When we filled our plates at the buffet, we didn't sit together—I ended up at a table with a few of the more advanced writers, while Jason joined his usual group with Claire and Marcus.
But twice, across the dining hall, our eyes met. And both times, I looked away before I smiled too obviously.
Rebecca Thorn, unfortunately, missed nothing.
"You seem relaxed today," she said, appearing at my elbow with predatory timing. "The mountain air must agree with you."
"It does." I kept my voice neutral, polite but not encouraging.
"Or maybe it's the company?" She glanced pointedly toward Jason's table. "I've noticed you and Mr. Foster have become quite friendly. You walked down together this morning. And yesterday. And the day before that."
So she was keeping track. Of course she was.
"We're roommates," I said easily. "Hard not to run into each other."
"Mm." She leaned in slightly, like we were sharing confidences. "Still. It must be nice having a built-in workshop partner. Very convenient. He seems so... attentive to your feedback."
I recognized the fishing expedition for what it was. Rebecca had been angling for one-on-one attention since day one—sitting next to me at every session, asking questions designed to keep me talking to her specifically, finding excuses to catch me in hallways.
"Jason's a talented writer," I said, keeping my tone professional but cool. "So are several people here."
"Of course." She smiled, undeterred. "Though I did notice him slipping out of the social early last night. And you leaving not five minutes after. I thought maybe you two had a late workshop session planned?"
There it was—the pointed question wrapped in innocence. Not accusatory exactly, but making sure I knew she'd noticed. Making sure I knew she could mention it to others if she wanted.
I met her eyes steadily. "I'm not sure why you're tracking people's movements, Rebecca, but I'd left some notes in my room that I needed."
"Oh, I'm not tracking anyone." She laughed lightly. "Just observant. It's the writer in me, I suppose."
She drifted away, looking pleased with herself, and I felt the irritation settle in my chest. Not fear—there was nothing actually wrong with what Jason and I were doing—but frustration at having something private turned into potential gossip fodder. Whatever was happening between us was too new, too uncertain to have Rebecca Thorn narrating it to the rest of the group.
When I risked another glance at Jason's table, he was deep in conversation with Claire, unaware of Rebecca's commentary.
I intended to keep it that way.
***
The morning session was an exercise in restraint. I'd taught this material dozens of times—character motivation, internal versus external goals, how to craft satisfying character arcs. I could do it in my sleep. But with Jason sitting in the third row, looking at me with those intelligent eyes behind his glasses, taking careful notes in his neat handwriting, every word felt charged with double meaning.
When I talked about characters making choices that revealed their deepest desires, I was thinking about him kissing me in the moonlight. When I discussed internal conflict, I was thinking about the way he'd looked at me this morning—wanting to touch but holding back.
Halfway through, I made the mistake of calling on him.
"Jason, what would you say is the central internal conflict for your protagonist?"
He looked up from his notes, and for a second heat flickered in his expression—memory, want, affection. Then he collected himself, and when he answered, his voice was professional and thoughtful.
"He's caught between his fear of being seen as weak and his desire for real connection. He's built this whole identity around being self-sufficient, but what he really wants is to let someone in. To be known."
"Exactly." I had to clear my throat before continuing. "And that tension—between what we show the world and what we secretly want—that's where the real story lives."
Our eyes held for a beat too long. Then I forced myself to look away, to call on someone else, to keep the workshop moving.
But I felt the weight of his gaze for the rest of the session as I fielded other questions.
"But how do you show that internal conflict without just telling us what the character is thinking?"
"Good question." I paced to the other side of the circle, putting more distance between Jason and me. "You show it through contradiction. What a character says versus what they do. The choices they make when they think no one's watching. The small moments that reveal the truth beneath the performance."
