ETA? We're all at The Perch waiting for you.
I smiled despite the exhaustion. Of course they were. My family couldn't just let me arrive home quietly and decompress. They needed the full debrief immediately.
10 minutes. Don't start the interrogation without me.
No promises. Finn's already making theories about why you've been so quiet all week.
I crossed into Juniper Bluff proper as the sun kissed the mountain peaks. Main Street was a Christmas card come to life—white lights spiraled up every lamppost, wreaths hung from every storefront, and the town's massive blue spruce stood in the square, absolutely dripping with enough lights to be seen from the next county. Someone had added a new inflatable snowman family to the display outside the hardware store since I'd left.
Home.
Except it felt different somehow. Like I'd left as one person and come back as someone else entirely. Someone who'd been seen—really seen—and hadn't shattered from it.
I parked in my usual spot behind the library—the staff lot empty on Sunday evening. Through The Perch's front windows across the street, I could see them all gathered at our corner table. Garrett with his apron on, gesturing animatedly. Finn's bulk unmistakable even from here, probably wearing one of his perpetual flannels. Micah leaning forward, saying something that made the others laugh.
My phone buzzed. Brent:Just boarded. Miss you already.
My throat went tight.Miss you too. About to face the inquisition.
Good luck. Tell them I said hi. And that I'm very serious about you.
Warmth spread through my chest, pushing back some of the hollow.I will. Fly safe.
I grabbed my bag from the trunk—cold metal stinging my fingers—and headed across the street. The temperature had dropped with the sun, my breath fogging in front of me. Somewhere nearby, someone was burning wood, the smoke mixing with the scent of snow and pine.
The moment I pushed through The Perch's door, conversation stopped. Three pairs of eyes turned to me with varying degrees of curiosity and concern.
Inside, the coffee shop smelled like cinnamon and espresso and gingerbread. Garland framed the counter, and someone had hung mistletoe over the pickup station—a running joke Garrett threatened to remove daily but never did. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner by the bookshelf, decorated entirely with coffee-themed ornaments.
"He lives!" Finn stood from the corner table—our table, the one with the worn leather chairs and the view of Main Street. He pulled me into a brief, gruff hug that smelled like pine sap and wood smoke. "We were starting to think you'd been kidnapped by mountain writers."
"Close," I said, my voice rougher than I expected. "Just spent a week writing."
"Uh huh." Garrett appeared next, pulling me into his own hug. He smelled like coffee and the cardamom he'd been experimenting with lately. His dark eyes searched my face as he held on a beat longer than usual. "You okay?" he asked quietly, too low for the others to hear.
"Yeah." I meant it. "Really okay."
Micah stood last, his silver-gray sweater making his eyes look even more impossibly kind. He hugged me without words, just squeezed my shoulder and nodded toward the table where a large coffee waited—exactly how I liked it, because Garrett was constitutionally incapable of not taking care of people.
We settled around the scarred wooden table. Garrett had what looked like some elaborate peppermint situation with far too much whipped cream. Finn nursed a plain black coffee in a mug the size of a soup bowl. Micah's tea smelled like chamomile and honey.
The normalcy of it loosened something in my chest. This. This was home too.
"So," Micah said, his voice gentle but curious. "How was it?"
"It was..." I wrapped both hands around my mug, letting the heat seep into my cold fingers. "It was amazing. The workshops were incredible. I learned so much about craft and structure. And I wrote—actually wrote—almost fifteen thousand words."
"That's fantastic!" Garrett said. "What about?"
Heat climbed my neck. "Different things. Some revisions on my manuscript. Some new pieces. Experimenting."
"And?" Finn leaned forward, his flannel—green and black check today—stretching across his broad shoulders. "What about B.L. Cross? You've barely mentioned him all week except to say he was your roommate."
"His name is Brent," I said quietly, studying my coffee. "And he was... generous with his feedback. Really helpful."
"Helpful," Finn repeated, his tone suggesting he heard everything I wasn't saying. "That's one word for it."
I looked up to find all three of them watching me. Garrett with his knowing smile. Finn with his protective-older-brother suspicion. Micah with his quiet, perceptive patience.
