Dawn's Night (II)

That evening, after a brief meeting with Sam for her daily hug and to temporarily pass on Dawn’s transformation focus, Andy found himself organizing the kitchen in the Master’s Suite for no good reason except that the clutter was starting to bother him. While everything was magically restocked and put away evey day while he was out of the Suite, Mildred (he assumed it must be her) just seemed to toss everything in without care for organizational methods. He’d just lined up the cutting boards from largest to smallest when he heard the clear chime and soft whoosh of the elevator door and the sound of footsteps—heels, he guessed, then reconsidered after the first few steps. They weren’t the staccato rap of Marissa, nor the brisk tread of Sam. These were almost careful, as if the owner was determined not to disturb anything.

He opened the fridge and peered inside, then pretended he hadn’t heard anything until the gentle knock on the kitchen island. He turned and found Dawn standing on the other side, hair in a tight ponytail, a small cloth bag dangling from her wrist.

“Hey,” she said, a little too bright.

“Hey yourself,” Andy replied. “You’re early.”

She checked the clock hanging over the kitchen wall, then flushed. “I guess I am.” She stepped in, holding the bag in front of her like an offering. “I, um… I brought stuff. I thought maybe we could cook together?”

Andy smiled. “I’d love that. I was just about to make an extremely mediocre pasta.”

She grinned, relief visible in the set of her shoulders. “Can I use your kitchen?”

“You’re welcome here,” Andy said, clearing space on the counter.

Dawn set the bag down and pulled out her tools like a magician with a new set of tricks. First, a battered notebook, its edges worn and several pages dog-eared. She thumbed it open to a page with neat, precise script, then started unpacking ingredients: a bundle of fresh cilantro, two fat onions, a small plastic tub of saffron, and a brick of arborio rice. From deeper in the bag came a vacuum-sealed pouch of chicken stock and, impossibly, a wedge of aged Manchego, carefully wrapped.

She glanced at Andy, a question in her eyes. “I was thinking paella, but I can switch to risotto if you prefer. Both work, but the paella is…” She hesitated. “It’s kind of my signature.”

Andy leaned against the counter, arms folded. “I have zero opinions except I want to watch you work. There are shrimp in the fridge, if you want.”

Dawn flushed again, but this time with pride. She pulled her hair tighter and scanned the kitchen. “Do you have a big skillet? Or a paella pan?”

Andy rummaged under the stove, eventually producing a heavy cast-iron pan. “Will this do?”

Her smile was answer enough.

They started in comfortable silence, Dawn moving with the quiet confidence of someone who had made this exact dish a hundred times. She chopped onions with a surgeon’s precision, the knife thumping rhythmically on the board. Andy, determined not to get in the way, hovered at the edge of the island until she finally nudged a second onion toward him.

“Want to help?” she asked.

“Only if you show me how you do that thing,” Andy said, gesturing to the even dice of her onions.

Dawn explained, step by step, guiding his hands with her own. Her fingers were smaller than his, but when she set them atop his knuckles to correct his grip, he could feel the strength in them. He tried to follow her lead, but his pieces came out rough and uneven. She didn’t laugh, just swept his pile in with hers and moved on to the next step.

As they worked, the kitchen filled with the sharp sweetness of sauteed onion, then the metallic edge of saffron as Dawn steeped a few pinches in hot water. The chicken stock simmered, sending up clouds of steam that fogged the windows. Andy wiped his hands and leaned in to watch her stir the rice.

“My abuela said never to rush the sofrito,” Dawn said, voice low. “She’d stand over the pot for an hour if she thought it would taste better.”

Andy watched her hands, the way she coaxed the onions and peppers into caramelizing, never letting them stick or scorch. “Is this her recipe?”

Dawn nodded, not looking up. “I wrote it down when I was twelve. She let me make it on my own once I got the rice just right.” Her hands slowed, the wooden spoon tracing lazy circles.

Andy set the table, trying to pretend he hadn’t seen the tightness in her jaw. “Did you cook together a lot?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She sprinkled salt, then let her hands rest on the edge of the counter. “Every summer. My dad worked overtime, so I’d stay at her apartment in Berwyn. She had a tiny balcony with three tomato plants, and we’d make fresh sauce for dinner. She’d say, ‘we don’t need to be rich, mija, we just need to eat together.’” Dawn smiled, but it flickered at the edges. “I think I believed her. Still do, I guess.”

Andy opened the oven, checked the bread, and turned back to see Dawn’s eyes shine with an unspilled tear. She blinked it away, focusing on the pot.

“She’d be proud of you,” Andy said, voice gentle.

Dawn’s lips trembled, but she swallowed hard and kept stirring. “She passed away last year,” she said, so quietly Andy almost missed it. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. I was working. My dad called, and by the time I got to the hospital she was already gone.”

Andy stood there, helpless in the way only grief could make him. He wanted to reach out, to fix it, but knew there was nothing to fix. So he did the only thing he could: he moved beside her, close but not crowding, and rested a hand on her shoulder.

Dawn let her head fall forward. She didn’t cry, not exactly, but she exhaled in a way that said everything about the weight she carried.

“I make this,” she said, “whenever I miss her.” She smiled, watery, but real. “It’s like she’s here again, just for a minute.”

Andy squeezed her shoulder. “I get it.”

She looked at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nodded. “I lost someone, too. And for a long time I did nothing but replay the last day, over and over, looking for something I missed. But sometimes… it’s easier just to remember the good things. Like spending time together, or bad jokes, or the way she’d always pick the shittiest TV show just to annoy me.”

Dawn laughed, a sound that was half relief, half gratitude. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, the moment passing but not vanishing.

“Thank you,” she said. “For letting me do this here.”

“Thank you for sharing it,” Andy replied. “Best cooking date I’ve ever had.”

She grinned. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

They finished the last steps together, Andy adding stock on command, Dawn tasting and correcting as needed. When the rice was perfect, she let it rest, then sprinkled fresh parsley over the top.

They sat at the small kitchen table, plates steaming between them, the kitchen aglow in the warmth of the oven light and the gold of the overhead fixtures. Dawn poured two glasses of cheap white wine, and they clinked them together in a silent toast.

The first bite was perfect. The flavors were simple, but the care was obvious. Andy savored it, then said, “Your abuela knew what she was doing.”

Dawn beamed, a pride in her posture that wasn’t there when she arrived. “She’d have liked you,” she said. “You’re good at listening.”

Andy shrugged. “You’re easy to listen to.”

They ate in companionable silence, the night settling around them. Outside, the ocean was a low rumble. Inside, the kitchen still carried the ghost of saffron and onion, of stories told and not yet told.

As they cleared the table, Dawn looked at Andy with a new softness. “Can I ask you something weird?”

He dried a plate and set it aside. “Weirder than the past week?”

She smiled, then shook her head. “No, not that weird. Just… would you mind if we sat together a while longer? I know there’s the whole ‘Master’ thing, and the dating, but I just… I just could use the company.”

Andy poured another glass and set it in her hand. “As long as you want.”

Dawn tucked her feet beneath her on the bench, the recipe book open beside her. She ran her finger along the handwriting, then looked up at Andy, eyes bright in the oven’s glow.

“Thank you,” she said again, and this time he could tell she meant more than just the food.

The meal dwindled. The plates, once crowded with golden rice and pan-seared chorizo, were now scattered with smears of saffron and a constellation of parsley flakes. The only light in the suite came from a fat candle Dawn had placed at the center of the table, its flame just tall enough to cast their faces in moving gold. The world outside the windows had gone navy blue.

Dawn toyed with her fork, tracing circles in the sauce. “Sorry again,” she said, the words meant to be light but coming out as a small defeat. “I don’t usually unload on people like that.”

Andy, who was watching the flame and not the food, said, “You didn’t. You shared. There’s a difference.”

She smiled at him, soft and real. “You’re good at that too. Making things sound less terrible than they are.”

He considered that, then shrugged. “It’s just a matter of practice. I used to be awful at it.”

Dawn set her fork down and folded her hands together, a nervous energy still humming under her skin. “Do you ever get tired of it?” she asked. “Like, the whole… being on all the time. Being what people need you to be?”

Andy didn’t answer immediately. He thought of the string of jobs he’d had, the endless pitch meetings, the “Master” persona Arabella expected of him, the parade of women who looked at him as if he might solve something in their lives just by being present. He thought of the times he’d tried to set the armor aside, only to find himself raw and unsteady.

“Yeah,” he said, finally. “All the time.”

Dawn’s shoulders dropped, the relief in her posture a silent confession. “Me too,” she whispered. “I think that’s why I’m here. I was always the one who made people feel welcome, made everything look easy. But then my abuela died, and I just… I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

She took a breath, picking her words with care. “My mom passed away when I was fifteen. Stroke. My dad… kind of fell apart after that. I was the oldest, so I raised my brothers. Paid the bills, finished school, ran the house. I didn’t mind, not really, but it got to a point where I didn’t even remember what it felt like to just—be me.”

Andy listened, not moving, letting the silence stretch enough for her to fill it if she wanted.

“When my abuela got sick, she told me to stop worrying about everybody else. To find someone who saw me, not just what I could do for them. I laughed and said that was impossible, but…” She looked at him, candlelight dancing in her eyes. “I guess she was right.”

Andy said, “I see you.”

Dawn looked down, hiding a smile. “You say that to all the contestants?”

He smiled, a little. “Just the ones who make killer paella.”

For a few minutes they just sat, the hush between them not uncomfortable at all. Andy watched the wax pool around the candle base, the way the light flickered over Dawn’s cheekbones. He thought of the first time he saw her, the way she smiled at the front desk of the Harrington, making him feel like he belonged somewhere, even if only for a night.

He wondered if he’d ever made anyone feel that way.

Dawn broke the quiet. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

She hesitated, then: “Was it hard for you to talk about her? The girl you lost?”

Andy’s breath caught. He hadn’t planned to mention Laura tonight. He’d gotten good at containing the story, packing it away like a spare battery, present, but never in use. But Dawn’s grief had coaxed the ghost of that story out of him, and here, with the candle and the hush that surrounded them, he decided to let it out. Dawn deserved to know.

“She was my best friend,” he said, slow and careful. “We grew up together, did everything together. She was the first person I ever loved, even before I knew what that meant.”

Dawn’s eyes didn’t leave his face.

“She… died saving me,” he said, and the words were less heavy than he expected. “I was thirteen. We got into an argument, I tried to stop her from walking away, but I slipped on the bridge and fell in. The water was freezing, and she jumped in after me without even thinking. She got me to the shore, but the current…” He stopped, the memory so sharp it made his hands shake under the table. “She was gone before I could even call for help.”

Dawn didn’t say anything. She just reached across the table and rested her hand on his, warm and steady.

“I spent years thinking it was my fault. That if I’d just let her go, or been stronger, or a better swimmer, she’d still be alive.” He took a breath, letting the air out slowly. “It never goes away, but… you get used to it. You learn to live with the missing piece.”

Dawn squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”

Andy smiled, small and honest. “You don’t have to be. It’s just… life.”

The candle guttered, and Dawn fished in her bag for a lighter. She relit the wick with a practiced snap, then leaned back, the momentary darkness now banished.

“My dad used to say, ‘if you have to pick between being sad or being useful, pick useful.’” Dawn looked at her hands, the nails bitten short. “I guess I got really good at being useful.”

Andy thought about the way she’d moved through the kitchen, her need to please everyone, her joy at seeing him enjoy the food. He saw, with new clarity, how much of her life had been spent trying to fill the empty spaces left by other people.

He said, “You don’t have to be useful here.”

Dawn looked at him, ****. “Then what am I supposed to be?”

He shrugged. “Just… you. That’s enough.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling.

“I think it’s scary, not having something to hide behind,” Dawn admitted. “I never learned how. And I don’t know… who I am, without that.”

Andy raised his glass. “To being scared, then. You’re not alone anymore, Dawn. We are together.”

Dawn clinked her glass to his, and the sound was sharp in the quiet. “Together,” she echoed, then drained it in one long sip.

The rest of dinner faded, but the candle burned brighter, the shadows on their faces less harsh now. The table between them was a battlefield of crumbs and empty glasses, but neither cared.

Telling Dawn about Laura had relieved Andy. He didn’t feel haunted. And, judging by the way Dawn laughed at something stupid he said about candlelit dates, maybe she didn’t, either.

They cleared the table, side by side, moving slow, not eager to end the night.

As they rinsed the plates, Dawn said, “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to someone taking care of me.”

Andy handed her a towel. “That’s okay,” he said. “There’s not even just me. The others… we’re all in this together, aren’t we? We can figure it out together.”

She looked at him, the challenge and the hope mingled in her eyes, and for a moment the world shrank to just the two of them, the flicker of the candle, and the soft music from the lobby, barely audible through the thick suite walls.

Dawn folded the towel and set it aside. “I think I’d like that,” she said.

Andy smiled.

The aftermath of the meal was as intimate as the cooking: two bodies in the hush of the master suite, shoes off, music low, the couch more refuge than furniture. The candle had burned down to a stub, its light flickering against the window, while a bottle of wine stood open on the table, sweating faintly in the room’s warmth.

Dawn curled up beside Andy, toes tucked under her, glass cradled in both hands. Her eyes were tired but clear, and her voice, when she spoke, was the quietest it had been all night. “I don’t even know why I’m nervous now,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Andy shifted, letting his arm fall naturally behind her. “If you’re nervous, I’m nervous. That’s the rule.”

She smiled, then let herself lean sideways until her shoulder was pressed against his chest. They sat for a time in the comfortable dark, the only sound the low croon of some old jazz record—Claire’s pick, probably, judging by the sultry meow of the trumpet.

After a while, Andy said, “Can I ask you something kind of… personal?”

Dawn’s breath caught, but she nodded. “Go for it.”

He took a moment, not wanting to rush the words. “How does it feel, the transformation? The… Gentle Servant thing. I know it’s not really your personality, but—”

She cut him off, softly. “It’s not as bad as it was. I actually… I upgraded it last week. So now it’s not a compulsion. It’s more like—” She searched for the word. “A notification. If you need me, I know. But I can ignore it if I want.”

Andy considered this. “That sounds… healthier?”

Dawn laughed, the sound vibrating through his ribs. “God, yes. I was losing my mind before. Like, imagine having a little alarm go off in your brain every time someone sighs or mutters or even looks like they might want a coffee refill.”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was that intense.”

“It’s not your fault.” Dawn set her wine down and shifted to face him. “Honestly, it’s kind of a relief now. I get to choose. If I want to help, I help. If not, I can just… be. And don’t think I didn’t realize you passed it on to Sam for tonight.” She smiled. “Thank you.”

Andy nodded, then reached for her hand. “I want you to know, you don’t have to do anything for me. Not unless you want to.”

She squeezed his fingers, then looked up at him, eyes searching. “What if I do want to?”

He smiled. “Then you should.”

For a second, neither moved. The moment stretched, then snapped as Dawn leaned in, her lips barely brushing his. It was a cautious kiss, but Andy met it with equal gentleness, letting her set the pace.

When they parted, she drew a shaky breath. “That wasn’t out of obligation,” she said. “Just so you know.”

“I believe you,” Andy replied.

The next kiss was longer, slower, and when Andy pulled her closer, Dawn climbed into his lap, the tension gone from her shoulders. She ran her hands along his jaw, tracing the stubble, then let her head fall to his shoulder.

They kissed until the world outside disappeared, and when Andy eventually broke away, it was only to rest his forehead against hers. “You’re really good at this,” he said.

Dawn blushed, then said, “I’m kind of making it up as I go.”

He laughed. “Sounds good to me.”

The wine softened everything. Dawn pressed her cheek to his neck, breathing him in, and let her fingers explore the line of his collarbone, the slope of his back. Her hands were steady, but there was an edge of hunger in her touch that surprised them both.

Andy leaned back, inviting her weight against him. She followed, shifting until they were tangled together, her legs draped over his lap, his hands finding the small of her back.

She whispered, “Can we go slow?”

He nodded, and guided her to the bedroom, leaving the candle and the city of dirty plates behind.

They stood by the bed, just looking at each other, neither sure who should start. Andy ran his thumb along the line of her jaw, and Dawn closed her eyes, letting herself be held for a long moment before she spoke.

“I haven’t done this a lot,” she admitted, voice small. “I’m not a virgin, but it’s been… years. And it was never like this.”

Andy held her, gentle and patient. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

She shook her head, eyes shining. “I want to. I just don’t know how to be… normal about it.”

He laughed, relieved. “I’ll follow your lead. We can be awkward together.”

She smiled, then let her hands drop to the hem of her shirt. “Will you help me?” she asked.

Andy helped her undress, slow and careful, letting her decide the speed. When he pulled his own shirt over his head, she looked at his chest with a curiosity that bordered on reverence, tracing the old scar near his ribs with a fingertip.

“I like your body,” she said, then flushed at her own bluntness.

Andy grinned. “I like yours, too.”

Dawn stripped to her underwear, then hesitated. “Should I…?”

Andy cupped her face in his hands. “I told you. Only if you want.”

She nodded, then unclasped her bra, dropping it to the floor. Her breasts were small but perfect, the nipples a dusky rose. She shivered, not from cold, but from anticipation.

He traced her shoulders, then kissed her collarbone, moving slow, giving her time to adjust. She let him, arching into his mouth, and when his lips found her nipple, she gasped, clutching at his hair.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

She nodded, too breathless to answer.

Master touched her boobs! +2 VP

They moved to the bed, Dawn climbing atop him, her hair falling in a dark curtain around their faces. She kissed him with more urgency, her hands exploring his chest, his arms, his stomach. When she reached the waistband of his boxers, she hesitated again.

Andy covered her hand with his. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

She bit her lip, then eased the boxers down, freeing him. His cock was already hard, and she looked at it with a mix of awe and uncertainty.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” she whispered, trying to keep it light.

He laughed, then kissed her. “That’s the general idea.”

Dawn’s fingers lingered at the waistband of Andy’s boxers, teasing along the elastic, and he felt her breath catch in the hollow air between them. The candle on the nightstand guttered, throwing a trembling gold across her hair and illuminating the sheen of sweat beginning to gather at her collarbones. She had a look of wide-eyed disbelief, as if this moment could not possibly be real, and yet she was the one undoing him, drawing the thin cotton down with reverential caution.

Her hand was cool and a little shaky as it brushed him for the first time, her palm wrapping around his shaft with the tentative awe of someone handling a newborn animal or a priceless artifact. Andy’s heart hammered, but he kept himself still, letting her explore at her own pace. She stroked him, first with featherlight touches, then with growing certainty, her gaze darting between his face and his body as if to check whether she was doing it right. When he couldn’t suppress a low, involuntary gasp, a flush of pride colored her cheeks and she gave a delighted, disbelieving laugh.

Touched Master’s penis! +2 VP

Dawn was focused now, her attention narrowing to the sensation of him in her hand. She traced the ridge of his glans, her thumb circling experimentally, her other hand bracing on his thigh. She watched his reactions as if she were conducting a science experiment, adjusting her grip, her rhythm, pausing every so often to look up at his face with unfiltered curiosity. Andy realized that, for all her nerves, she was enjoying the process of learning him—his responses, his pleasure, and her own effect on him.

He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, and she smiled at him, radiant and a little shy. Then, with a sudden burst of confidence, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, her hand never leaving his cock, and the kiss was all heat and hunger and the promise of more.

Dawn broke away, breathless. “I want you,” she whispered, her voice small but firm. She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her panties and wriggled them downward, baring herself with a clumsy, giggly grace. Her body was soft and strong all at once, her curves accentuated by the half-dark, and she straightened to straddle him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. She paused for a second, then reached down and guided him to her, positioning the tip at her entrance.

For a moment, she hesitated, lost in the enormity of it. Then, biting her lip, she lowered herself onto him, inch by cautious inch. The sensation was a shock—hot and urgent and overwhelming—and she gasped, her hands clamping tight to Andy’s forearms for support.

She stayed like that, filled but motionless, getting used to the feeling. Andy fought the urge to move, to thrust up into her, and instead just held her steady, rubbing slow circles into her waist with his thumbs. “You’re okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, eyes closed in concentration, and after a few breaths, she began to move—tentatively at first, rocking forward and back, then growing bolder as the discomfort faded and pleasure took its place. Andy watched her face transform, the initial grimace melting into a look of wonder, like someone discovering color for the first time.

“Oh my god,” she said, half-laughing, half-crying, her voice rough around the edges.

Andy’s hands found her hips, guiding her, but always letting her choose the pace. She leaned into it, bracing herself with both hands on his chest, riding him in slow, unhurried waves. Each downward stroke brought a soft moan from her, and Andy was struck by how raw and honest it was—none of the **** pornographic theatrics of his previous experiences, just a direct line to what she was feeling.

The pace quickened as her confidence grew, and Dawn’s fingers dug into his skin, leaving red marks in their wake. Her hair fell forward in a tangle, hiding her face, but he could hear every gasp and whimper, every whispered “yes” as she moved. Andy pulled her forward, wrapping his arms around her back and crushing her against his chest, and she shivered at the closeness, the sweat and breath mingling where their bodies met.

They kissed again, sloppy and ****, and Dawn, overwhelmed by sensation, began to laugh. “I can’t believe this is really happening,” she said, her voice tremulous with joy and disbelief, and Andy just smiled and kissed her harder, savoring the wildness of it.

Dawn’s movements grew erratic, less rhythmic and more needful, and Andy realized she was close, maybe even closer than he was. She ground against him, hips swiveling, and suddenly her whole body went rigid, her head thrown back and mouth open in a silent cry. The orgasm hit her in surges, each wave leaving her more boneless than the last, and she collapsed onto his chest, panting and giggling.

Had sex with the Master! +5 VP

She stayed there, breathing shallow, her cheek pressed to the sticky warmth of his shoulder. “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” she whispered, and Andy stroked her hair, laughing with her. “That was—” She couldn’t find the word, so she squeezed him tightly.

Andy kissed her temple. “You’re amazing,” he said, and he meant it.

She rolled off him, shivering in the cool air, then reached out and took his hand. “Do you want to… finish?” she asked, shy again now that the rush had faded.

Andy nodded, and Dawn propped herself up on one elbow, watching him with rapt attention. He began to stroke himself, but Dawn, emboldened by her own climax, stopped him and took over. Her hand was assured now, knowing what he liked, and her eyes never left his face as she worked him with slow, steady strokes.

“Is it okay?” she asked, and when he nodded, she redoubled her efforts, focusing on the head, milking him with practiced curiosity. Andy felt the tension gather, the imminent loss of control, and Dawn must have read it in his expression because she grinned and pumped faster.

He came with a grunt, the hot spill catching on her hand and streaking his stomach. Dawn let out a surprised laugh, then, without hesitation, wiped him clean with a tissue from the nightstand. She inspected her hand, then looked up at him, grinning. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said.

Handjob! +3 VP

They both laughed, the absurdity of the whole thing hitting them at once. Dawn stretched out beside him, curling into the crook of his arm, and Andy drew the comforter over them both. Their bodies tangled, they lay in the afterglow, the only sound their mingled breaths and the faint pulse of the ocean beyond the balcony doors.

After a while, Dawn traced lazy circles on his chest. “Thank you,” she said, and Andy didn’t know whether she meant for the sex or the trust or the way he looked at her, so he just kissed her again, gentle this time, and held her until her breathing slowed and her eyes drifted shut.

They dozed like that, limbs intertwined, the comfort of skin-on-skin banishing any uncertainty that had lingered from the day.

Achievement Unlocked! Shattering the Chain +5 VP

He woke once in the night to find her still there, her breathing soft and even. He brushed her hair from her face and kissed her cheek, then drifted back to sleep, content.

The next morning, Andy woke to the sound of birds and the weird, liminal light of sunrise. He expected to find Dawn curled up beside him, but instead she was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, looking out the window.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes. “How are you awake already?”

She glanced over her shoulder, embarrassed. “My second transformation,” she said. “Wake Up Call. No matter how tired I am, I wake up at dawn. Like, on the dot. And I feel completely… energized.”

Andy blinked. “That’s not a curse, that’s a superpower.”

She laughed. “Maybe. But I can’t go back to sleep, no matter what. Even if I want to.”

He sat up, the sheets falling to his waist. “You okay?”

Dawn nodded, then climbed back into bed, her head resting on his chest. “I’m more than okay. I just didn’t want to leave you alone.”

He kissed her hair, letting his hands roam her back. “You know, you can wake me up anytime. I don’t mind.”

She smiled. “I might take you up on that.”

They stayed like that for a while, the world outside brightening by degrees. Eventually, Dawn sat up. “I’m going to make breakfast. Real breakfast. None of that resort buffet stuff.”

Andy stretched, then watched her move around the room, picking up clothes and humming under her breath. He wondered how he got so lucky.

He wandered out to the kitchen, still in boxers, and found Dawn already at work, whisking eggs and prepping toast. She grinned when she saw him, then reached up for a mug and poured him coffee.

He sipped, then said, “Thank you. For last night.”

Dawn blushed, then shrugged. “It was… everything I wanted it to be.”

Andy watched her for a moment, the easy confidence in her movements now tempered by something softer, more ****.

He asked, “Does it ever get easier? Not having to perform all the time?”

She thought about it, then said, “I think so. If I have someone to practice with.”

He nodded. “You do.”

They ate breakfast at the counter, the light from the windows painting everything in gentle gold. Dawn was talkative, telling him stories about her brothers, about the time she and her abuela burned a whole pot of arroz con gandules, about the weirdest guests she’d ever checked in at the Harrington. Andy listened, asking questions, wanting to know every detail.

After they finished, Dawn lingered, resting her chin on her hand. “You know, I always thought I’d get in trouble for doing something like this. Like, if I stopped being the perfect employee, the world would just… end.”

He reached over and covered her hand with his. “It’s not ending. It’s just getting started.”

She smiled, a real, unguarded thing. “Thank you. For listening. And for telling me about Laura.”

Andy squeezed her hand. “Thank you for trusting me.”

They sat there a while longer, the dishes forgotten, the morning light growing stronger, the world outside the Suite just an echo.