CONTESSA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND ROOM SERVICE

The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, casting golden stripes across the hotel bed. Maggie lay tangled in the sheets, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded with sleep. She stretched, yawned, and blinked at the figure silhouetted near the window.

Contessa was already dressed. Not in tactical gear or some ridiculous costume—thankfully—but a crisp blouse and slacks, posture straight as ever, staring out over the city like she owned it.

Maggie groaned into her pillow. “How long have you been up?”

“Forty-six minutes.”

“Babe. It’s Saturday.”

“I am aware. You designated this as a ‘lazy morning.’”

Maggie sat up, squinting. “Right. So why do you look like you’re about to brief a boardroom?”

“I did not bring casual attire. You said this hotel was high-end.”

“That wasn’t a dress code thing,” Maggie muttered, rubbing her face. Then she perked up. “Wait—did you order room service?”

Contessa turned slightly, frowning. “No. Was I supposed to?”

“Yes!” Maggie flopped back against the pillows dramatically. “It’s, like, the only reason to stay somewhere this expensive. You order stupidly overpriced pancakes and eat them in bed while pretending you’re royalty.”

Contessa hesitated. “You wish to emulate aristocracy as a leisure activity?”

“Yes.”

“That seems like a waste.”

“It is,” Maggie said, grinning. 

There was a beat.

“I reviewed the menu options last night,” Contessa said. “Some items had poor nutritional value. Others lacked caloric density. I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “You read the room service menu like it was a logistics report?”

“There were graphs.”

Maggie threw a pillow at her. It bounced harmlessly off Contessa’s arm.

“Just pick something that sounds fun,” she said. “It doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to taste good.”

Contessa picked up the menu from the dresser and studied it with renewed seriousness. “Would waffles be an appropriate selection?”

Maggie grinned. “Waffles are always appropriate.”

Contessa reached for the phone and paused. “Should I… request multiple toppings?”

“Absolutely.”

Contessa dialed. “Yes. One order of Belgian waffles. Add strawberries, whipped cream, chocolate chips, and…”—she glanced at Maggie, who mouthed bacon—“…a side of bacon. For two.”

She hung up, then turned back. “Estimated delivery: twenty-two minutes.”

Maggie beamed. “Look at us. Embracing decadence like pros.”

Contessa sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, still stiff but a little less statuesque. “I am attempting enjoyment.”

“You’re doing great,” Maggie said, scooting closer and resting her head on Contessa’s shoulder. “And just wait until you try waffles with whipped cream.”

Contessa looked down at her. “Is that… considered romantic?”

Maggie smiled. “Everything is, if you want it to be.”

They sat together there in quiet anticipation, sunlight pouring in, the faint clatter of a breakfast cart approaching in the hall.