Chapter 20: Dawn Devotion
The shriek of the alarm was a violation. It tore through the warm, silent dark of the bedroom, a cheap digital blade. Hannah gasped, her body jerking against the sudden noise. Instinctively, she fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, her fingers clumsy with sleep.
The movement disturbed the warm weight across her middle. Matt’s arm, heavy and possessive even in unconsciousness, tightened around her waist. He made a low, protesting sound into the pillow and buried his face deeper into the curve of her neck. His breath was a warm, steady tickle against her skin.
For a moment, she was tempted. To silence the alarm, to sink back into the nest of sheets and his body, to forget the warehouse, the forklifts, the metallic taste of the air there. The memory of the night before—the slow, urgent rhythm of their bodies, the shower’s steam, the profound quiet of cradled sleep—was a physical pull.
But responsibility was a colder, more insistent thread. She swiped the alarm off. The silence that followed was almost louder.
She turned her head on the pillow. In the weak gray light seeping around the edges of the blind, she could see the strong line of his brow, the relaxed fan of his lashes against his cheek. Peace looked good on him. She kissed his shoulder, a soft press of her lips against his skin. It tasted of sleep and salt and him.
Then, with a practiced stealth born of many such mornings, she began to extricate herself. She lifted his arm, a slow, careful inch at a time. He grumbled again, his fingers flexing against her stomach, seeking to reclaim her. “No,” he muttered, the word slurry and deep.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “Just work. Go back to sleep.”
He released a long, resigned sigh, his arm going slack. She slipped free, the cool air of the room rushing to greet her bare skin, raising instant goosebumps. She grabbed his discarded henley from the floor and pulled it over her head. It swallowed her, the hem brushing her mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. It smelled intensely of him—clean cotton, skin, and something indefinably Matt.
Padding quietly to the bathroom, she closed the door most of the way before flicking on the light. The mirror showed her sleep-tousled hair, a faint pink mark on her collarbone. A small, private smile touched her lips. She brushed her teeth, the mint sharp and waking.
The shower came next. She stepped under the spray before it was fully hot, gasping at the initial cold needles. Gradually, it warmed, loosening the last clinging fingers of sleep from her muscles. She washed quickly, efficiently, her mind already ticking over the day’s tasks. Invoices. Inventory. The persistent drip from bay three’s roof.
She was drying her hair with a towel when she heard it: the distant, definitive click of the stove igniting. A few minutes later, the rich, savory smell of sausage found its way under the bathroom door.
Wrapping the towel around herself, she stepped out into the hallway. The main room was bathed in the flat, earnest light of morning. Matt stood at the stove in a pair of low-slung sweatpants, his back to her, shoulders rolling as he moved a pan. The sight was so profoundly domestic, so unexpectedly dear, that it lodged a sweet, aching knot in her chest.
He heard her. He half-turned, a smile already on his face. “Hey. Toast is about done. Sausage biscuits are a go.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, her voice still husky from sleep.
“I know,” he said, simple. He turned back to flip a biscuit. “But you gotta eat. And my cooking’s better than the breakroom vending machine.”
She couldn’t argue. She dressed quickly in the bedroom—jeans, a soft t-shirt, thick socks—and joined him in the kitchen nook. He set a plate in front of her: two slices of buttered toast cut into triangles, four golden-brown mini sausage biscuits nestled in a paper towel. A cup of coffee, just the way she liked it, steamed beside it.
“Thanks,” she said, sitting. The first bite of sausage, peppery and hot, was heaven.
He leaned against the counter, sipping his own coffee, watching her eat. “What’s on the docket today?”
“Same old,” she said around a mouthful of toast. “Trying to make the new sorting system actually work. Wayne’s probably gonna try to ‘help’ and just mess it all up again.”
Matt chuckled. “Tell him the scanner’s battery is dead. Buys you at least an hour of peace.”
She smiled, pointing a toast triangle at him. “See, this is why I keep you around. Strategic thinking.”
He saluted her with his mug. The easy silence settled between them, comfortable as the old henley she still wore. She watched him, the casual grace of him in his own space, and felt a surge of pure, undiluted happiness. It was followed, quickly, by the shadow of the calendar.
“So,” she began, wiping her fingers. “How long’s the reprieve this time? When do you vanish back into the mystical land of regional trucking?”
He took a long sip, setting the mug down with a soft click. “I go back Thursday morning. Early. Like, ‘still-dark-out, why-do-people-do-this’ early.”
She did the math. Today was Tuesday. Her heart gave a little lift. “So… you’re here tonight. And all day tomorrow.”
“That’s the deal,” he said, his eyes warm on hers. “Got the whole day tomorrow. No alarm clocks, no Wayne, no dripping roofs. Just… us. And maybe some more of that proof we were talking about.”
A blush warmed her cheeks, but she held his gaze. “I think that can be arranged.” She finished her last biscuit, the happiness solidifying into a precious, tangible thing. She got to come home to this. Tonight. To him making dinner, or them ordering something terrible and watching a movie, to his laughter in the dim light, to the weight and warmth of him in their bed. And a whole, wide-open day tomorrow.
It felt like a secret bounty.
Time, however, was a tyrant. The clock on the microwave blinked a relentless reminder. She stood, taking her plate and mug to the sink. “I gotta run.”
“I know.” He didn’t move from his lean against the counter, just watched her gather her things—keys, wallet, the lunch she’d packed the night before. She shrugged into her work jacket, the stiff material foreign after the softness of his shirt.
She walked over to him. He straightened, meeting her in the middle of their cluttered kitchen. She slid her hands up his chest, over the smooth plane of his stomach. He was solid and warm under her palms. She went up on her toes.
He met her halfway, bending down. The kiss was slow, deep, a promise and a placeholder. It tasted of coffee and sausage and home. When they parted, he kept his forehead resting against hers.
“Kick Wayne’s ass for me,” he murmured.
“Always.”
She turned to go, picking up her lunch bag. As she reached the door, his hand connected with a playful, stinging slap to her backside through her jeans.
She yelped, jumping forward, and spun around. He was grinning, unrepentant, eyes bright.
“For luck,” he said.
She shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Jerk.”
“Your jerk,” he corrected, softly.
That stopped her laughter. She looked at him, standing there in their messy kitchen, in the morning light, and felt it all over again—the sheer, staggering fortune of it. “Yeah,” she said, her voice quiet. “You are.”
She opened the door. The hallway air was cooler, neutral, already smelling of other people’s lives. She stepped over the threshold, pulling the door closed behind her. The click of the latch was the period on the morning sentence. But the feel of his lips, the echo of his laugh, and the delicious knowledge of the evening to come traveled with her, a secret warmth against the looming concrete chill of the warehouse. The day ahead was just an interval. Home had been redefined, and she was already counting the hours until she returned to it.
The warehouse air was a stale, metallic chill that seeped into her bones by 9:30 AM. Hannah tucked her chin into the collar of her jacket, the ghost of Matt’s scent on her own skin a faint, private rebellion against the industrial smell of oil and concrete. Her eyes flicked to the large, buzzing fluorescent clock above bay three. Only fifty-three minutes had passed since her last check.
Wayne, true to prediction, had already “helped” by rearranging her labeled pallets into what he called a “more logical flow.” It was, of course, illogical. She spent forty minutes quietly undoing his work, her mind only halfway on the task. The other half was back in their cluttered kitchen, replaying the feel of his hand against her backside, the rumble of his sleep-thick voice.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled off a work glove with her teeth to check it.
Matt (9:47 AM): Wayne in custody yet? I’m picturing you zip-tying him to a hand truck.
A laugh snorted out of her, too loud in the quiet vastness of the storage aisle. She typed back, her fingers clumsy with cold.
Hannah (9:48 AM): Tempting. He just “optimized” my staging area. Now it’s a death trap of unbalanced boxes. I’m letting him think it’s brilliant. Strategic patience.
She tucked the phone away, a small warmth blooming in her chest. The next hour was forklift training, a mandatory refresher full of obvious warnings delivered by a monotone safety manager. She sat in the makeshift classroom, ankle bouncing, and watched the minute hand on the wall clock judder forward with agonizing reluctance.
Matt (11:02 AM): Proof of life? Send a coded signal. One coffee emoji if you’re alive. Two if Wayne’s been epically forklifted into a dumpster.
She smiled at her shoes.
Hannah (11:03 AM): ☕️ Alive. Barely. They’re showing us the same “how to not run over your own foot” video from 2004. The acting is award-worthy.
Matt (11:04 AM): Hang in there. I’m having a thrilling day of leftover sausage biscuits and debating whether to finally watch that weird show about the time-traveling janitor.
Hannah (11:05 AM): Janitors. Plural. And it’s a cult classic, you philistine.
The text exchange was a lifeline, a tiny thread of them weaving through the gray fabric of the day. Lunch in the breakroom was a soggy sandwich and overheard complaints about scheduling. She ate quickly, alone at a small table, and spent the remaining twenty minutes scrolling through photos on her phone from their day out. There was one of Matt, squinting against the sun outside the museum, a faint, unguarded smile on his face. She zoomed in, tracing the pixelated line of his jaw.
The afternoon was inventory, a mind-numbing parade of numbers and serial codes. Her focus fragmented, skittering from the spreadsheet on her clipboard to the clock, to the vibration of her phone every thirty minutes or so. Each buzz was a tiny spear of light.
Matt (1:22 PM): Time-traveling janitor show is… a choice. The special effects budget appears to have been about seven dollars. I’m committed now though.
Hannah (1:35 PM): Told you. My intellectual tastes are refined. My warehouse is leaking in bay three and I’ve counted the same skid of hose fittings three times.
Matt (2:17 PM): I went down a rabbit hole. There are fan theories. Involve interdimensional mops. Send help. Or more sausage.
Hannah (2:45 PM): Just inhaled terrible coffee to stay awake. Thinking about your coffee. Vastly superior.
Matt (3:08 PM): Noted. I’ll put “superior coffee maker” on the list.
She read that last text twice, a faint crease forming between her brows. The list? She shrugged it off. A grocery list, probably. Her mind was too fogged with part numbers to dissect it. The final hour was pure endurance. Her back ached from standing, her eyes strained from the screens and poor lighting. When the shift-end buzzer finally, mercifully sounded, it was the sweetest noise she’d heard all day.
She clocked out, the exhaustion falling away with each step toward the parking lot. The evening air was cool, cleansing. She pulled out her phone.
Hannah (4:02 PM): Escaped. I am a free woman. See you in 20. Do NOT start the janitor show without me.
The drive home was a blur of familiar turns. She found herself grinning at nothing, at everything, her hand on the steering wheel tapping out an impatient rhythm.
Matt listened to the key rattle in the lock, a sound that always sparked a quiet, internal click of rightness. He quickly thumbed his laptop screen dark, closing the dozen real estate browser tabs he’d been cycling through for the last hour. The images—a porch with a swing, a kitchen with natural light, a yard that wasn’t just a fire escape—lingered behind his eyes like a delicious secret.
His day had been a pleasant, deliberate drift. He’d finished the time-traveling janitor show, utterly baffled but weirdly satisfied. He’d spent two hours immersed in a sprawling video game, conquering digital mountains. He’d made himself a late lunch and, while eating, had fallen into the house search, a habit growing more frequent in the weeks since Hannah had moved in.
The apartment was fine. More than fine. But it felt temporary in a way that was starting to grate. It felt like her boxes were still half-unpacked, even though they weren’t. He wanted a place where her things weren’t just in the space, but of it. A place with a real bedroom door, maybe a wall she could paint a color she liked. A place with his and her toothbrush holders, not just his, with hers leaning next to it.
The door swung open and she stood there, haloed by the hallway light, small and slightly rumpled in her work jacket. She looked tired, but her eyes found his instantly, lighting up.
“Hey,” she said, dropping her bag with a thud.
“Hey,” he replied, pushing up from the couch. He met her halfway, gathering her into his arms. She felt solid and real, a welcome weight after the day of screens and silent research. She smelled like warehouse—dust and metal—but underneath, it was still her.
She buried her face in his chest. “If I ever suggest going to a museum on my only day off again, please have me committed.”
He laughed, the sound reverberating against her cheek. “Noted. But the proof was worth it.”
She pulled back, smiling up at him. “Speaking of. What’s for dinner? And please don’t say interdimensional mop meatloaf.”
“I was thinking something from this dimension. Maybe stir-fry?” He kept an arm around her as they moved toward the kitchen, his other hand casually sweeping his closed laptop from the couch cushion onto the side table, screen facing down. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
“Stir-fry is perfect.” She shrugged out of her jacket, watching him move to the refrigerator. “Just no surprises in it. My capacity for surprise is currently zero.”
He pulled out vegetables, his back to her, hiding his own smile. “No surprises,” he agreed, the words tasting like a gentle, thrilling lie on his tongue.
“No surprises,” he agreed, the words tasting like a gentle, thrilling lie on his tongue. He set about chopping vegetables, the rhythmic thock-thock-thock of the knife on the cutting board a comfortable sound. Hannah watched him for a moment, the focused line of his shoulders, before turning toward the bedroom.
“I’m gonna rinse off this warehouse dust,” she said, already pulling her shirt over her head as she walked away.
From the kitchen, he heard the bathroom door shut. A few seconds later, the distinct percussion of the shower spray hitting the tub liner began. He smiled, drizzling oil into the hot wok. It sizzled with promise.
The music from his phone, a low, vibey hip-hop mix, filled the small space. He swayed slightly as he tossed sliced ginger into the oil, the aroma blooming instantly. Then he added the chicken, the sound a satisfying sear.
He was stirring the contents, lost in the rhythm of cooking, when her voice, clear and a little muffled, came from behind the bathroom door. “Hey.”
“Yeah?” he called back, not turning from the stove.
“I miss you,” her voice said, playful and soft through the barrier.
He laughed, shaking his head as he added broccoli. “I’m ten feet away.”
“I know.” The shower was still running. “It’s terrible. I’m all naked in here and you’re out there with… broccoli.”
He slid the vegetables around the wok, his grin widening. “That’s cruel and unusual punishment, Hannah.” He could practically hear her smirk.
“Yep,” she said. Then, her tone dropping to a mock-sorrowful whimper, she added, “You can’t come in here. You have to cook. It’s so sad.”
A genuine laugh burst out of him. He sprinkled in soy sauce, the liquid hissing into steam. “You’re a menace.”
She just hummed, the sound pleased, before the shower spray cut off. He focused on the food, finishing the stir-fry with a handful of snap peas for crunch. He plated it, the colors vibrant against the white dishes.
The bathroom door clicked open. A wave of steam, carrying the clean scent of her soap, drifted into the living room. He heard the soft pad of her bare feet on the floorboards behind him.
“Smells amazing,” she said, her voice closer now.
“Should,” he replied, not turning around as he wiped the wok with a paper towel. “It’s got all the essential food groups.” He picked up both plates and turned to carry them to the small table.
He saw her then. She was leaning against the doorway to the bedroom, one shoulder pressed to the frame. Her damp hair was darker, clinging in little points to her neck and shoulders. She wore only a pair of simple cotton panties and a nightgown.
The gown was sheer black chiffon, diaphanous and short. It fell from two thin straps to brush the tops of her thighs. Beneath it, the curves of her breasts were fully visible, the dark nipples a soft shadow against the fabric. The steam from the bathroom had plastered parts of the material to her stomach, making it even more transparent.
He stopped walking. His breath caught in his throat for a single, sharp second. His eyes traveled from her damp hair, down the revealed lines of her body, and back up to meet her gaze. She watched him look, her expression one of casual innocence, as if she’d simply thrown on the most comfortable thing she owned.
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He walked the rest of the way to the table, setting the plates down with a soft clack. He turned back to face her, leaning his hips against the edge of the table. He crossed his arms, taking her in slowly again, the full picture this time—the audacity of it, the quiet confidence, the breathtaking intimacy of her standing there like that in their cluttered kitchen light.
He bit his lower lip, a slow smile spreading across his face. His eyes finally locked onto hers, bright with amusement and pure, undiluted want.
“So,” he said, his voice a low, warm rumble. “Preview of dessert, is that?”