The Only Job You Have Tonight

They walked for a few blocks with nothing but the tap of their shoes and the faint exhale of Dawn’s breath misting in the streetlight. It was January, and the air nipped at their faces, the backs of their hands, anything uncovered. Andy didn’t register the cold the way he used to, not with the Gifts, but he could see how the wind tried to get in at Dawn’s collar, how her hair ruffled around the black velvet of her ears. She wasn’t bothered; if anything, she leaned into it, head pressed to his shoulder, her steps almost weightless.

They passed a few closed shops, their windows fogged with ghosts of yesterday’s warmth, and neither of them spoke. Andy felt the urge to fill the silence, but Dawn’s calm was so complete it made conversation seem like an intrusion. He let her have it, and in the quiet he tried to memorize the shape of her beside him: the faint spring in her step, the way her tail tracked his stride, the fact that her fingers didn’t go cold even as the wind picked up.

A block before the next intersection, Dawn slowed, then straightened and looked at him with a sly brightness. “There’s one more stop,” she said, her voice as soft as the hush of snow on brick.

Andy blinked. “I thought the pasteles were the finale.”

Dawn shook her head, then pointed, a little embarrassed, toward a narrow alley flanked by two closed-up shops. “It’s this way. But you have to trust me, okay?”

“Always,” he said, and smiled. She steered them down the alley, their footsteps now muffled by a drift of old snow. The lights from the main street barely reached here; it felt suspended, private, like a world that had gone to sleep and left just the two of them to find their way.

Halfway down, the alley dead-ended into a wall, but in front of the bricks stood a door—a plain wooden door, the kind you’d find at the back entrance to a bakery or a forgotten speakeasy. It was framed by nothing, freestanding in the cold air, and looked like it had just arrived from a dream. Dawn gave his hand a little squeeze, then reached for the knob and swung it open.

A breath of arctic air hit them, so much sharper than the city cold that Andy actually registered it in his lungs. Through the door: snow, as far as the eye could see, blue shadows deepening toward a line of pine trees in the near distance. It was dusk here, with a sky the color of faded denim and the stars already blinking awake above the treetops. A few hundred feet ahead, tucked against the edge of the woods, sat a log cabin, yellow windows glowing, smoke curling from a stone chimney.

Dawn laughed, a wild, delighted sound, and it startled a flock of something up from the snowbank near the door. She turned to Andy, her cheeks burning pink in the cold, and waited for his reaction.

He couldn’t help smiling. “So this is the surprise?”

She shook her head, ears flopping just a little. “Not a surprise. More of a confession.” Then she stepped through the door, boots crunching into the powder, and tugged him after her by the wrist.

They waded through knee-deep snow, Dawn half-pulling him and half-skipping in her excitement. The wind here was dry, colder but friendlier, carrying the faint scent of pine resin and woodsmoke. Andy tried to imagine her as a child, to picture her building forts in the snow or dragging her brothers through half-shoveled driveways, but snow in Berwyn wasn’t like this. He realized with a start that this was probably the first time she’d ever really seen snow like this.

She stopped ten feet from the porch, turned, and looked up at him, suddenly shy. “It’s silly, right?”

Andy blinked. “What is?”

Dawn shrugged, hugging her arms around her ribs. “I’ve never been to the mountains. Not once in my whole life. I always said I’d go, but then… my family, the jobs, the hotel. It never happened. So I picked this. Because I wanted it. Not for the challenge or the show or even for you, really. Just for me.” Her voice went smaller at the end, as if bracing for him to laugh.

He didn’t. He reached out and brushed the snow from her shoulder, then took her face in both hands, careful not to startle her. “Dawn,” he said, “that’s the best reason I can think of.”

She searched his eyes for the punchline, then smiled, bright and a little sheepish. “You’re not mad that it’s so… basic?”

He shook his head. “Not even close. I’ve always wanted to try the cabin-in-the-woods thing. Blankets, hot chocolate, zero obligations. Like the movies.”

Dawn’s grin grew wider, her discomfort melting into laughter. “Good. Because I put a lot of thought into the throw pillows.”

He linked his arm through hers. “I’d expect nothing less.” Together they stomped up the steps to the porch, where the snow was swept clean, and Andy opened the door with a flourish.

The warmth hit them instantly—a wash of real wood heat, undercut by something sweet and yeasty from the kitchen. Inside, the cabin was a monument to coziness: all honey-colored wood, exposed beams, bookshelves overflowing with board games and paperbacks, fire already going in the hearth. Two overstuffed chairs sat angled toward the blaze, a faux bearskin rug draped across the polished boards. There was a full kitchen in the corner, and beyond it, a hallway that must have led to a bedroom and bath. The only light came from the fire, a string of warm bulbs along the ceiling, and a few fat candles flickering on the table.

Dawn stood in the center of the room, spinning once on her heel to take it all in. The motion sent her ears swishing, and for a second she looked more like herself than Andy had ever seen her. He didn’t look at the room at all; he just watched her do it.

She stopped, then turned back to him with a new uncertainty. “Is it too much? Like, too extra for one afternoon?”

Andy shook his head. “Not enough. If I had a way to conjure a snowsquall or a moose, I’d do it. You deserve this. Maybe more than anyone I know.”

Dawn looked away, bashful, but the pride showed through anyway. “Okay. Good.”

He pulled her in for a hug, and she let herself collapse into him, the way you do when you finally get to drop the weight of a day you didn’t know you were carrying.

After a minute, he asked, “So, what do you want to do first? Hot cocoa, board game, or just sit by the fire and not think about anything?”

Dawn didn’t even hesitate. “Fire,” she said. “I want to just be warm and with you. For at least ten minutes before I start thinking about snacks.”

He led her to the larger of the two chairs. He sat, and without asking, Dawn crawled into his lap—her hips, thighs, everything settling perfectly as if his lap had been built for this and nothing else. She leaned her head back to watch the flames. Andy wrapped both arms around her, hands clasped over her stomach.

Sitting didn’t bother Dawn the way it used to, not since she upgraded Bunny’s Favorite Spot, but she still preferred his lap to any actual chair. He didn’t mind at all. He shifted so she could lean against him fully, and she let her whole body relax into the shape of him, her breasts pressing into his arm as if even gravity was on their side.

They watched the fire, and the silence was the best kind. Even when they weren’t talking, Andy could feel every little shiver of her, every contented sigh, every time her ears flicked at the sound of a log cracking.

After a while, he said, “Thank you for showing me this.”

Dawn smiled, her eyes half-closed. “Thank you for making me happy.”

She tucked herself in tighter, as if she might live here forever, and the wind outside rattled the windowpanes in perfect rhythm to the steady thump of his heart behind her.

They stayed like that, wrapped up and quiet, long enough for the world outside to disappear. Every so often, Dawn would shift her weight, adjusting her hips on his lap or stretching her legs out toward the hearth. Andy didn’t mind; the pressure of her body against his was solid, comforting, a reminder that this was real and not some dream invented by the show.

The fire cracked, popping every few minutes, and in the amber light Andy could see how the shadows played over her skin. Her hair caught the glow, backlit to a soft halo, and the velvet ears twitched when the wind made the chimney moan.

After a while, he spoke, voice low. “What are you thinking about?”

Dawn was quiet a moment longer, then tipped her head back against his shoulder so she could look at him without turning. “Just... how weird it is to have done so much in one day. My dad, my brothers, my abuela. All of it. And now this, and it’s still not even close to midnight.” She laughed, the sound as small as the room. “Most days, I’d be asleep by now.”

Andy nodded, tightening his arms just a little. “Does it feel like too much?”

Dawn shook her head, slow. “No. I mean, yes, but also no.” She hesitated, then added, “I always thought I’d be the last person who could handle a day like this. Turns out it’s... really nice.” She looked away for a beat. “Especially this part.”

He smiled, then pressed his lips to the top of her head, letting the kiss linger longer than usual. The movement surprised her; she twisted up to face him, expression searching, and when she caught his eyes she blushed all the way to the tips of her ears.

“What?” he asked, voice half-amused.

Dawn grinned. “Nothing. Just—if you’re going to do that, you should do it for real.” She didn’t wait for him to argue. Instead, she angled her face up and found his mouth with hers.

The kiss started gentle, more careful than their first one had ever been, but after a second Dawn melted into it. She made the soft sound, the one she always did, a little moan just at the back of her throat. She never seemed aware of it, but the sound triggered something in Andy every single time. He kissed her harder, cupping her jaw in one hand, and she shivered in his lap.

When the kiss broke, she was breathless but smiling. “I think you’re getting better at that,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows. “Practice makes perfect?”

She made a face. “Don’t go quoting clichés at me, Mister Cooper.”

He kissed her again, this time deeper, and she let her hands float up his chest to rest at his shoulders. A few more seconds and she was turning around in the chair, so she could straddle him instead, and she locked her knees to either side of him.

Andy’s hands settled naturally at her waist, then lower, not quite daring yet but wanting to. Dawn ran her fingers through his hair, then rested her forehead against his. “This okay?”

He nodded. “Very okay.”

She laughed again, softer this time, and nuzzled closer, their noses bumping. “I keep waiting for the part where today catches up with me.” She flexed her legs, settling her weight more fully into his lap. “But every time I think it’s about to, I just look at you.”

He slid his hands to her hips, thumbs tracing slow circles through the cotton. “Then keep looking.”

She kissed him the way she always did now—no preamble, no hesitation, just the easy confidence of someone who already knew exactly where this was going.

---

The chair creaked as Dawn pressed in closer, and this time her hands found their way to the first button of her blouse. Andy moved his own fingers over hers, then, with a slow, deliberate care, undid it for her. He watched her face the whole time—how her eyes drifted closed at the first touch of his knuckles against her skin, how her lips parted slightly at each click of the buttons. The blouse came off and pooled at the foot of the chair. Underneath, she wore nothing.

She didn’t just let him do the work; after a few, she reached up and tugged his shirt out from his pants, unbuttoning it and peeling it off him in efficient motions. The air between them charged, all static and heat. When the shirt was off, she tossed it toward the bearskin rug, missing by a wide margin, but neither of them cared.

She smiled, so bright it almost undid him, and arched her back to make the next part easier. Her skin was warm and soft and flawless in the firelight. Her breasts—huge, firm and high, a miracle of magic—bounced lightly when she shifted, the movement hypnotic. Andy paused, tracing a finger down her sternum, not to tease but to memorize. She stood, and he pulled down her pants, admiring her body in the firelight.

She wriggled a little, impatient, and hooked her thumbs under the waistband of her panties, pushing them down until he could finish the job. The movement drew her even closer, and for a second their bodies lined up so perfectly it was as if she’d been born for this exact moment.

She took his wrists then, soft but insistent, guiding his hands behind her head and locking her fingers around his. She looked him in the eye, a question she didn’t say out loud. Andy understood. He pushed her hands higher, pinning them gently against the padded back of the chair with one of his own. She let out a breath, an audible shudder, her arms stretched out and the rest of her body pressing down into his lap.

“Is this good?” he asked, wanting her to have the option of a no.

She bit her lip, nodded, and flexed her hips down just enough for him to feel the heat of her, through the cotton of his underwear. “Don’t let go,” she whispered.

“Never,” he promised.

Andy undid his own jeans, the hand awkward but determined. Dawn laughed a little at his struggle, then used her feet to help him, nudging the denim down his thighs until they were skin to skin. The cold of the air and the heat of the fire were at war, and he could feel the goosebumps all up her arms and legs.

She pushed herself up with her legs, balanced on her knees in the chair, and looked down at him—really looked, her eyes soft and clear. “I want this,” she said, as if there had ever been a doubt.

He lined himself up, then let her set the pace, her hands still pinned in his but her hips in full control. She lowered herself onto him, slow, her breath catching when he slid inside. Her eyes closed at the first stretch, her lips parted, and Andy felt every muscle in her clamp down, greedy for more. He held her wrists above her head, giving her something to pull against, and she pushed herself down the rest of the way in one steady motion.

She sat like that for a second, both of them shuddering. Her hands flexed in his, testing the hold. She seemed to like the feeling of being pinned and filled at once; he saw it in the way her ears folded back, the way her back arched and her chest thrust forward.

He let go with one hand, tracing the lines of her body from shoulder to waist to thigh, then up again, mapping the curve of her breast with his thumb. She started to move, just a little, rocking her hips forward and back, using the leverage of his grip to set a rhythm that was slow at first, then a little faster, then slow again.

He watched her, every flicker of feeling crossing her face. The pleasure was raw, honest—there was no artifice or performance in it. She never pretended to be something she wasn’t, and that made every sound, every gasp, every little moan mean twice as much.

“Harder,” she whispered, after a while, and he squeezed her wrists more firmly, holding her in place as she started to ride him in earnest. Her movements grew more wild, her hair falling loose over her face, her tail thumping the chair in sync with her body.

He told her she was perfect, and she made the sound again, louder this time, a whimper that turned into a moan when he kissed the base of her neck. She moved faster, hips rolling, and every time she came down on him she shivered a little, like she was fighting not to fall apart.

She kept her eyes open, focused on him, as if she was afraid that closing them would end the moment. He watched her, feeling himself start to lose control. She noticed, and it drove her wilder.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

He held out as long as he could, but she was too much—her body, her face, the way she surrendered and took at the same time. She tightened around him and let go, crying out as she came, her whole body shaking with it. The sound sent him over the edge a heartbeat later. He buried his face in her hair, both arms locked around her, holding her through it.

When it was over, she sagged into him, utterly spent. He wrapped a hand around her back and held her, their bodies slick and tangled together. For a long time, they didn’t move.

Finally, when the fire started to die down, Andy reached for the wool blanket draped on the back of the chair and pulled it over them both. He tucked her in against his chest, her head resting under his chin. Her wrists were red from where he’d held them, but she didn’t seem to mind. She nuzzled her face into his neck and made a sleepy, happy noise.

He stroked her hair, slow, and whispered, “You’re incredible.”

She squeezed him tighter, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “You too. Every time.”

The room was dark except for the low, flickering fire, and outside the snow fell in great silent drifts, piling up against the windows. Andy closed his eyes and listened to her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle thud of her heart against his.

He let himself drift, her body warm and heavy in his lap, the blanket wrapped around them both.

He could have stayed there all night.

Maybe, in another world, he would have. But eventually, Andy’s stomach rumbled, loud enough for both of them to hear. Dawn laughed into his chest and squeezed him tighter, not ready to let him move yet.

“We should eat something,” Andy said, regretful but honest.

Dawn made a wounded-animal sound. “But I’m warm. And you’re so comfortable right now.”

He stroked her hair, finger-combing it into place. “If we don’t get up, we’ll both pass out right here. Also, if we’re going to eat in this place, I should probably shower first. Not to shame us, but…”

She sniffed his neck theatrically, then wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, okay. You have a point.”

She extricated herself, standing with a stretch, then offered a hand to pull him up. They padded together down the short hallway, their bare feet leaving damp prints on the polished wood. The bathroom was spa-level: heated floors, stone tiles, a rainfall shower big enough for two. Dawn turned on the water and let it run, adjusting the temperature until steam clouded the mirror. Andy was still pulling out fresh towels when she stepped under the spray.

She washed her hair with a kind of workmanlike efficiency, scrubbing at her scalp while Andy soaped up his arms and chest. It wasn’t sexual, not really—it was just two people who trusted each other, sharing a space where neither had to pretend. He worked conditioner through her hair when she asked, and she ducked under the water to rinse, squeezing his hand when the last of the lather disappeared down the drain.

They took turns with the soap, trading off in a silent game of who could rinse more completely. When they were done, Andy wrapped her in one of the plush towels and took another for himself, using a third to dry her hair as best he could. She giggled when he buffed too hard at her ears, then nipped his shoulder in revenge.

There were two robes on the door, both a little too big, both impossibly soft. Dawn wrapped herself up in hers, cinching the belt tight, and pulled Andy’s around his waist with exaggerated care.

“Chef’s coat,” she said, tying it in a double knot. “You look very professional.”

He grinned, then checked the kitchen, making sure everything was where it should be. He opened the fridge and found it already stocked: eggs, cheese, meat, charcuterie, enough vegetables for a week. The cupboard contained a loaf of artisanal bread that was somehow still warm. Dawn started to hover near the counter, but Andy turned and stopped her with a gentle palm to her shoulder.

“No,” he said. “Tonight, you don’t have to lift a finger.”

She bristled, but only a little. “But I can help—”

“You take care of everyone,” he said. “Let me take care of you.”

The words melted her. She tried to argue, but ended up blinking instead, then smiling in a way that made her look much younger than usual.

She moved to the fire and sat, knees up, arms wrapped around them, the robe opening just enough to show the curve of her calf and a flash of thigh. She was still for maybe thirty seconds before the fidgeting started: first her foot bounced, then she twisted a lock of hair, then her ears peeled up, flopped down, then perked up again.

After a few minutes, she was up and peering into the kitchen. “You sure you don’t want a sous chef?”

He just looked at her. “You really don’t know how to do nothing, do you?”

She grinned, bashful. “Not really. I mean, I could try, but—”

He turned her gently by the shoulders, walked her back to the hearth, and sat her down again. Then, because it felt right, he kissed her forehead.

“Please stay put,” he said. “For me?”

She nodded, mock-sullen, then tucked herself back into the chair. Her hands twisted in her lap, and after a while she picked up a throw pillow, hugging it to her chest as if it might keep her from drifting back to the kitchen.

Andy put together a quick meal: omelettes with cheese and chives, a salad. He sliced the bread, toasted some of it and made a quick bruschetta with chopped tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, and salt, garnished with little basil leaves. He found a bottle of white wine chilling in the fridge and poured two glasses.

When he called out that dinner was almost ready, she was up in a flash, already reaching for the plates to set the table. He caught her wrist, took the plates from her, and set them down himself.

“Table is included in tonight’s rules,” he said, smiling.

She rolled her eyes, but let herself be led back to the chair. He set the table, poured the wine, and plated the food with a flourish that would have made any of The Harrington’s line cooks jealous.

Dawn watched it all, her heart in her throat, not sure whether to feel silly or seen. When he finally called her over, she looked at him and said, voice thin but sincere, “I don’t know how to just sit here.”

He knelt by her chair, took both her hands, and squeezed them. “You don’t have to. Not really. Just practice.”

She let herself laugh at that, the tension melting away. “Okay. I’ll practice.”

He kissed her again, this time on the lips, and when she looked at him, her whole face lit up.

---

The table was small enough that their knees brushed under it, and the fire cast most of the room in a honeyed shadow. Andy carried the plates over, and when Dawn reached to help, he simply set hers down right in front of her, giving her a look that made it clear he was still running the show.

They ate in silence at first, not an awkward one but the easy kind, the kind where you don’t have to talk because everything that matters is already in the air. Dawn forked up a bite of omelette, then a piece of bread, then went back for more. It was clear she was starving; Andy wondered how much of that was the day, and how much was the way she always put everyone else first.

After a few minutes, he asked, softly, “Did it help? Seeing your abuela again?”

Dawn’s fork slowed, and she swallowed before answering. “Yeah,” she said, voice smaller than usual. “It was like getting something back I thought was lost for good. Not just her, but… the chance to actually say goodbye.” She toyed with her food for a second, then went on. “I always thought I’d have another day with her. Even after she got sick. I kept telling myself I’d visit, or call, or… whatever. Then she was just gone, and all I got was a text from my dad while I was at work.” She shook her head, as if still amazed by the unfairness of it. “Part of me never believed I’d get to say a real goodbye.”

Andy reached across the table, palm up. She set her hand in his, and he held it, not squeezing but just… being there.

She looked at their hands for a while, then spoke again. “I still feel guilty, you know? I wasn’t there when it happened. I was working a double at the Harrington, covering for someone else who had a family emergency. When I finally got to the hospital, she was already gone.” She frowned, then smiled, self-effacing. “Today doesn’t erase that. But it makes it… less sharp. Less like a knife, more like a scar. If that makes sense.”

“It does,” Andy said, thinking of Laura’s resurrection. “It makes perfect sense.”

She met his eyes, and for the first time since dinner started, the sadness in her was replaced by something closer to peace.

“Did you get to say it?” Andy asked. “The real goodbye?”

Dawn nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I did. And she heard it. Or… She did, insofar as she understood it. It didn’t feel fake.” She paused. “That’s the part I’ll remember. Not the last text or the empty bed, but the feeling of her in my arms when I told her I loved her.”

Andy squeezed her hand, just once. “I’m glad.”

She smiled at him, then let go and picked up her fork again, appetite returning. They ate for a minute in silence.

After a while, Dawn set her fork down and looked at him, serious. “There’s something I keep thinking about.”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated, then said, “The apotheosis theory. The one Claire discussed in the Archive.” She took a shaky breath. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Andy set his own fork down. “What are you afraid of?”

Dawn exhaled, then looked at the fire. “I’m scared of not being able to go back. Ever. To Berwyn, to my dad’s kitchen, to… any of it. I love my family. I love my life, even if it was hard sometimes. If I say yes to all this—really say yes—I don’t know if I’ll ever be just… Dawn Moreno again.” She chewed her lip. “I don’t know if I want to lose being the girl who brings her boyfriend home for dinner, or who bakes cookies for her little brother, or who spends Christmas in a too-small apartment.”

Andy listened, not interrupting.

She added, quieter, “But I don’t know that I would lose that, either. And I also can’t stop thinking about how much good I could do if I said yes. Not just to you or to the harem, but… to everyone. Like, on a scale I can’t even imagine. And that scares me, too. Because I don’t know if I’d ever want to stop.”

He waited a beat, then said, “No one’s going to make that decision for you. Not me, not Arabella, not anyone.”

She nodded, some of the tightness leaving her shoulders. “I’m glad. I didn’t want to say anything before, but I was afraid if I spoke up, it would just happen, like in the stories.”

He reached for her hand again, and she gave it to him, her grip stronger this time.

“You’re allowed to want both things,” Andy said. “To want the future, but also the past. To want to be something more, and also just… to be you.”

She smiled, all the way up to her eyes. Then something shifted in it, and she looked down at the table. “I need to say one more thing. And I need you to actually hear it.”

“Okay.”

She kept her eyes down. “If it ever came to a real choice—like, a binary, no-third-option choice—between you crossing that threshold and keeping Laura, or staying who you are and losing her again—” She finally looked up. “I can’t be the weight on the wrong side of that scale. I won’t. I couldn’t live with being the thing that stood in the way of that.”

Andy opened his mouth. She shook her head, just once.

“So I have to ask,” Dawn said, voice careful, like she was handling something fragile. “If that was actually the choice—become whatever this makes you, and she stays, or stay who you are and lose her—what would you do?”

The fire ticked quietly in the silence. Andy looked at her for a long moment, something moving behind his eyes that he didn’t try to name.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally. Honest. “I think I’d be terrified of both answers. But in the end… I can’t lose her again, Dawn.”

Dawn nodded, like that was exactly what she needed to hear. “I know,” she said softly. “Neither can we.” She hesitated, then said, “If you are still yourself on the other side, you must cross. And if you are… it means we get to stay who we are, too, doesn’t it?”

Andy didn’t know how to answer that, so he just took her hand. That seemed to be enough.

They finished the meal slower after that, easy. At one point, Dawn stole a bite of Andy’s bread just because she could, and he let her, not even pretending to be annoyed.

The fire was down to embers by the time they finished. Dawn cleared her throat and said, “If we stay up much longer, we’ll miss check-out.”

Andy laughed. “Is there a late fee?”

“Probably just more time together,” she said, and for the first time all day, she looked content.

They sat in the warmth, hands still joined on the tabletop, and let themselves pretend for a while that there was nothing left but this.

---

Drowsily, Dawn told Andy the first time she remembered seeing snow. She was five, that’s what she told Andy, all the details of that memory coming back as the two of them curled together on the couch, the fire a low throb in the stone hearth. She’d slept through the blizzard, an overnight dump that left the world outside her family’s two-bedroom apartment in Berwyn looking like a cake dusted with icing. She’d come down the stairs in footie pajamas, expecting it all to be gone, because it never stuck on her birthday. But that day, the world was transformed, and she burst onto the icy porch, standing barefoot on the welcome mat, wild with delight—until her neighbor Dargent lobbed a snowball directly into her face from point blank. She’d howled, her mother had scolded, and her dad, trying not to laugh, had scooped her up and carried her inside, leaving perfect, muddy footprints across the kitchen linoleum.

That story came out an hour after dinner, after Andy had finished cleaning up and Dawn had finally stopped trying to help. He’d settled onto the couch first, dragging the enormous wool blanket off the back, and she’d flopped into the spot beside him, half-sprawled, her head on his lap. There was no TV, but the fire was real, and the snow outside had deepened, even the logs on the woodpile capped with white. Neither of them moved for a while. She looked so at home, hands folded on her stomach, bare feet peeking out from the blanket, that Andy almost thought she belonged in this room, that the whole place had been waiting for her. That made his chest ache a little, so he didn’t say it.

Lap Pillow by the Master! +2 VP

Instead, he stroked her arm in silence, watching the pulse at her wrist, and then asked, quietly, what he’d been holding all evening: “Did you ever imagine yourself having kids?”

Dawn’s laugh was immediate, incredulous. “Me? Yeah. I was supposed to be the Responsible One, right? My mom joked I’d have ten before I was out of high school.” She rolled her eyes, but there was no bitterness to it. “But I guess I did want that, in a way. Not the ten. But the noise. The family that’s so big you need a chart just to keep track.” She glanced at Andy, gauging if the admission sounded ridiculous. “I think it’s because everything felt empty after she died. Like, overnight, all the color just disappeared from the house.” She flexed her toes beneath the blanket. “It’s weird, but what I missed most was eating dinner at a table with too many people. The yelling, the fighting over the last roll, even the mess.”

Andy could see it: Dawn presiding over a kitchen table, sleeves rolled, a stray child or two orbiting her knees, a sense of perpetual, chaotic motion. He said so, and she made a face at him, but he could tell she liked the image.

“I used to watch those TV families,” she said, “the ones where everyone’s screaming but somehow it’s fine at the end of every episode. I wanted that so bad it made my heart hurt.” She looked up, her smile softened by memory. “Except instead I got to be my own mom, and my own dad, and sometimes even my own little brother, depending on the day.”

He asked when she knew she’d have to be the adult herself. She tilted her head back, eyes tracking the roof beams overhead, and thought for a long moment before answering. “It wasn’t dramatic. I don’t even think I noticed until years later. It just… happened. One day, I was packing lunch for Sebastian, and the next, I was calling utility companies to fight over a bill. You don’t realize you’re the grown-up until you’re the one on the phone, and nobody else comes to help.”

She folded her arms around Andy’s waist, squeezing him absently, and said, “I don’t regret it. I’d do it all again, even the sucky parts.” She looked at him then, really looked. “But I didn’t let myself want anything for me. Not for a long time. I figured that door was closed.”

Andy had no clever response to that, so he hugged her tighter, resting his chin in the warm nest of her hair. They were both silent for a while, the sort of silence that only happens when two people know each other well enough to sit in it unafraid.

“I just never thought it would be possible,” she said, quieter now. “I was raising Sebastian by the time I was fifteen, after my Mom died, and it felt like I was already raising a kid. Then my dad—he just… broke. So I did what I always do. I covered the gaps.” She rested her head on Andy’s shoulder. “When I started at The Harrington, I thought, okay, maybe things would calm down. I could have a life. But the more I worked, the less energy I had for anything else. I’d see other women my age dating, or getting married, or just… being normal. And I figured that particular door had closed, and I hadn’t even noticed when.”

He held her, not trying to fix it. Just listening.

“You know what’s weird?” she asked, tilting her face up. “It’s not even the kid part I missed most. It’s the idea of having someone who wants the same life as me. The same weird, messy, sticky life.” She laughed softly. “I guess I never knew I could just want that.”

Andy kissed her forehead. “I want that,” he said, and let it hang there, true and unadorned.

She went very still. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s why I’m marrying you. And given the harem, I’m sure it will be a chaotic, messy life.”

She put a hand on his chest, right over his heart, and held it there for a while. He could feel her pulse through her palm. “Okay,” she said. “That’s good.”

He thought about his own parents, then, and the memories came in a rush: his mother’s habit of making up elaborate bedtime stories, each one a thinly veiled lesson about kindness or telling the truth. His father’s weird affection for dad jokes, the way he always seemed to be waiting for someone to enter a room just so he could deliver a punchline. The family trips to Superdog in Chicago—his mother never ate the hot dogs, just the pile of fries, and his dad always stole a bite anyway.

He told Dawn about a night when he was nine, sleepless from anxiety over a spelling bee the next day, and his mom had taken him out for pancakes at midnight. “She said pancakes at night are for emergencies or celebrations, and that night was both.” He smiled, embarrassed to admit how much he missed her, even now.

Dawn listened intently, her hand never leaving his. “You’re a good storyteller,” she said.

He shrugged. “I just lived it.”

“So did she,” Dawn said. “You carry people with you, even when it’s over.”

He nodded, feeling that in his chest.

At some point, the conversation shifted away from childhood and toward the future, as if they’d built the emotional runway and could now steer into uncharted air. Andy asked, “What do you think it would actually look like, if all of us lived together? You, me, and everyone?”

Dawn’s eyes lit up, the old household manager energy rising. “First off, you’d need a schedule. Not for sex, that just sorts itself out, but for logistics. Who’s doing groceries, who’s walking the dog—oh my god, we’d need at least one more dog besides Samson, so nobody fights over whose turn it is. Laundry would be chaos, unless someone takes charge. Cooking would require another schedule.” She was counting off points on her fingers without thinking. “You can’t just throw people and feelings in a house and hope it works. There need to be systems.” She grinned, then caught herself. “Sorry. I get weird about this stuff.”

He told her it was not weird, that he loved it. “I honestly think the rest of us would forget we had a pet unless you reminded us.”

She laughed, a real one, and tucked her face into his neck. “You would not. But you’d probably let the mail pile up until we missed a bill.”

He admitted this was true.

She said, “I think the biggest challenge would be remembering that nobody’s in charge, and everyone’s in charge. I’d probably try to run the place, and everyone would resent me for it in a week.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. You’d be the one who makes sure we don’t forget birthdays, or that the fridge isn’t a biohazard zone. The one who helps us not fall apart.”

She blinked, surprised by the sentiment, and Andy wondered if anyone had ever actually said that to her before.

Dawn seemed about to say something, but then she just settled back into him, pulling the blanket higher, as if she could physically shield herself from the compliment. Her voice was small when she said, “You want that? Really?”

Andy laughed. “Yeah. I think it’s great. I’d love to see you take charge of that.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’d be the fun police within a week. You’d all hate me.”

He shook his head, pulling her closer. “No. You’d make sure we don't accidentally forget an anniversary. Or accidentally double-booking three dates on the same night.”

She laughed, but it turned into something softer, and she looked at him with a kind of shy hope. “You really think it could work?”

He nodded, no doubt. “If anyone could make it work, all of us could.”

Dawn rested her head on his chest, her breath evening out. “I think I’d like that. A lot.”

They talked for a long while, about everything and nothing. Dawn told stories about her family—her dad’s obsession with pancake art, her brothers’ habit of hiding in the dumbest places during hide and seek. Andy shared things about his childhood, the weird rituals his mom invented, the time he and his uncle built a treehouse that collapsed in under twelve hours.

Eventually, the fire faded to a soft red, and Andy checked the time. “We should probably head back soon. It’s almost midnight.”

Dawn didn’t move. “I don’t want it to end.”

He kissed the top of her head, letting his lips linger in her hair. “It’s never going to end. Just this part does.”

She closed her eyes, absorbing it.

They got up together, slowly. Andy helped her with the robe, and she cinched it tight before slipping into her boots. At the door, she paused, looked back at the hearth, and whispered something so low he almost missed it.

“Thank you,” she said. “For today.”

He smiled, all the way inside. “Anytime.”

Hand in hand, they stepped through the door. The world on the other side was brighter, somehow—wind colder, stars sharper, the snow glittering like diamonds in the moonlight.

They walked back through the magical elevator door, back toward the resort, back toward the suite and the rest of the world waiting for them.