her palm, the way Sam never let go of her hand, not even when she laughed.

“You’re both ridiculous,” Andy said. “But I mean it. You’re not alone in this.”

Liesa lowered her hand, and for the first time that night, she really looked at Andy. The firelight caught the green in her eyes, made them burn bright and alive.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was small, but it didn’t waver.

Sam shifted, pulling Liesa in close, so they leaned together, side by side. “He’s right, you know. We’re all a mess, but at least we’re a mess together.”

Liesa nodded, her hair falling forward in loose, messy braids. “I’ll earn it back,” she whispered. “The trust. The second chance.”

Sam kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to earn it, Liesa. Just show up.”

Liesa managed a laugh, and this time, it didn’t sound like she was about to cry. “Okay. I’ll show up.”

They sat in silence for a while, the three of them, letting the fire warm the places that needed it. Liesa’s hands never left Sam’s and Andy’s, and when she finally looked up, it was with a softness and a resolve Andy hadn’t seen in her before.