The dining room was decorated with evergreen boughs and red ribbon this morning, the scent of pine mixing with coffee and fresh pastries. Someone had set small poinsettias on each table. Christmas was everywhere, getting closer, and I felt the countdown like a ticking clock.
Two more days. Then what?
The day was torture.
All through the morning workshop on scene structure, I could barely focus. Every time I looked at Brent, I remembered the way he'd looked in bed this morning, the sounds he'd made, the feeling of him in my hand.
And from the way his gaze kept finding mine, he was having the same problem.
"Jason?" Claire was looking at me expectantly.
"Sorry, what?"
"Your thoughts on the scene we just discussed?"
I scrambled to remember what scene that was. "I, uh... I think the emotional beat needs more setup?"
Brent was watching me, amusement dancing in his eyes. He knew exactly why I was distracted.
"That's a good point," he said and I could hear the laughter in his voice. "The emotional payoff only works if we've laid the groundwork. If the reader understands what's at stake."
His eyes held mine for a beat too long and I felt heat creep up my neck.
Rebecca was watching us with that calculating expression. I looked away.
***
I spent the afternoon free time trying to write, but I couldn't focus. Last night kept replaying in my head—not just the sex, but the way Brent had looked at me. The way he'd held me after. How right it had felt.
And that was the problem. It felttooright for something that had an expiration date.
I opened a new document and let my thoughts pour out onto the page. Wrote about the impossible mathematics of caring about someone when you live in different worlds. About wanting someone when you don't know how to keep them. About the fear that intensity born in isolation doesn't survive reality.
He touches me like I'm precious, like I'm worth keeping. But we've known each other five days. Five days in a bubble where the real world doesn't exist. What happens when we stepoutside? When there's distance and daily life and all the reasons this shouldn't work?
The words came fast and raw, several pages that felt more honest than anything I'd written in months. When I finally looked up, it was almost dinner time, and I felt wrung out but clearer. Or maybe just more aware of how unclear everything was.
My phone buzzed. Garrett:How's it going? You've been quiet.
I smiled and typed back:Busy writing. It's been good. Really good.
That's great! Miss you around here.
The message made my chest tighten. I pictured the library—my desk by the window, people asking for book recommendations, the familiar rhythm of my days. The life I'd built. The home I'd found.
Miss you too. Miss home.
Home will be here when you get back,Garrett sent.And we want to hear EVERYTHING. Finn's already planning an interrogation. Fair warning.
I could picture it—all of them gathered in the coffee shop, demanding details, teasing me, being excited for me. My family.
And Brent would be back in New York. Three thousand miles away. Living his own life with his own people.
Two more days. Then what?
I shook off the thought and went to get ready for dinner.
***
