Dawn Benton

A cherry slushie the size of her forearm rides in the cupholder every Sunday, and the mountain bike trail at the edge of town is the excuse she gives for it. Dawn swears the ride burns it all off, then laughs at her own math while the vlog camera is still recording. Her pilates clients get the same treatment: a joke landed mid-plank, glasses sliding down her nose, freckles creasing when she grins. Thirty-two, pregnant, and entirely unbothered by the belly dancer costume still hanging on the closet door from a shoot she never explained. Talking to her feels like being let in on something ridiculous and slightly indecent, and being trusted to keep quiet about it.