Dawn's Night

Andy expected to feel more like a warden than a host. Instead, as he waited in the softly lit hush of the Master’s Suite, he found himself pacing the floor, uncertain which version of himself would answer the door when Dawn arrived. It was, after all, the first assigned night. Tonight, she would have to stay. No loopholes, no “brief visits”. He imagined her walking the corridor now, maybe pausing outside the elevator, hand hovering over the button. He wondered if Dawn felt more like a prisoner or an intruder. When he had given Sam her daily hug, after returning from his walk with Liesa, his friend had told him Dawn had been worried about the "date". Andy couldn't blame her.

He made a quick circuit of the living room, fluffing already-perfect pillows. He set out two glasses, and beside them, two mugs. Whiskey, or maybe tea. He checked the tray again, then realized he was repeating himself. He sat, then stood, then finally planted himself by the elevator and waited.

The buzzer sounded, sharp as a starter’s pistol. He pressed the “Permit Visitor Access” button and the doors sighed open.

Dawn stood inside, posture neat, hands clasped around a white ceramic tray that rattled with cups and a sleek glass teapot. With relief, Andy noticed this time, she had managed to find cups that did not feature bouncy breasts, although the teapot was stamped with the words “World’s Most Fuckable Master”. Her hair was up in a tight ponytail, a few stray wisps catching the glow of the hallway light. She wore another oversized black T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. Incongruously, a sorry-looking stuffed bunny peeked out of the crook of her arm.

“Hi, Mr. Cooper,” she said, voice bright but a shade too crisp. “Reporting for duty.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile, then stepped out, careful not to jostle the tray.

He tried to return the smile, but it was like borrowing a jacket two sizes too small. “Good evening, Dawn. And for the last time, please call me Andy.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Andy. Of course. Where would you like this?” She lifted the tray, arms steady but fingers twitching at the edges, as if ready to realign any cup that dared to misbehave.

He pointed to the low glass table by the couch, but she scanned the room twice, then crossed to the table and set the tray down with both hands. She propped her stuffed animal against a chair. Instantly after that, she began to arrange the cups, handle-forward, then adjusted the angle of the teapot, then wiped an invisible fingerprint off the tray with the edge of her thumb. She straightened the stack of napkins—precisely, deliberately—then hovered her hand over the sugar jar, as if daring it to be out of line.

Andy stood back, watching the ritual. Every motion was smooth, professional, but the speed of it betrayed the anxiety underneath. He felt himself relaxing just watching her. Then he remembered that was probably the point.

“I thought you might want tea,” she said, and poured two cups without asking. She gestured at the nearby armchair. “Please, have a seat. Or, um, if you prefer the sofa, I can bring this over. Or the balcony, if you want fresh air. Just say the word.”

He smiled, gentle. “Dawn. The couch is fine.” He sat, sinking into the velvet. “Thank you.”

She lifted both cups, one in each hand, and carried them over. As she set his on a coaster, her hands trembled just enough to make the liquid ripple. She caught herself, then **** a breath and sat at the far edge of the couch, ankles crossed, back ramrod-straight.

A silence settled between them, thick with the hiss of the fireplace and the faint clink of porcelain as she adjusted her own cup again, and again.

Andy took a sip. Chamomile, delicate, with a hint of something citrus. He glanced at her, found her watching his hands, the way they cradled the cup. Her own hands were white-knuckled in her lap, like she was expecting a pop quiz.

“So,” he said, “how was your day?”

She blinked. “Oh! Fine. I cleaned my room. Went to the spa with Marissa. Explored the lawn with Claire.” She ticked each off as if reporting to a manager. “Then I came here.” Her eyes strayed towards the stuffed animal.

Andy nodded, then asked, “Are you okay? With all this?”

Dawn hesitated, then nodded again. “It’s strange, but… not terrible. Most of the women are nice, or at least not mean. Claire is sweet. Marissa is a little intimidating, but she smiles more than you’d think. Sam is fun.” She looked up at him, dark eyes wide. “It’s you I worry about, honestly.”

He nearly choked. “Me?”

She nodded, setting her cup down on the table. “You’re the only person here who looks more uncomfortable than I feel.” She paused, then added, “No offense.”

“None taken,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess I’m not used to being in charge. Even though I’m not sure what, if anything, I control.”

Her mouth quirked at the corners. “You did fine at The Harrington,” she said, “but here it’s like you’re waiting for someone to grade your performance.”

He laughed, relieved at the tease. “Maybe I am.”

She smiled, just for a second, then it faded. Her fingers went to the hem of her shirt, then to the napkin, then to the sugar jar. She twisted it, half a degree, then stilled her hands with effort.

Andy watched, fascinated. “Is that the compulsion, or just you being you?”

She thought about it, then shrugged. “Both, I guess. I always liked having a job to do. But now… if something’s out of place and it’s meant to soothe you, I feel it in my teeth.” She glanced at the painting above the fireplace. “Arabella did say the transformations match your personality.”

He followed her gaze to Katherine’s portrait. The painted woman seemed to be observing with mild amusement, lips curled in a private joke, in the same position she was last time Dawn was here. The young consierge blinked, surprised. “She does look kind of… resigned, doesn’t she?” She shifted, then leaned forward to study the painting more closely. “Is it just me, or did she change positions since last night?”

He coughed. “A trick of the light.”

She shivered. “It’s like she’s… watching us.”

“She is,” Andy said, then regretted it. “I mean, it feels that way sometimes. It’s a very good painting.”

Dawn sat back, unconsciously smoothing the napkin pile. She watched him with a focus that was almost clinical, but softer around the edges. “Do you want me to do something?” she asked. “I mean, I can clean, or pour drinks, or—” She stopped herself, then shook her head. “Sorry. The urge is strong, but I don’t want to be annoying.”

“You’re not,” he said. “Just relax. Please.”

She tried. It was like telling a greyhound not to chase the rabbit. Her eyes darted to every small imperfection—the one coaster askew, the pillow a centimeter off-center, the tiny scratch in the glass table. After a minute, she gave up and reached for the pillow, realigned it, then immediately relaxed, like a nerve had finally stopped twitching.

Andy watched the transformation, and not the magical kind. Just the way a person reverts to themselves when nobody’s looking.

“Better?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She flushed. “Sorry. It’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t be,” he said, soft. “If it helps, go ahead. This is your room too, tonight.”

Dawn looked at him, searching his face for a hint of sarcasm or pity. She must not have found it, because she nodded and started straightening the coffee table, then the throw blanket on the chair. Each movement was quick, precise, and, after a minute, her breathing evened out.

After another few minutes, the room looked exactly as it had before, but Dawn’s posture was different. Less rigid, more at home.

She returned to the couch, this time sitting closer. Not touching, but within arm’s reach. She poured more tea for both of them, hands steady now.

Andy broke the silence. “Who is that?” He asked curiously, nodding towards the stuffed bunny. She blushed.

“Ah—that’s Mr. Sniffles. He… I’ve had him since I was a little girl. My grandmother gave it to me. He… helps me sleep when I’m… well, you know. I found him in my room. I hope… you don’t mind. I know it’s silly.” He shook his head, and nodded gravely to the bunny.

“Good evening, Mr. Sniffles.” She giggled. That was a sound he had never heard from her before. He found it soothing.

“Dawn,” he asked, curiously, “Do you ever get tired of helping other people?”

She blinked, considering. “Sometimes. But it’s worse when I don’t know what someone wants. If they just told me, it would be so much easier.”

He laughed. “You want a roadmap.”

She grinned, nodding. “Exactly. I don’t like guessing. I want to be good at my job. And now,” she paused, glancing down, “now it’s like my whole body is tuned to serve, and if I don’t, it’s like having an itch in my brain.”

He tried to imagine what that must feel like, but failed. “Does it hurt now? Or is it just… irritating?”

“Depends,” she said, shrugging, voice lower. “If I ignore it, it builds up. But if I just… do the thing, it goes away.” She smiled, abashed.

They sat together, sipping tea, letting the fireplace fill the gaps. The Suite was absurdly large, but the two of them on the couch made it feel almost human.

He saw her gaze flick to the bedroom, where the king-sized bed loomed through the open double doors. He felt his own face heat up.

Dawn noticed, and her lips twitched in a smile. “Is it weird that I’m less nervous about sleeping in there than about saying the wrong thing?”

He snorted. “I think it’s weirder that we’re both worried about the same thing.”

She laughed, then went quiet. “It’s not so bad, you know. The compulsion, I mean. It could be worse.” She looked at him, expression suddenly serious. “You make it easier. Most people just bark orders or act like I’m not there. With this compulsion, I think I’d jump to obey. You… you say thank you. I noticed that.”

Andy’s chest tightened. He didn’t have a reply, not really. So he reached for the tea, took a sip, and let the moment be.

They sat in companionable silence, the fire popping in the background, the scent of jasmine and citrus winding through the air.

Eventually, Dawn curled her feet up on the couch, leaned her shoulder against the velvet, and let out a long, slow breath. She looked at Andy, eyes soft, and said, “You don’t have to talk, if you don’t want. I’m happy just being here.”

He nodded, grateful, and together they watched the fire until the tea went cold.

When the silence got too full, Andy broke it. “So what’s your story, Dawn Moreno?” He asked it lightly, as if there was nothing at stake, but he kept his eyes on the fire.

Dawn tilted her head, considering. “That’s a big question for the first night,” she said, then smiled. “I could start with the boring stuff. Grew up in Berwyn, just outside Chicago. Two younger brothers, three cats, one grandmother who taught me how to make tamales before I learned to tie my shoes.”

He let her talk, listened to the rhythm of it: the details about her brothers (one a firefighter, the other still in high school), her mother’s Sunday dinner feasts, her father’s endless quest for a perfect home espresso machine. She described her old bedroom—shared, small, full of plush animals—then college, which she attended mostly on scholarship, and her eventual drift into hospitality work.

“I like hotels,” she said, winding down. “I like knowing that there’s always something I can do, even if it’s small. Some people think it’s servile, but I like making people feel welcome. I like being useful.”

He nodded. “I get that.”

She looked at him, waiting for a follow-up question, but when he didn’t say anything, she continued: “I never really dated much. Not in high school, not in college. There was a guy, freshman year. Adam. He worked the loading dock. Nice enough. It lasted maybe three months, and then he got weird when I started working more hours than he did.” She shrugged. “Since then, not much. Hospitality work can be brutal. And I don’t think I’m very good at… you know, the dating stuff. I always end up treating it like customer service, which is probably a bad sign.”

Andy smiled, but didn’t laugh. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” he said. “Some people go their whole lives not knowing what they want to do. At least you have a compass.”

Dawn’s cheeks flushed pink. “Compass is a strong word. Sometimes I think I just… orbit. Around other people.” Her gaze flickered to him, then away. “Is that weird?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. I’m kind of the opposite, honestly.”

She looked at him, skeptical. “You? You always seemed like you had it together.”

Andy almost laughed. “That’s a trick of the lighting, I think.” He hesitated, then said, “I have a habit of running away from anything I can’t fix. Or if I can’t run, I just shut it out.” He stared into his tea, swirling the last dregs. “People get tired of that. I don’t blame them.”

There was a silence, not uncomfortable, but heavy enough to notice.

Dawn’s fingers played with the fringe of the throw blanket. “So why’d you stand up to Arabella, yesterday?” she asked. “I know this wasn’t your idea, but… Arabella could have probably crushed you. Why did you challenge her?”

He considered. “I guess I owed it to everyone. To at least try.” He ran a hand through his hair, then looked at her and chuckled mirthlessly. “If you’re going to be the center of the universe, whether willingly or not, you might as well do it right, you know?”

She smiled, slow and sweet. “That’s better than any of the other answers I’ve heard.” Her fingers twitched, and she grimaced.

He looked at her hands, delicate and precise. “Is it worse when you try to resist, or when you just give in?”

She thought about it, then said, “It’s worse when I know it’s not really me. Like, I always liked being helpful, but now it’s… automatic. I do it even when I don’t want to. Even if I’m tired, or angry, or—” she broke off, then started again. “Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m doing something because I want to, or because I have to. It’s hard to explain.”

Andy nodded. “I think you’re explaining it fine.”

Dawn hugged her knees to her chest, voice dropping. “I always worried that if I’m not helping someone, I’m nothing. Just… empty space. Now… it’s the same, but worse, when it comes to helping you.”

He felt that one. Deep in the place where most of his empathy had been hiding for years. He shook his head, slow. “You’re not empty. And you don’t have to prove your worth every five minutes.”

She looked at him, startled. “You really believe that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.” He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say, but he meant it.

There was a little hush after that, a mutual assessment.

Dawn shifted, then reached for his hand. “Can I?” she asked, shy.

He nodded, and her hand slid into his, soft but strong. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I know this is weird for you. It’s weird for me too. But I feel… safe, I guess.”

He held her hand, thumb tracing the delicate line of her knuckles. “You’re safe,” he said. “Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want. I’m not that kind of person. And I intend to protect you all, if I can. However I can.”

She smiled, more relaxed. “I believe you.”

The fire hissed and settled. Dawn scooted closer, their shoulders touching now.

“Do you mind if I ask something kind of personal?” she said, her tone half-flirt, half-fright.

“Shoot,” he replied.

She hesitated, eyes fixed on their joined hands. “Do you… is there anyone you left behind? Anyone you miss?” The words came out awkward, like she was trying not to step on a bruise.

Andy tensed, the image of Laura flickering at the edges of his mind. He dodged. “Not really,” he said, which was a lie, but the easiest kind. “I didn’t have many people in my life. Sam isn’t just my closest friend. She’s probably my only friend. So… the only people I care about are here.”

Dawn seemed to sense the dodge, but didn’t push. “I guess that’s true for all of us. Not having many people in our lives, I mean.”

He nodded. “Arabella has a gift for finding the soft spots.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and for a long minute, neither of them spoke. The sexual tension was there, but it was woven through with comfort and curiosity, not urgency.

After a while, Dawn whispered, “Can I ask one more thing?”

“Anything.”

She was quiet for a beat, then said, “If it wasn’t for the compulsion, and if it wasn’t for Arabella’s stupid rules, would you… would you still want me to stay tonight?” Her voice was so small it nearly vanished in the hush.

Andy squeezed her hand. “Yeah,” he said, truthfully. “I would.”

Dawn let out a breath, long and shaky. She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “I’m glad.”

She didn’t kiss him. She just let her head rest a little heavier on his shoulder, her fingers twined with his, and the space between them felt more like a shelter than a challenge.

The fire burned low, and Andy felt, for the first time in years, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Not because of Dawn, or at least not just because of her. But because for the first time in years, he was needed. And he could help.

They watched the fire burn down to embers, neither quite ready to move or speak. Andy sensed the clock ticking toward midnight, but the room’s light and hush made time irrelevant. At some point, Dawn’s hand drifted from his to his forearm, her fingers running absentmindedly along the faint tan line of his wristwatch. When she realized what she was doing, she jerked her hand away, apologizing with her eyes before words could catch up.

Andy smiled, not wanting to spook her. “You’re allowed to touch me, you know. It’s not against the rules.”

Dawn gave a soft laugh, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, then immediately reached to tidy the edge of the throw blanket again. It was clear the urge to do was always just under her skin, a pressure needing release. She sat with her knees tucked up and her shirt riding high, then noticed and tugged it back into place, then noticed Andy noticing and flushed deep scarlet.

“Sorry,” she said. “It’s just—I don’t want you to think—” She trailed off, then found the thread. “When I’m like this, it’s hard to tell where the compulsion stops and I start. I want to… I mean, part of me wants to do anything to make you happy. But another part knows it might just be the magic talking.” She met his eyes. “Does that make any sense?”

Andy nodded. “More than you know.”

They sat for another long minute, the only sound the faint tick of the fireplace and the hiss of wind at the balcony glass. Dawn’s fingers kept tracing patterns on her knees, then drifting back to Andy’s arm as if by accident, then retreating again. Her need to please was visible, but so was her discomfort at not knowing if it was genuine or programmed.

Andy broke the tension. “You can tell me anything, you know. Or nothing. You don’t have to perform for me.”

Dawn shook her head, almost laughing. “That’s the problem. I want to. But I don’t want to want to.” She drew a circle with her finger, then made a face. “Sorry. Circular logic.” He understood, however. He remembered last night. The compulsion wanted her to offer herself to give him comfort. It was skewed towards sexual favors. But now she knew he was uncomfortable with it, so the compulsion also wanted her to avoid offering herself to him. The tension within her would short-circuit, in a little while.

He caught her hand, gently, and this time she let it rest in his. “Do you want to help me?” he asked. “Right now?”

She nodded, serious.

“Okay,” he said. “I want a hug. A real one. Can you do that?”

She blinked, then smiled—a real, full smile, no nerves in it. She scooted closer, wrapped both arms around his torso, and pressed her cheek to his chest. Andy felt her body, tense at first, then softening. She held him for a long moment, just breathing in and out, and he realized it was the first time in years anyone had held him this way, with no agenda or countdown clock or expectation, just because she liked him, found him attractive.

Hugged the Master! +1 VP

Dawn finally let go, blinking fast. “That helped,” she said, voice shaky but happy. “Thank you for giving me something easy.”

Andy chuckled. “Anytime.”

She looked up at him, her eyes bright. “I’m really glad it was you. I mean—” she stopped, looking for words, “I was scared that I would push too much, or make it weird, or… you know. But you just listened. And drank my tea.”

He shrugged, bashful now. “I like your tea.”

Dawn smiled shyly, looked at the clock, then at the bedroom door. “I guess it’s time,” she said, with a theatrical sigh. “Should I, um, go in first? Or do we do the whole turn-off-the-lights and brush-your-teeth routine?”

Andy grinned. “Let’s do it the civilized way. You can use the bathroom first. I’ll wait.”

She slipped away, and Andy busied himself with clearing the tea tray, setting the pillows back the way she liked them, and watching the way the firelight shimmered on the brass inlay of the mantel. Katherine’s painting glowed softly above it, her painted face watching with what now seemed like approval. She winked. He gave her a salute, then ducked into the bedroom.

The bed was enormous, a pale cloud of down comforter and velvet shams, all of it dwarfed by the emptiness around it. Dawn stood beside the bed, left arm holding right forearm, in her oversized black T-shirt and shorts, barefooted, hair in a messy bun. She looked suddenly younger, more ****, the usual armor of professional polish left behind.

“I hope you don’t snore,” she said, a tremulous smile hiding in the words.

Andy shook his head. “Not unless I’ve been drinking. And I think I’m out of whiskey for the night.”

She climbed into the bed, tucking herself under the covers and curling into a comma at the very edge. He saw she was clinging to Mr. Sniffles. Andy watched her for a second, then sat on the opposite side, pulling the comforter up and over his own shoulders.

They lay in silence, maybe four feet apart, both staring at the ceiling and the abstract painting that hung there, its colors shifting in the low light. After a while, Dawn spoke, voice small in the darkness.

“Andy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m still scared. Not of you, but of what comes next. The compulsion, the magic, the challenge, the next transformations, all of it. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

He turned onto his side, propped up on one elbow. “You’re stronger than you think.”

She was quiet, then: “Will you stay awake, just for a while? Just in case it gets weird?”

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him in the dark. “Of course.”

A pause, then: “Can I ask for one more thing? I know I’m being needy.”

He smiled. “Anything.”

Her voice was a whisper now. “Can you—maybe—just hold me? Just for a minute? It’s stupid, but it would help.”

He closed the space between them, careful, gentle, and let her tuck herself into his arms. She pressed her back to his chest, her hair soft against his chin, her hands clasped at her own heart. Andy wrapped his arm around her, not tight, just enough to say: you are here, and so am I.

She let out a breath, long and shuddery, and in it was the exhaustion of someone who’d been holding herself together for too long. She relaxed, her body melting into his, and within a few minutes her breathing slowed, steady and deep.

Spooned by the Master! +1 VP
First! x2

Andy stayed awake, as promised, watching the shadows play across the ceiling. He thought about what Dawn had said, about being wanted versus being useful, about the confusion of real desire and magical compulsion. He wondered if it made a difference, in the end, as long as both of them were content.

He listened to her breathe, and for the second time that night, he felt at home.

Eventually, his eyes grew heavy, and he let himself drift, still holding her. Just before sleep took him, Dawn murmured, half-dreaming, “Andy? Thank you for being kind.”

Andy pressed his face to her hair, and whispered, “Anytime, Dawn. Anytime.”