No. Not helpful.
"Coffee?" I offered instead.
His expression softened. "God, yes."
***
We moved through our morning routine with the ease of people who'd been doing this for weeks instead of days. I made coffee while he showered. He emerged in running clothes and when I raised an eyebrow, he shrugged.
"Need to clear my head. Want to come?"
I considered the manuscript pages waiting for me, the workshop later this morning. Then I looked at his face—the tension around his eyes, the tight set of his jaw.
"Give me five minutes."
The morning air was crisp and cold, our breath fogging as we stretched on the lodge's front steps. Fresh snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the pines and turning the world into something from a Christmas card. Other writers were still sleeping, the lodge quiet except for sounds from the kitchen where staff prepared breakfast.
"I haven't run in months," I admitted as we started down the path that wound through the pines. "Fair warning, I might die."
Brent laughed and some of the tension left his shoulders. "We'll take it easy. I need to move."
We fell into a comfortable pace, feet crunching on the snow-dusted trail, mountains rising around us in shades of gray and green. For the first ten minutes, we didn't talk. But I was aware of him beside me—the rhythm of his breathing, the way he moved with easy athletic grace that I wasn't matching.
"So your agent," I said when we slowed at a steep incline. "She's really pushing?"
"She's always pushing. That's her job." He paused to catch his breath, hands on hips, looking out at the view of the valley below. "She practically manipulated me into coming here, said it would be good for my creative process. Now she's worried I'm proving her wrong. Wasting time instead of writing the next B.L. Cross thriller like I'm supposed to—" He stopped.
"Supposed to what?"
He was quiet for a moment, and I watched him work through it.
"I think she hoped I'd find clarity here. Figure out what comes next for B.L. Cross." He turned to face me, and the vulnerability in his expression made my chest ache. "But all I can think about is being here. With you."
The words hung between us, weighted with meaning. I was suddenly aware that we were alone on this trail, that the lodge was a twenty-minute run behind us, that if I stepped closer—
"Jason." His voice was low, rough. A warning or an invitation, I couldn't tell.
"We should keep going," I said, even though everything in me wanted to stay right here, in this moment. "Before I die on this mountain."
He smiled, but disappointment flickered in his eyes. "Come on. There's a viewpoint ahead. Worth the climb."
He was right. Ten minutes later, we emerged onto an outcropping of rock with a view that stole what little breath I had left. The sun was breaking over the eastern peaks, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold. The valley below was a patchwork of snow and shadow, and the air was so cold it burned my lungs.
"Wow," I breathed.
"Yeah." But when I glanced at him, he was looking at me instead of the view.
My pulse jumped. "Brent—"
"I know." He looked away, jaw tight. "I know we can't. That there are a dozen reasons this is a terrible idea. But I'm having a really hard time remembering what those reasons are when you look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm not B.L. Cross. Like I'm Brent and that he's enough."
The rawness in his voice undid me. I took a step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold morning air. "You are enough. You've always been enough."
"Jason." My name was half plea, half prayer. "If we do this—if we cross this line—there's no going back."
