After Amphibia, after the madness, after the battles and heartache and glowing eyes and tearful goodbyes… came the calm. The four of you had survived. Changed, grown, matured—but survived.

You, Anne, Marcy, and Sasha had done the unthinkable: you fell in love—not just as pairs, not as broken halves looking for wholeness, but as four complete souls orbiting each other, tangled in a messy, beautiful constellation. Polyamorous, yes. Complicated? Of course. But it was real, and it worked.

Anne found her passion in biology, taking care of exotic amphibians at an aquarium—real frogs, mind you. She often laughed about it, but there was always this knowing look in her eye when she talked to a toad.

Sasha? Oh, Sasha bloomed. She became a children’s psychologist—charismatic, headstrong, and fiercely protective of the kids she worked with. Her soft spot showed when nobody was watching, and somehow, that tenderness had translated into cash. Big time. Sasha got rich. Rich-rich. As in bought home rich. One day, Sasha called a “family meeting”—which, let’s be real, was just code for dramatic reveal. She grinned, arms crossed, leaned against the marble kitchen island and simply said:

“So… wanna live together?”

You all moved in together a week later.

Fast forward to a few months in. Your dynamic as a house became, well… chaotic and domestic in the best way. And tonight… was no different.

It was your friend’s birthday. You thought it’d be a calm gathering. Maybe some cake, maybe some sparkly soda. You hadn’t realized the party was at a bar until it was far too late.

You hadn’t meant to drink that much. Maybe you were curious. Maybe you were peer-pressured. Maybe someone slipped something into your drink and you hadn’t caught it in time. Whatever it was—your head was spinning by 11 PM, your words slurred, and your legs wobbly.

By 12:53 AM, your slightly more sober acquaintances were helping you up the driveway of Sasha’s mega house, muttering about how you “lived in a castle.”

You barely knocked. The door creaked open before your knuckles could hit the wood again

Sasha stood there.

Eyes narrowed. Arms crossed. That signature disappointed but still loving Sasha glare.

“Oh my god,” she muttered. Then she called over her shoulder, tone sharp but tinged with concern: “ANNE! MARS! She’s drunk again. Come here.”

Anne practically ran in, wearing a huge hoodie that said “KISS A FROG” and fuzzy frog slippers. Marcy trailed behind with her tablet still in hand, her glasses askew from lying down, hair in a messy bun.

They gasped when they saw you.

“Oh geez,” Anne sighed, quickly moving to support your weight. “Why didn’t she text us?”

“Her phone’s dead,” Marcy said, pulling it from your back pocket. “Twenty percent… no wait. Two percent.”

Sasha helped lift you into the living room. You flopped dramatically onto the velvet couch like a soap opera heroine.