Marissa's Night (IV)

The elevator doors parted to reveal Marissa and Myra waiting in the hall, their silhouettes thrown into soft focus by the Suite’s indirect lighting. Marissa stood tall and still, arms folded behind her back in a gesture of deliberate composure. Myra, by contrast, was nearly folded into herself, fingers clutching Marissa’s arm so tightly the skin went white at her knuckles. Her blind eyes stared a few inches past Andy’s head, searching for orientation in the shifting currents of the hallway. The sight of the two of them—one confident, one plainly terrified—was enough to anchor Andy in the moment.

He stepped out. “Hey,” he said, letting his voice go low and warm, as if greeting an anxious animal. “You made it.”

Myra loosened her grip on Marissa, not letting go entirely, but relaxing enough to suggest she’d heard him. Marissa’s lips twitched in a micro-smile, her blue eyes sweeping over Andy with clinical calm. “We did,” Marissa said, and her voice did that thing again: the more she spoke, the more Andy felt a pleasant, creeping heat suffuse his face and chest. “Thanks for inviting us up.”

The words caught Myra off guard. She blinked and made an awkward, abortive attempt at a wave with her free hand. “Wait,” she said, “I thought this was your—” She stopped, mouth twisting as if uncertain which direction to face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to crash your night. I can—uh, I can just wait back in the bedroom if you want.”

Marissa untangled herself gently from Myra’s hold, then set a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I wanted you here, Myra. We both did,” she said, glancing at Andy for confirmation. “You’re not intruding.”

Andy nodded, watching Myra’s fox ears flick with the effort of parsing the moment. “You’re welcome here,” he said, and surprised himself with how easily the words came. “Come in. Both of you.”

Inside the Suite, the mood shifted. The dusk was honeyed and lazy; the window showed only the faintest outline of surf and moon. Marissa set her shoes down by the door and, with practiced grace, led Myra to the nearest armchair. She guided Myra’s hand to the back of the seat, then let her go with the caution of someone handling rare glass.

Andy followed, hands in his pockets, and crouched by the arm of the chair so Myra could sense his proximity. “How are you holding up?” he asked, pitching the words low, almost a whisper.

Myra shrugged, which set her tail swishing around her legs. “Still here. That’s about it.” She made a vague gesture with both hands, then seemed to regret it and folded them in her lap. “Honestly, I thought I’d be more useful if I just stayed out of the way tonight.”

“Not a chance,” Andy said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Myra snorted, faint but audible. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew my plans for the evening.”

Marissa raised an eyebrow, settling onto the edge of the sofa with a grace that looked effortless. “Oh? Do share.”

Myra’s face twisted into a sheepish smirk. “I was going to lie on the bed and see if I could identify every distinct night sound through the glass,” she said. “Figured I’d see how long it took before I fell asleep.” She tapped her temple. “It’s more challenging when you don’t get to use sight.”

Andy let out a short, genuine laugh, then glanced to Marissa, who was smiling with her eyes. “What about food?” Andy asked, knowing Myra’s history of skipping meals. “You eat recently?”

Myra hesitated. “Maybe?” Then she sensed the undercurrent in the silence, and she amended: “No. Not yet.”

Andy rose. “We’re fixing that. We can cook something together, all three of us, if you want.”

Myra looked suddenly wary, like a guest who’d been asked to play piano at a party and wasn’t sure whether it was a joke. “You… want to cook? With me?”

Andy shrugged, letting his own nerves go loose. “Only if you’re up for it. It’s supposed to be fun. Or at least edible.”

Marissa said, encouragingly, “We can make something together. Andy'll be the chef. We’ll follow his lead.” Myra’s ears swiveled to focus on Marissa’s voice as if she were the only safe port in the storm.

The look on Myra’s face, in that moment, was pure terror—then, unexpectedly, she nodded. “Alright,” she said, a little shaky. “But if I burn down the Suite, you’re taking the blame, Marissa.”

Marissa grinned. “Deal.”

They moved as a group into the kitchen, a modern expanse of stone and steel and soft-edged lighting. Andy took the lead, opening the fridge and narrating what he found. “Eggs. Plenty of vegetables. Feta. Meat. Some kind of pre-cooked brown rice. This could go either way.”

Myra stood just outside the island’s reach, hands feeling the edge of the counter, her tail coiled for balance. Andy set the ingredients in front of her, then gently placed her hand on the carton of eggs. “We’re making whatever this turns into,” he announced.

Marissa leaned against the opposite counter, arms folded, watching with the careful attention of a practiced observer. “Want help cracking eggs?” Andy asked, and when Myra nodded, he stood beside her and tapped an egg against the rim of a bowl. He guided her hand to repeat the motion, then let go.

She cracked the egg perfectly, the whites spilling into the bowl with a satisfying plop. “You’re underselling my skill set,” Myra deadpanned.

“Never again,” Andy said, and meant it.

They kept going—Myra breaking eggs, Andy spinning the bowl and narrating each next step. When they reached the knife, Andy hesitated. “Okay if I help with the spinach?”

Myra’s lips quirked. “I’m not that helpless, but… yeah. Please.”

He set her hand on the handle, then covered it with his own. “It’s a ceramic blade,” he said, “so it cuts with almost no pressure.” Together, they sliced through the leaves, slow and measured. Marissa’s eyes followed every motion, the faintest smile playing on her lips.

Once the spinach and feta were ready, Andy fetched a nonstick skillet and guided Myra’s hand to the knob on the stove. “Here,” he said. “You control the flame.”

She turned it with a deft twist, then paused, ears flicking. “I can feel the heat,” she murmured, more to herself than to them.

He poured in a splash of oil and let Myra swirl it, then added the spinach. The sizzle filled the air, the aroma sharp and green. Andy handed her a wooden spoon, and she stirred, tentative at first, then more sure.

He mixed the eggs and feta, then poured them into the pan, keeping a hand on Myra’s elbow to steady her. “You’re doing great,” he said, and felt Marissa’s smile behind him.

The three of them hovered by the stove, talking in quiet tones. Marissa chimed in occasionally, but never took over. She let Andy guide, let Myra take control, only stepping in to adjust the burner or to offer a suggestion. It felt less like teaching and more like a hand-off—each person providing what the others needed, nobody dominating.

At one point, Myra fumbled with the pan, nearly tipping it, but Andy caught her wrist and righted the skillet without making a fuss. Marissa stepped in, turned the flame down, and said, “That’s the trickiest part. But you adapted.”

Myra laughed, tension easing out of her spine. “I guess I did.”

They plated the finished scramble onto three plates, the kitchen now full of the homey, bright scent of herbs and egg. Andy poured orange juice; Marissa found utensils and napkins. They migrated from the kitchen to the dining table, bringing with them the scents of warm egg, feta, and wilted greens. The plates steamed. The surface of the juice sparkled with condensation. In the hush of the Suite, the table felt both comically large and perfectly suited to three people sitting shoulder to shoulder.

Myra took the end seat, her back to the window, hands braced on either side of her plate as if anchoring herself against a strong tide. Marissa, across from her, rested her chin in one palm, her attention fixed on Myra with a gentleness that bordered on reverence. Andy sat between them, closer to Marissa but turned toward Myra.

The first few bites were a quiet affair. Myra ate with slow, cautious movements, pausing now and then to orient her fork or confirm the boundaries of her plate. Andy made a point of not looking away, but also not staring, letting her get comfortable in the silence.

It was Marissa who broke the ice. “What did you do today?” she asked, voice feather-light, as if the question might dissolve before it reached its target.

Myra chewed, swallowed, then shrugged. “Not much. Walked the gardens for a bit. Tried to avoid getting run over by Dawn when she ran past me. Listened to the sounds of the Bamboo Grove.” She hesitated. “Then Chloe roped me into a project. We spent a couple hours tying ribbons… making cookies, I mean.”

Andy watched the flicker of Myra’s tail beneath the table—a subtle, restless sweep that betrayed her nerves. She was leaving something out, he could tell, but Marissa didn’t push.

Instead, Marissa said, “Sounds like a full day.”

Myra’s ears flicked up. “For most people, maybe. For me, it’s more like…” She groped for the word. “Proof that I’m still here?”

Andy nodded. “That counts for a lot.”

There was a lull. The room, even with all its square footage and views, seemed to collapse in around them, just for this moment. Myra glanced in Andy’s direction, but her eyes never quite settled on him. “What about you?” she said, making an effort. “How’s the Suite life?”

Andy nearly answered with a joke, but something about the earnestness in Myra’s question made him pause. “It’s better when people visit,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s just me and the ghosts.”

Myra’s mouth twitched. “I thought you only got those if you died here.”

He grinned. “Well, the way Liesa tells it, I’m about one more woman with unfinished business away from a full haunting.”

Marissa’s laughter, low and honest, rolled over the table.

The warmth of it drew Myra in. Her shoulders loosened; her tail, for a few heartbeats, stilled. For a few minutes, the conversation spun like that: small, manageable exchanges, never pressing too hard. Marissa made it her mission to keep the spotlight off Myra’s blindness, redirecting with clinical precision whenever a topic brushed up against it.

When Myra tried, a little awkwardly, to turn the attention back to Marissa, Marissa was disarmingly open. She talked about her sister, Sarah, and the time they tried to bake a cake for their mother’s birthday and ended up with a “lava disaster.” She told the story about the residents in her first hospital job who pranked her by putting glitter in her lab coat’s pockets (“I looked like a disco ball for months,” she confessed).

Through it all, Andy played the anchor, never steering the conversation, but never letting it drift too far into the dangerous waters of confession or self-pity. He watched Myra’s posture loosen, the way she started using her hands to punctuate stories, or the way she’d laugh without apology when Marissa volleyed back with a smart-ass retort.

After they’d cleaned their plates and set the dishes aside, Marissa stood and stretched, her silhouette long in the yellowed light. “Let’s move to the living room,” she suggested. “I have something for us.”

They drifted to the couch, Myra trailing just behind Marissa, her tail brushing the carpet with each step. Andy hit the lights to a lower setting, so the room glowed soft and diffuse.

Marissa fished the remote from the table, tapped through a few menus, and soon the Suite filled with the gentle snap of old jazz. “Found the one playlist in this place that isn’t trying to sell me sex,” she said, dropping onto the cushions next to Andy.

Myra settled on his other side, then shifted as if unsure where to put her hands. Andy reached out, set his palm over hers, and squeezed once. She stilled.

They sat like that, the music curling around them, until Marissa said, “So, Myra. I have a question.” She angled her body, making it clear the floor was hers.

Myra nodded, unsure.

Marissa continued: “The fox tail. Does it help with balance, or is it just for show?”

Myra blinked, caught off guard by the question’s bluntness. Then she laughed. “Both, I guess? At first I thought it was just a joke. Like, an embarrassment thing.” She flexed the tail, letting it drape over her lap. “But now? If I’m being honest, it helps. A lot. I can use it to brace myself, or know when someone’s standing behind me. It’s… comforting, in a weird way.”

Marissa grinned. “I figured as much. It moves with your mood, too. Did you know?”

Myra shrugged. “I suspected. Chloe says it’s like an ‘emotional barometer.’” She made a mock-serious face. “I’m not sure I want to know what it says about me.”

Andy smiled. “It says you’re honest,” he offered.

Myra rolled her eyes, but her ears blushed at the tips.

They talked for a while, Marissa steering the conversation through safe harbors and deeper waters alike. She asked about Myra’s old job—“What’s the best thing about being a hospitalist?”—and about her hobbies (“I used to run,” Myra said, “but these days it’s mostly walking and failing at crosswords”). She even asked what Myra missed most about her old life, and when Myra answered (“The noise, mostly. And street food.”), Marissa didn’t gloss over the loss—she let it sit, then found a way to brighten it up with a quick story from her own residency.

The jazz hummed beneath the words, easy and loose.

As the hour slipped by, Andy watched Myra start to fade. It was subtle at first—the way her answers slowed, the way her hands curled into her lap instead of gesturing, the way her head would dip, then snap upright as if she’d dozed for half a second. Marissa noticed too, and instead of calling her out, she just kept talking, lowering her voice a bit, letting the pace stretch and thin.

At one point, Myra leaned sideways, shoulder bumping Andy’s. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “not used to staying up this late.”

Andy squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to apologize. You did more than enough today.”

Myra smiled, a soft, sleepy thing. “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe I did.”

She let her head rest against his shoulder, and within a few minutes, her breathing had deepened, the tension in her frame unraveling completely. Marissa shifted, draping an arm along the top of the couch, her body angled to watch both Andy and Myra as if protecting them from anything the night might try to bring.

The music played on. Andy closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hush expand around them, letting himself be lulled by the steady in-and-out of Myra’s breath and the warmth of Marissa’s presence.

It was Marissa who first noticed Myra was fully out. She glanced at Andy, nodded toward the sleeping fox, and mouthed, “Should we move her?”

Andy took a second to weigh the pros and cons of waking her. Ultimately, he decided the least humiliating route was to just lift her gently. He eased an arm under Myra’s knees, the other cradling her shoulders, and stood with the care of someone hoisting an overfull glass of water.

She didn’t wake all the way, but as he turned toward the bedroom, her eyelids fluttered. “I can walk,” she muttered, but made no effort to do so.

Princess carried by the Master! +1 VP

He grinned. “I know. But this way I get to say I carried a fox girl to bed.”

She made a sound—a half-groan, half-laugh—then went limp again, her head falling against his chest. He carried her through the darkened Suite, past the kitchen and down the short hall to the master. He could hear the slow, even drag of her breath, the way it hitched just a little on every exhale. Marissa followed, pausing only to pull back the covers with a single, practiced sweep.

Andy set Myra down, careful to arrange her limbs so her tail wouldn’t get trapped. She curled up instantly, hands fisted under her cheek, the tip of her tail resting against her nose like a breathing mask. He tucked the blanket around her, and as he turned to leave, she mumbled, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crash your date.”

He crouched, close enough for her to hear but not so close as to wake her fully. “You didn’t crash anything, Myra. We’re both glad you’re here.”

She smiled, eyes still shut. “Okay. Thanks for being nice.”

He brushed a stray hair off her forehead and stood. “Anytime,” he said, and meant it.

He closed the bedroom door to a soft click, then leaned back against it, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The hush of the Suite was different now—not empty, but peaceful.

When he returned to the living room, Marissa was waiting for him. She sat on the couch, knees drawn up, her dress hiked up her legs and showing an expanse of thigh, her hand holding a glass of red pensively. The lighting was dialed down to a pale, golden blur; her hair caught it, framing her face like something out of a Caravaggio. She looked up at Andy, and for the first time all night, there was no shield between them. Just a woman, her feelings worn plain.

He crossed to her and sat, their knees brushing. They said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly, Marissa reached over, threading her fingers through his. “You’re really good with her,” she said.

Andy blinked. “She makes it easy.”

Marissa shook her head. “No. She doesn’t. She’s scared of needing people. You make it safe for her.”

He shrugged. “You did most of the work tonight.”

Marissa leaned into him, pressing her lips to his jaw, her breath warm on his skin. “Maybe,” she murmured. “But I wouldn’t have tried if you hadn’t started it.”

He turned, their faces inches apart. Her eyes were blue and searching, but softer now, the intensity folded back like a favorite blanket. He cupped her cheek, and she closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. “You okay?” he asked, meaning more than just tonight.

She nodded, a tiny motion. “I like who I am, when I’m with you,” she whispered. “It’s easier to be honest.”

He kissed her then, slow and thorough, not rushing anything. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she pulled herself closer, her body folding into his with a deliberate, hungry grace.

The heat that had been simmering all night finally surged. She let him peel off her dress, and drew his hands to her chest, guiding him as if teaching a private lesson. Her skin glowed in the golden haze of the Suite. Her breasts, freed from the confines of fabric, were soft and warm against his palms, her nipples always taut and impossibly sensitive—her transformation working in real time, judging by the way she arched under his touch.

He took his time, not just because he wanted to savor it, but because he felt, in every part of himself, that this was not a race. It was a conversation—one in which silence was not awkward, but necessary. He kissed down her neck, along her clavicle, tasting the salt and electricity of her skin. Marissa gave a shaky, delighted laugh, as if surprised by her own boldness, her hands reaching up to her breasts and kneading them for him, squeezing them, showing him her impossible cleavage and reveling in the outcome. Marissa's First Taste transformation was in full swing, mirroring Andy's desire, and she knew how to stoke it; their movements were a dance, both riding the crest of their shared pleasure, and Marissa felt joy in knowing she could not control this, that the scale of her arousal depended only on Andy.

Played with boobs in front of Master! +2 VP

He bent to kiss her collarbone, then lower, the arc of her breast sliding under his lips. She inhaled, sharp and involuntary, and Andy felt her hand tighten on his hair, not painfully but with a desperate certainty—don’t stop, don’t look away, don’t go. He took her nipple in his mouth, gentle first, then with a mounting pressure. Marissa gasped, all her practiced restraint burning away in an instant. It wasn’t just physical; it was years of control shattering in one hot, electric line down her spine. She arched into him, shivering at the sensation.

She had always controlled the pace, the narrative. Here, she gave it up, and in the surrender found herself more alive than she’d imagined possible. Andy traced her, not just with lips and tongue but with hands: the flat of her belly, the small of her back, the inside of her thigh, which twitched under his palm like a muscle learning to remember pleasure. She made a low sound—half laugh, half moan—and buried her face in his shoulder, biting hard enough to leave a mark. He felt the same raw freedom, the unleashing of need without apology.

Marissa’s hands were everywhere, greedy but never clumsy. She tugged his shirt over his head, running her fingers over his muscles. She studied him as if memorizing a rare text, smiling at each detail she found. She liked the way his ribs flared under his skin, the way his neck tensed when she ran a nail along the hollow beneath his ear. She kissed him with her whole body, wrapping her legs around his waist, drawing him against her until there was no room for distance, only the honest press of skin and the promise of hunger.

He wanted to say something—some clever, defusing joke, an honest confession—but the words fled the second she reached down and unfastened his belt, her movements economical, practiced, almost ceremonial. He felt helpless in her orbit, and it was, strangely, not humiliating but right. He let her strip him, piece by piece, until they were both bare and exposed, not just in flesh but in the tenderness that lingered in silence.

For a time they did not rush. They lay together, her head in the crook of his arm, their thighs tangled, breath synched by the slow, tidal hush of the jazz spilling from the speakers. Andy found himself wanting to tell her a hundred things—that she was seen, that she was safe, that she could be herself and he would never turn away—but Marissa seemed to know, because she looked up and caught his gaze, and in her smile was every answer he might have tried to give.

Then she rolled him gently to his back and sat up, straddling his hips, her hair falling across his chest like a silken net. She traced his sternum, then lower. Her touch was electric, and when she eased herself down onto him, she held his eyes with an intensity that demanded he not flinch from the moment. She moved slow, deliberate, as if teaching herself the shape of her own desire. There was no improvisation, no need to please or be pleased—just the mutual, building ache of two people finding the center of something neither had words for.

He let her ride him, let her have the control she needed, and the way she moved—grinding, rocking, sometimes stuttering when the pleasure crested too strong—made Andy want to give her every last scrap of power he had to offer. She bent low, hair falling to either side of his face, and whispered things in his ear that he could barely make sense of, sentences that didn’t need grammar because her body finished every thought. She wanted, she needed, and every time Andy reached up to touch her—lower back, flank, the soft underside of her breast—Marissa shivered and pressed closer, greedy for the next sensation.

They changed positions more than once. Marissa guided him on top, hooking her ankles behind his knees and daring him to move faster, harder, until the only thing that existed was the point of contact between their bodies. When he slid his hands under her ass and lifted her, she laughed, delighted and unguarded, and threw her head back, eyes closed, mouth open to whatever wild sound came out.

She dug her nails into his back, leaving arcs of red, and Andy welcomed the pain—it was real, alive, and gave shape to the pleasure that threatened to drown them both. She said, “Don’t stop,” and “Hold me,” and “Yes,” and he obeyed, not because it was expected but because he wanted nothing else in the world.

When he thought he was close, she surprised him by shifting again, pulling him down to the rug, rolling over to her side so they could face each other as they moved together. They held eye contact, unwilling to let go, as if something essential might be lost in the breaking. He saw her then: the way her mouth trembled, the pink flush of her chest, the shine of tears at the corners of her eyes that had nothing to do with pain.

When she came, it was not a single event but a series of tremors, body clenched and shaking, and she bit down hard on his shoulder, leaving a bloom of bruised heat that grounded him in the here and now. He came just after, his whole body tensing as if to fuse with hers, and for a long time neither of them moved, except for their heartbeats, frantic and overlapping.

The world returned slowly. The jazz had given way to a softer, threadbare harmony, barely audible over the hiss of their own breath. Marissa’s hair was plastered to her cheek, her makeup a memory. She blinked, laughed once, and then burrowed into the crook of his arm, her hand spread over his chest as if holding him in place. Andy let his own hand rest on her hip, feeling the aftershocks of pleasure pulse through them both.

They lay there, not speaking, for what felt like hours but could only have been minutes. The city outside—if there even was a city—disappeared. The Suite receded into soft light and the tangled imprint of their bodies on the rug. The only thing that felt truly real was the quiet that followed.

Eventually, Marissa shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. She studied Andy’s face, tracing the curve of his jaw, the shape of his mouth, as if she’d never seen it before. There was a question in her eyes, but she didn’t voice it. Not yet.

Andy was the first to move, rolling them onto their backs side by side, breathing in tandem. He glanced over and grinned, unable to help himself. “You know,” he said, “I think we might have just set a record for the world’s slowest undressing.”

Marissa barked a laugh, her old self surfacing for a moment. “You’re impossible,” she said, but there was no sting in it. She leaned in to kiss him again, slower, softer, the kind of kiss that says thank you as much as please, more.

They might have drifted off then, but neither wanted to break the spell. Instead, they lay together, legs tangled, the simple, animal comfort of skin on skin enough to hold the night at bay. He traced the slope of her waist, the hollow at the small of her back, the delicate flex of her thighs. She responded to every touch, every shift, with the kind of focused abandon Andy had only ever read about in novels. Before they knew it, he knelt between her knees and pressed his mouth to her breast, and she shivered—not in surprise, but able to let go.

She pulled him on top of her, legs wrapping around his hips. Their bodies fit together easily, like they’d practiced this a hundred times in another life. He could feel her pulse, frantic and wild, wherever his skin met hers.

They took their time, changing positions, exploring without hurry. She rolled him over, pinning his arms above his head, and kissed down his chest until he thought he might break apart from wanting her. She said, “Don’t let go,” and he didn’t.

When it happened again—when she drew him in, slow and sure, and gasped at the fullness—there was nothing else in the world. Just Marissa, her head thrown back, her breath a chorus of yes, yes, yes, her hands raking his shoulders as if to mark him for later.

It was not frantic or wild, but deliberate, a mutual building and unbuilding, each of them holding the other’s gaze as if daring the other to look away first. When she came, she bit his shoulder, hard enough to bruise, and the feeling of it—the pain, the closeness—sent him over the edge a second later.

After, they lay on the rug, limbs tangled, breathing as if they’d run a marathon together. Marissa curled into his side, her hair a damp halo against his chest. “You know what I want?” she asked, voice so low he barely heard it.

“Tell me,” he said, stroking her back.

She hesitated, then: “I want to keep this. Not just tonight. All of it.” She looked up at him, vulnerability shining in her eyes. “I want to see where it goes.”

He kissed her forehead. “Me too.”

They lay there in the dark, the only light the moon’s reflection in the window. When Marissa drifted off, Andy stayed awake a while, thinking about how strange it was—how unexpected—that he could feel so full and so empty at the same time.

Eventually, he roused himself, knowing they’d regret sleeping on the rug. He gathered Marissa in his arms and carried her to the bedroom, where Myra still slept, curled and quiet.

Princess carried by the Master! +1 VP

He set Marissa gently on the bed, then slipped in beside her, leaving a respectful gap so Myra wouldn’t wake in a panic. But as he settled, Myra rolled over, blindly seeking the warmth of another body. She pressed her forehead to Marissa’s shoulder, tail looping over both their legs, and let out a long, contented sigh.

Andy watched them for a while, two women so different and so alike, each finding peace in the presence of the other. He felt something settle inside him, a hush that was not loneliness, but the opposite.

He closed his eyes, letting the warmth carry him away.

---

He woke to the sensation of drowning. Not the messy, thrashing kind from movies, but the real thing: pressure closing in around his ribs, lungs cinched and burning, vision full of green-brown darkness. He was under the river, the water dense as syrup, and in the tangle of light above him, a small, pale hand reached down, stretching for him with fingers spread wide.

Laura. He tried to swim to her, but the harder he moved, the further away she drifted, hair billowing like black smoke. Her mouth formed his name, but he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t reach her, not even close.

Andy thrashed awake, back arched and mouth open. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The only light in the room was the faint electric blue of the clock, a numberless promise that it was always too late or too early. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead.

He lay there, forcing his breath slow, and tried to piece together the boundaries of his body. The sheets had come loose, pooled at the foot of the bed. There was a warm pressure on his right side—the subtle scent of Marissa’s skin—and, as his eyes adjusted, he saw the outline of her face turned toward him, hair a pale mess on the pillow. She was out cold, her lips parted in the gentlest snore he’d ever heard.

On his other side, something pressed against the length of his thigh. Andy turned his head and found Myra curled there, fetal, her head nestled against his shoulder, and her fox tail wrapped in a tight spiral around her own knees. He realized, with a start, that sometime in the night she must have gotten up, walked around to the other side, and climbed in just to be close to him.

He lay there for a while, letting the hush of the Suite soothe him back into his skin. Myra’s tail gave a lazy flick, then settled; Marissa’s arm slid across his chest, heavy with sleep. He watched the slow rise and fall of her shoulder, and thought about all the ways the night could have gone, all the things that might have happened if he’d made different choices. For once, he didn’t wish it had gone any other way.

He let his hand rest on Marissa’s arm, feeling the cool smoothness of her skin. He traced the faint blue vein at her wrist, the tiny pulse beneath it. He looked at her: not as the therapist or the expert or the mystery, but just as a woman—beautiful, flawed, as tired as he was, and not hiding it.

He pulled her close and closed his eyes, hoping to drift off again. For a while, he floated in that half-dream state, suspended between the world and whatever lay beneath it.

He dreamed he was back at the river, but the water ran thick as oil, black and viscous against his skin. Laura's hand shot up from beneath the surface, fingers clawing desperately, nails scraping his wrist as he lunged for her. On the far bank stood a figure, no longer half-hidden but fully revealed in terrible clarity. The man's face was hewn from granite, each line carved by age. His beard jutted like a weapon, obsidian-black and pointed enough to draw blood. he leaned against a tree, and when he smiled, his teeth gleamed like tombstones. His eyes—God, his eyes—burned with such ferocious triumph that Andy felt the heat sear across the water.

The river surged suddenly, not just pulling at Andy's ankles but wrapping around his calves like hands, dragging him down with violent purpose. He thrashed wildly for Laura, her fingers now just centimeters from his, while the bearded man's laughter boomed across the water, each echo hammering into Andy's skull.

Andy tore awake, sweat-drenched and gasping, his heart battering his ribs like it might break free. Total darkness pressed against his eyes. He froze, paralyzed, the phantom sensation of those watery hands still clutching his legs.

But the face of the man lingered. The coal-black beard. The fire in his eyes.

Andy turned onto his side, found Marissa and Myra both curled into him, and let the hush of their breathing anchor him. He tried to focus on the simple reality of the bed, the quiet, the certainty that neither of them was going anywhere.

He stared into the dark until the shape of the dream dissolved. But he didn’t sleep again, not for a long time.