The Chapel of Small Kindnesses

After lunch, Andy lingered just outside the Main Building, letting the slow afternoon warmth press against his face. Every window along the lobby blazed with sun, throwing his reflection back at him a dozen different ways, none of them quite right. The glass doors hissed open and shut at intervals, a parade of contestants and Mildreds passing through, each absorbed in their own tiny crisis or pleasure. He watched as Norah, in four-inch blue heels, trotted past with a bakery box balanced on one palm. She tripped, right on cue, then caught herself with comic grace. Marissa strode behind, collecting the debris, her top doing nothing to restrain her chest. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she had cried, but when Andy took a step towards her, she deftly avoided him, rushing in the other direction. He wondered what that was about. In the middle distance, Emily sat on the flagstones in a patch of sun, hair fanned out around her like a mermaid on a rock. She was sketching, or maybe just doodling, her bare legs making patterns in the dust.

It was, in other words, an ordinary day at the HH.

Andy let his gaze drift back toward the path leading to the beach. He wondered where Sam had gone. For the last two days, every time she hugged him, she started to say something, then laughed it off, ruffling his hair or giving him a friendly punch in the arm. “You got a minute later?” she’d ask, or, “Catch you after lunch?” But every time he tried to ask, she brushed it off. It was always “later.” He assumed, worst case, that she’d actually tell him on their date day. Which—as he recalled—was the last one in the sequence this time, the day before Challenge Day.

Based on her skittishness, he assumed it had to do with Liesa.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sun burn shapes into the backs of his eyelids. A presence moved up behind him, silent except for the faint static of bunny fur and breath.

“Boo!” Dawn’s hands clapped his shoulders from behind, cold from the shade.

He did jump, a little. Dawn’s laugh rang out, then immediately broke into a choked giggle as she doubled over, clutching her stomach. Her bunny ears splayed wildly with every convulsion, and the motion set her new breasts jiggling in their loose t-shirt cocoon.

“Didn’t see you coming,” Andy admitted, turning to face her.

Dawn wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “You should’ve. I’m a hazard to myself and others.” She straightened, then leaned in for the hug. Andy braced his knees as she glomped him, arms going wide and strong. The impact pressed her entire front against him, pillowy and warm and alive. He could feel her heartbeat through her chest, as if she was vibrating with nervous energy.

“You okay?” he asked, low.

Dawn grinned up at him. “Still adjusting,” she said, and looked down at her own chest, then at where it mashed against his. She broke the hug and stepped back, did a twirl on the flagstones, and came to a perfect stop, her ears catching a draft and flapping behind her like streamers. “Be honest. Do I look ridiculous?”

Andy shook his head, and, with more sincerity than he expected, said, “No. You look—” He almost said “great,” but Dawn’s eyes were too bright, too sharp for something that simple. “You look happy.”

Dawn ducked her head, but her smile lingered. “I am.” She reached out and tugged his sleeve. “Come on,” she said. “I want to show you something.” Dawn didn’t waste time. She loped ahead, her gait more energetic than ever, the soles of her white sneakers flashing as she led Andy past the trimmed lawns and through a break in the hedges. Her ears caught the wind, flopping behind her head, and when she looked back, the expression on her face was half daring, half pleading. Andy followed, his stride twice hers but never able to close the gap—she always managed to stay just out of arm’s reach, like she was testing how far she could go without losing him.

The path cut through a stand of old eucalyptus, the shade dappling their arms and faces. Dawn said nothing for a while, just ran her fingers along the peeling bark as she passed, sometimes stopping to look up at the gnarled branches overhead.

Eventually, Andy caught up, breath a little faster than he wanted to admit. He noticed that Dawn’s chest heaved too, but she only laughed. “I timed it so you’d have to hustle,” she said, not out of cruelty but as a kind of mischief. “Come on. It’s not far.”

“Should I close my eyes?” he asked, and she considered, then shook her head.

“Better if you see it coming,” she said, and turned off the trail.

The ground here was packed dirt and pine needles, still soft from last week’s rain. Dawn’s ears went alert, scanning for some imaginary threat. The brush grew thicker, but a game trail wound through, barely wide enough for them to walk shoulder to shoulder. Dawn walked ahead anyway, bobbing slightly as she picked her way through the uneven ground.

Andy followed, silent for a bit, thinking about the way she moved: all energy and caution, a creature that had finally found a world made for her. He thought about what it must have been like, back in Chicago, with no sun and no garden and no place to run except the cracked sidewalks and the echoing lobbies of a hotel. He wondered if Dawn ever missed it. Or if she’d become something else here, grown into this wild, joyful, sun-fed version of herself.

The path twisted through mud from last week’s rain, his sneakers sinking with each step. Sometimes he lost sight of her entirely, just a flick of pink or a rustle in the underbrush. Every time he rounded a bend or ducked a branch, she was there ahead, waiting, but never waiting too long—always tempting him forward, as if she was the only one who really knew the route. Maybe she did.

Dawn made a show of stepping over a fallen log, then turned back, eyes bright. “Are you winded already?” she teased.

He almost lied, but it didn’t seem worth it. “Little bit,” he admitted. “Not all of us have your velocity.”

She grinned, a flash of tooth and mischief, and then she was gone again, ears streaming behind. He thought about chasing her but realized he liked this rhythm—the chase, the catch, the little breathless pause before she darted off again.

After a while, Dawn’s voice brought him back. “It’s just ahead,” she said, ears up.

The path through the bramble was narrower than it first appeared, the tangle of sumac and wild rose closing in to snag Andy’s jeans at every opportunity. Several times, Dawn had to double back to free a stuck branch from his sleeve, or to rescue him from a patch of burdock burrs. Each time she did, her hands lingered a millisecond longer than necessary, and when she finally pronounced him “safe and cute,” she gave a conspiratorial wink and scampered ahead. He lost sight of her twice—once behind a stand of twisted manzanita, once in the shadow of an overgrown boulder—but always her laugh echoed just out of view, a thread tying him forward.

They crested a shallow rise, and then, as if switching channels, the world changed. The air tasted sharper, heavy with the scent of loam and fresh-cut stems. A small, almost secret grove ringed by cypress and cedar opened out below, the clearing at its heart raked as clean as a Zen garden. Golden light poured in a single, unbroken shaft through the dense canopy, spotlighting a circle of wooden benches. And at the far edge—half hidden by a stand of ferns—stood an archway, maybe nine feet tall, woven from living willow whips and grapevine. Its limbs spiraled upward in green, breathing arcs, studded here and there with little orange lantern flowers. The entire thing looked like it had simply grown out of the ground, not been built by human hands.

Andy stopped at the edge of the grove, letting the scene resolve in his mind like a slow photograph. Dawn hovered beside him, her hand hovering at his elbow, as if guiding him to a seat at a private premiere. “You can go in,” she whispered, but didn’t move to enter herself.

He stepped from the dappled shadow into the full blaze of sun. The benches were raw wood—cypress, by the smell—still streaked with resin. There weren’t many, maybe five or six, arranged in a loose semicircle that faced the willow arch. Someone—Dawn, obviously—had scrubbed the seats until they gleamed and picked every weed from the dirt floor. On one of the benches, he noticed a scattering of small, folded papers, each weighed down by a pebble. He bent closer. Handwritten notes, some in blue ink, some in green. He didn’t read them, not yet.

The arch was the true centerpiece, alive in a way he hadn’t expected. The green shoots glowed, while grape tendrils twined together in tight braids, and the base was anchored by two boulders, their tops smoothed flat by years of rain. Up close, Andy could see a ribbon of blue plastic—twine or maybe a bread bag—worked into the lower branches. He smiled, recognizing Dawn’s signature: always a bit of scavenged color, tucked in where least expected.

He stood in the center of the circle and slowly turned. The effect was almost vertiginous, how the trees leaned in to create a dome, the pattern of shadow and sunlight shifting with every step. There was nothing religious about it, but it still felt sacred, in a way that prickled the back of his neck. Not a place for worship, exactly, but for… what? Witness? Remembering?

He looked for Dawn, but she remained at the grove’s entrance, half-hiding behind a pillar of twisted cedar. She watched him, arms folded, ears up and alert. Andy realized she was nervous. Maybe for the first time since he’d known her, she wasn’t performing or posing. She was just waiting, breath held, to see what he thought.

“It’s…” he tried. The words felt clumsy. “You made this?”

Dawn ducked her head, then nodded. “Well, yeah. It’s not totally done. But I wanted you to see.”

Andy tried to find a precedent in his life for how this made him feel. The closest he could get was the summer he and his father had spent building the treehouse. Working side by side, battered hands, the smell of sap and sweat and sunblock. The pride in seeing something solid, something nobody could take away, rising from the raw materials of the world. But this was more delicate, more alive. Less fortress, more garden.

It was simple. That was the genius of it. No statues, no altar, just space—somewhere people could actually sit, maybe talk, maybe just watch the sky change. A place to be, instead of a place to perform.

Dawn said, “You like it?”

Andy nodded, then, realizing how dumbly he was just standing there, said, “It’s beautiful, Dawn. Really.”

Dawn’s smile lit up. She did another little twirl, the hem of her skirt snapping out, her new chest nearly breaking free of the t-shirt’s strained print. She hopped up on one of the benches, turned to face him, then patted the space beside her.

He sat, feeling the warmth of the wood under his legs. From here, the archway drew the eye directly up to the gap in the leaves where the sky was sharpest, and he could see what she’d been aiming for. If you looked just right, you almost forgot the world around it—even the sea breeze died down, as if not to interrupt.

Dawn swung her feet, shoes skimming the dirt. “It’s a work in progress,” she said, more shyly than before. “But I wanted you to see it before—well, before it’s done.”

He could tell there was more, but he waited, letting her spool out the words in her own time.

Dawn reached down, picking at a splinter in the bench. “Do you know what I like best about the old chapels?” she asked. “It’s not the candles, or the statues, or even the windows. It’s that people come there to leave something behind. Not just prayers. Like… little promises. Or grief. Or hope.” She looked up at him, earnest. “I always liked the idea that you could just put your worries down for a minute. Not forever—just long enough to breathe.”

Andy smiled, slow. “I like that too.”

Dawn nodded, and for a second the confidence wavered. “I wanted it to be a place for the small things. The things that don’t get a statue.” She glanced at him, then back at the ground. “It’s dumb, I guess, but—”

“It’s not dumb,” Andy said. “It’s the opposite of dumb.”

She looked at him, and the way her eyes shone made it clear how much it mattered.

For a while, they just sat. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of salt and sun-warmed wood. There was a hush to the grove that felt intentional, as if the trees themselves had agreed to keep quiet.

Eventually, Dawn hopped off the bench, brushed the dust from her thighs, and beckoned him toward the arch. Up close, Andy saw the work it must have taken—every willow shoot twisted and guided, every vine nipped and tied off just so. It was alive, not just built. Dawn ran her fingers along one of the thicker branches. “If you touch the green parts, it feels like a pulse,” she said, and Andy tried it, surprised by the faint give of the new growth under his thumb.

He traced a spiral, following the pattern up until it vanished into the leafy tangle above. “How long did this take you?” he asked.

Dawn shrugged. “I used my BPs for the clearing, the space. I came back every day after breakfast. Erin helped me with some of the plants. It helped to have something real to do. Something that didn’t care about points, or being voted out.”

Dawn 5800 BP - 2500 BP = 3300 BP

Andy tried to imagine her, in the half-light of dawn or dusk, coaxing the living wood into shape. He wondered if she’d ever had the chance to make something that was only for herself.

She turned to him, a little more serious now. “It’s for everyone, though. Not just me. I want them all to come here. Even if they don’t have a reason yet.”

Andy considered the women—some skeptical, some eager, a few who’d probably never even think to step off the main path. He liked the idea of each of them, in turn, finding their way here. He liked it more than he would have guessed.

At the entrance to the clearing, just off the main path, there was a wooden board fastened to two stakes. In careful block print, Dawn had written SMALL KINDNESSES in sharpie, and below, a dozen slips of paper were pinned up with bright thumbtacks. Each was scrawled in a different hand, some legible, some not. Andy moved closer, curious.

Dawn drifted to the noticeboard, her steps quiet on the packed earth. She peeled off a couple of the pinned slips and waved Andy over. “Look at these,” she said, her voice warm. “They’re not big deals, but they’re everything.”

She handed him two: they weren’t signed (he assumed the intent was for these kindnesses to be anonymous) but one was unmistakable in Norah’s script, promising to stay up with Emi to see her Forest, even though Norah had a killer headache. The other was from Erin, in her small, prickly handwriting, promising not to correct Liesa’s mispronunciation of botanical Latin for at least a day.

“They’re kind of adorable,” Dawn said, reading over his shoulder. “Norah acts like she’s a hotshot, but she’s a softie.”

Andy grinned. “And Erin’s always going to be Erin, but she’s trying.”

Dawn nodded, then pointed to a fresh slip, tacked crookedly. “That one’s mine,” she said.

Andy read: “‘Let Chloe eat the last pan de Mallorca, even though I wanted it so, so bad.’”

Andy glanced at her. This was the first he heard of Riley’s walks being something Chloe was worried about. but Dawn’s eyes were on the board. “It doesn’t sound like much, but when you add them up…” she let the thought hang.

He understood. In the context of everything—of the game, of how the world worked here—these tiny acts became a record of who they’d been to each other. More lasting than any point tally or award.

Dawn brushed a finger along the edge of the board. “I wanted to make a place where small kindnesses could be remembered. Where it wasn’t about forever. Just… day to day.”

Andy thought about his own life—how every relationship he’d ever had seemed to blow up under the weight of expectation, of not being enough or being too much. This was a different kind of love, built out of daily choices.

Dawn smiled, then got serious. “I used to think big gestures were all that mattered. That’s what the movies tell you, right? Go big or go home.” She laughed, then sobered. “But after my mom died, all I could do was small things. Dad wasn’t there, not really, and it was just me and the boys. There wasn’t time for declarations. There was just breakfast, and walking Sebastian to school, and remembering to buy cereal.” She looked away, ears drooping slightly. “I wasn’t a hero. I just didn’t want anyone to fall apart.”

She looked at him, **** but steady. “Turns out, that’s what love is. Just… the small things. Even if it’s hard.”

Andy nodded. It tracked with everything he knew about her, about himself. Maybe, he thought, this was what he’d been missing for years—a way of loving that didn’t require constant proof, just constant presence.

Dawn plucked another slip from the board. “I used to write my abuela every week. She’d always end her letters with, ‘Be a blessing, not a burden, mija.’” Dawn smiled, a little watery, then wiped her nose. “I thought it meant I had to do everything for everyone, never ask for help. But now I think it just means… do your part. Make life easier, not harder.”

Andy watched her, feeling the gravity in her words. “Dawn, this is—” he hesitated, looking for the right word. “It’s a gift. For everyone.”

Dawn ducked her head, hiding the smile, but her ears gave her away.

They stood there for a bit, looking at the slips, the sunlight moving in bands across the wood. Andy thought about how different this was from anything he’d ever experienced. Not a sanctuary, not a church—but a place that made space for every little act, every attempt at goodness, no matter how small.

He wondered what it would mean for the others, when they saw it. If it would change anything, or just make the days a little softer.

For now, it was enough to stand in the warm light and know that, even in the strangeness of this place, kindness was being recorded.

Dawn took his hand, gentle but confident, and led him back to the benches under the arch. “Let’s sit,” she said. “There’s more I want to show you.”

They settled on the longest of the benches, side by side, and the archway above cast shifting patterns of leaf and light over their hands and knees. It was late afternoon, but the sun seemed to linger in the clearing, refusing to give up the stage.

Dawn sat with her knees pulled up, her skirt draped over her legs like a lap blanket. She looked at Andy, and the way her eyes shone made it clear she was winding up to say something important.

He waited, patient.

She asked, “What do you think a family is supposed to look like?” The question came out soft, almost shy.

Andy considered, then shook his head. “I don’t know if I’ve ever figured that out,” he admitted. “Most of the time, I’m just making it up as I go.”

Dawn grinned, as if this was exactly the answer she’d expected. “Me too,” she said, then paused. “But I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Especially since coming here.”

She drew in a breath, steadying herself. “My brothers used to call me ‘the planner,’” she said. “I was always organizing them—school, sports, getting Dad out of bed on the weekends. After Mom died, it was like… if I stopped moving, everything would fall apart. So I just kept moving.” She laced her fingers together in her lap, her bunny ears twitching in time with her words. “I thought that was my only value. That if I wasn’t helping, I wasn’t worth anything.”

Andy reached over, resting his hand on her shoulder, grounding her.

“But,” Dawn went on, “since the contest started, I keep catching people doing these tiny things for me.” She counted them off on her fingers: “Chloe baked bread the way I liked it, even though she didn’t have to. Emi taught me how to draw something other than stick figures, just because I mentioned it. Norah gave me a pair of heels when my sneakers ripped, even though they were her favorite color.”

She smiled, her cheeks warm. “None of it was about earning points. Or keeping things from breaking. It was just… because. I never realized people might want me around, even when I wasn’t being useful.”

Andy felt the words settle in his chest, heavy but right.

Dawn looked at him, serious. “I know it’s weird here. I know the show makes us think it’s about who gets picked, or who wins. But I keep thinking—maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re all here to figure out how to stop trying so hard. How to just let ourselves be loved, even if we don’t know what to do with it.”

Andy nodded, slow. “It’s a good thing to figure out.”

She blushed, looking down. “I’m still working on it.”

She leaned back, stretching out her legs, letting her head rest on Andy’s shoulder. “If I got to pick my family?” she said, dreamy. “I think it would be like this. Not fancy, not perfect. But safe.” She closed her eyes, as if seeing it. “A place where breakfast matters more than birthdays. Where the kitchen’s always messy, and people talk to each other even when they’re tired. Where someone remembers how you take your coffee, and maybe you remember theirs, too.”

Her words conjured images in Andy’s mind—scenes that had never quite existed for him, but which felt real in the saying of them, as if light and hope and belief could create them, give them a kind of reality.

Dawn said, “I want a home that grows from the ordinary. That’s what I think family should look like.”

She looked up at him, eyes bright. “I think you’re the hearth, Andy. Not the roof, not the walls. The hearth. That’s why everyone comes to you.”

He flushed, unsure how to take it. “That’s a lot of pressure,” he said, trying to make it light.

But Dawn shook her head. “No. It’s just… what happens. Even when you don’t mean it.”

They sat in silence, each lost in thought.

Finally, Andy said, “What do you want from me, Dawn?” The words were gentle, but there was weight to them. “Not what you think you should want. Not what you think I want. What do you actually want?”

He felt her tense, then relax. She looked at the ground, at her hands, then at him. “That’s a hard question,” she said, voice barely a whisper.

He waited, letting the question hang in the air. The breeze shifted, and a shaft of sun painted the arch above them gold.

After a long moment, Dawn said, “Can I think about it? I want to give you a real answer.”

Andy nodded. “Of course.”

They sat that way, Dawn on Andy’s lap as she had to, the light moving around them, the world quiet except for the distant shush of the breeze in the willow leaves.

It was nearly an hour before Dawn spoke again.

They watched the sun climb across the sky, the patches of light shifting on the dirt, the shadow of the willow arch dancing slow circles around them. At some point, Dawn leaned her head on Andy’s shoulder, and he curled an arm around her. The closeness was so simple, so easy, that he almost forgot what it meant to want anything else.

Finally, Dawn pulled away, drawing herself upright. She looked at Andy, and for once, there was no mask—no jokes, no bright cover, just the real person underneath.

“I think I have an answer,” she said. Her voice was clear, but there was a thread of fear in it.

Andy turned, bracing.

Dawn smiled, not the goofy one, but the small, private one he’d only seen when she thought no one was watching. “I want to be your wife, Andy,” she said. “Not because I have to. Not because I think that’s what you need. I want to build a life with you. I want to wake up and know there’s a day ahead, and that we’ll be in it together. I want the ordinary, and the messy, and the sweet. I want to be the person you come home to.” She looked down, fingers plucking at the hem of her skirt. “That’s what I want.”

Andy felt the weight of it, heavy and wonderful at the same time.

He said, “I’d like that, too. A lot.” He took her hand, squeezed it. “But I need to be honest. If I marry you, it wouldn’t just be you.”

Dawn’s face didn’t even flicker. “I know. Erin’s already said she’d kill you if you married anyone else first. Claire’s been drawing up catgirl marriage contracts for days.” She grinned, then softened. “Laura and Emi, too. I know. I’m not stupid.”

Andy laughed, surprised at the relief he felt. “Does it bother you?”

Dawn shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I wouldn’t have guessed I’d be okay with it? But—” she shrugged, her bunny ears flopping forward. “It’s not like it would be a contest. It’s just… sisters, I guess. All of us together.”

Andy nodded, then hesitated. “But is that what you want? Or just what you think you’re supposed to want?”

Dawn looked away, then back. “Honestly?” She paused, searching for words. “If you’d asked me before I got here, I’d have said no way. I’d want you all to myself.” She picked at a splinter on the bench. “But after everything that’s happened, after meeting the other women, it just makes sense. It wouldn’t work any other way. We’re already bound together. And I like them, Andy. I really do.” She leaned in, conspiratorial. “Even Riley, once you get past the spiky part.”

Andy smiled. “That’s fair.”

They were quiet for a while. The sounds of the grove pressed in: the hum of insects, the creak of a branch, the occasional distant laugh from the main lawn.

Then Dawn said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If I hadn’t said yes—if I’d wanted something different—would you have picked me anyway?”

Andy thought about it. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’d like to think so. But I wouldn’t want to **** you into a life you didn’t want.”

Dawn nodded, as if that settled something.

“I’m glad it’s us,” she said. “All of us. I think it’ll be good.” She laughed, sudden and bright. “It’ll be a circus, but it’ll be good.”

He laughed, too. “I guess we’ll figure it out.”

Dawn leaned her head on his shoulder again, more relaxed this time.

Romantically Committed to the Master! +7 VP

A few minutes later, she said, “Do you want to know something weird?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve been teaching Laura how to bake.” She smiled, thinking of it. “She’s really good at it, even though she pretends she isn’t. She’s quiet, but when she thinks you’re not looking, she gets this look—like she’s working out how everything fits together.” She turned, serious. “I can see why you love her so much.”

Andy felt his heart skip, not out of guilt but out of being seen.

“I was scared, when she came back,” Dawn admitted. “I thought you’d forget about all of us, that you’d go right back to being only hers. But it’s not like that. She’s… she’s not a threat. If anything, I think she makes you better.”

Andy listened, unsure what to say.

Dawn said, “I just want to know that what we have is real. That I’m not second-best, or just a backup. I want to matter, too.”

He looked at her, and there was no way to hide. “You do,” he said, honest and sure. “You always have, Dawn. Do you remember our date night, during the third round? I was emotionally exhausted, after the night with Riley, but you came, and you brought cocoa, and just… sat with me, and made me feel better. That’s you, Dawn. That’s your kindness.”

She smiled, the kind that reached her eyes.

“I believe you,” she said, then rested her head on his shoulder.

The quiet stretched, warm and safe. The world faded to just the two of them, the hush of the trees, and the soft glow from the arch.

After a while, Dawn said, “I want to write a new promise for the board.”

Andy stood with her, and together they walked to the noticeboard, the slips fluttering in the gentle wind. Dawn took a blank paper and wrote, in bold, careful letters:

I PROMISE TO COOK SUNDAY DINNER EVERY WEEK, NO MATTER WHAT. EVEN IF IT’S JUST PB&J. EVEN IF WE’RE FIGHTING. EVEN IF WE’RE SAD. I WILL KEEP ALL OF US FED, SO WE DON’T FORGET HOW TO SIT AT THE SAME TABLE.

She didn't sign it. That wasn't the point. Andy’s turn. He took a slip, wrote slow, then pinned it up next to hers.

I PROMISE TO BE THERE WHEN YOU NEED ME. EVEN IF I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY. EVEN IF ALL I CAN DO IS LISTEN. EVEN IF YOU JUST WANT SILENCE. I’LL SHOW UP.

They stood back, looking at the two notes side by side. It felt more binding than any ring or ceremony. The promises weren’t about forever. They were about right now, and tomorrow, and the ordinary days after that.

Dawn looked up at him, her eyes wide and clear. “This is enough,” she said. “I don’t need a big moment. I just want to know I can count on you.”

He nodded, sure. “You can.”

She hugged him, fierce and unafraid.

They stayed in the clearing until the sun was just above the trees, long enough for the colors to shift from yellow-white to the deep honey of late afternoon.

Dawn led the way, showing Andy which benches needed sanding. He took the palm sander and got to work, the low whirr of the motor vibrating through the wood, the grain blooming smooth under his hands. Dawn worked beside him, kneeling on the earth, prying up rocks, raking the mulch around the willow shoots. Sometimes she’d hum under her breath—a little off-key, but bright.

They didn’t talk much. There was something sacred in the hush, something grounding. Andy found himself thinking about nothing except the next inch of wood, the smell of fresh sap, and the easy rhythm of their work.

Every once in a while, he’d look up to find Dawn watching him, sweat beading at her brow, her cheeks streaked with dust. Her hair was caught up in a messy ponytail, and her shirt clung to her back where the heat soaked through. She looked nothing like the breezy, pretty girl from the contest intros. She looked like herself, and Andy liked that better.

He finished the first bench and moved on to the next. As he did, he noticed the way the sunlight shifted, moving in bands across the clearing, splashing the benches with new colors every few minutes. He found himself timing his work to the march of light—trying to finish a seat before the sun crept away from it. It became a game, a challenge that made the work fly by.

When he stood to stretch his legs, Dawn was weaving new green branches into the archway, her arms lifted high above her head. The light caught in the leaves and painted her in gold and green. She paused, noticed his stare, and grinned. “You caught me slacking,” she said.

He shook his head. “You look amazing,” he said, then realized how much he meant it.

Dawn laughed, letting her arms fall. “You know, I timed the arch so the sun moves through it at different angles. In the morning, it’s all cool blue. At sunset, it glows like a lantern. I wanted it to feel different every time you came here.”

Andy admired the idea. “That’s… actually really smart.”

She shrugged, picking up another branch. “I’ve been thinking about light a lot lately. How it changes everything. How it reveals stuff you miss, or hides stuff you don’t want to see.” She plucked a leaf, twirled it between her fingers. “Some days I want to live in the dark. But most of the time, I like seeing things as they are.”

He thought about this, sanding the last rough patch on the bench. “You ever notice,” he said, “how the right light makes even broken things look good?”

Dawn considered, then smiled. “Maybe that’s all any of us needs. Just the right light.”

They finished their work side by side, Dawn weaving branches, Andy sanding wood, both of them content to let the world shrink to the size of the clearing.

As the sun lowered, the chapel filled with amber glow. The dust in the air caught the light, turning every movement into a little comet tail. Andy looked up to see Dawn standing in the arch, her hair burning with the sun behind her, her eyes bright as glass.

She was radiant, literally. For a second, he wondered if it was just a trick of the sun, but when she stepped into the clearing, the glow seemed to follow, hanging around her like an aura.

She didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy admiring the finished benches, the way the sunlight caught on every curve and knot.

When she turned to look at Andy, the light around her faded, and she was just Dawn again—smiling, ordinary, perfect.

He wanted to tell her what he’d seen, but it felt like a secret better left for later.

She dusted off her hands, checked her work, then said, “I think it’s time to head back.”

He nodded, and together they walked through the grove, the path dappled with what was left of the day.

Andy took her hand. Dawn squeezed back, the grip firm and sure. He felt the promise in it—a commitment that was more than words, more than slips of paper or even the vows they’d written in the clearing.

They headed back to the Main Building, the sky soft and streaked with gold, the world quietly remaking itself around them.