"I know."
"You live in Colorado. I live in New York. This ends in four days." His voice caught. "How does this not just become something that hurts?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I know I can't spend the next three days pretending I don't feel this. Pretending I don't—" I stopped, the words caught in my throat.
"Don't what?" He stepped closer. We were inches apart now, his breath ghosting across my face.
"Want you," I whispered. "I want you."
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then his hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. I stopped breathing.
"We should get back," he said, but he didn't move. His thumb traced my jawline, his eyes dark and intense. "We have the workshop in two hours."
"We should," I agreed, but I was leaning into his touch, my eyes drifting closed.
"Jason." His voice was strained. "If you don't step back right now, I'm going to kiss you."
I opened my eyes and met his gaze. "What if I don't want to step back?"
The sound he made was half groan, half laugh. "You're killing me."
"Good." I was emboldened by his reaction, by the way his hand was still cupping my face like I was precious. "Becauseyou've been killing me since I walked into that suite four days ago."
"Four days," he repeated, like he couldn't believe it. "It feels like longer."
"Or shorter. I can't tell anymore." I reached up and covered his hand with mine, holding it against my face. "Time feels different with you."
"We really should get back." But his other hand had found my hip, his fingers pressing into me through my running clothes.
"Probably."
Neither of us moved.
Then voices echoed up the trail—other early risers—and we sprang apart. By the time two women from the retreat appeared around the bend, Brent and I were standing a respectable distance apart, both breathless in ways that had nothing to do with the run.
"Beautiful view," one of them said cheerfully.
"Yeah," I managed. "It really is."
***
The run back to the lodge was faster, more urgent. Neither of us spoke, but the tension between us crackled with every accidental brush of our arms, every stolen glance.
We slowed to a walk as we approached the lodge, both breathing hard.
"Jason." Brent caught my wrist, stopping me on the front steps. His thumb found my pulse point, and I knew he could feel how fast my heart was racing. "Tonight. After the evening session. Can we talk? Really talk about this?"
"Yes." My voice came out rough. "We need to."
He nodded, then let go of my wrist and headed inside. I stood there for a moment, trying to get myself under control, trying to remember how to be normal when everything had shifted.
***
The morning workshop was torture. Brent was teaching about dialogue—subtext, what characters weren't saying—and I had to sit there listening to him talk about unspoken desire and longing while trying not to make eye contact. Every example felt like it was meant for me. Every observation about what lay beneath the surface of conversations felt pointed.
Rebecca kept shooting me suspicious looks. Claire smiled knowingly.
"The best dialogue," Brent said, and his eyes found mine across the circle, "is what happens between the words. What the characters want to say but can't. What they're feeling but won't admit."
