The observation was simple, delivered without judgment, and it hit me like a punch to the sternum. When was the last time I'd written for myself? Before I'd sold the first Redline book? Before I'd become B.L. Cross?
"That's terrifying," I said.
Jason smiled, and the warmth in it made my pulse skip. "Most good writing is."
I smiled back, feeling a spark I hadn't felt in months. Not of an idea, exactly, but of possibility. Of connection.
"So what about you?" I asked. "This manuscript you're working on—what's it about?"
"Oh." He glanced at the stack of pages on the bedroom desk. "It's about a small-town librarian trying to figure out if the life he's built is enough or if he's been playing it safe. A lot of quiet introspection. Probably too quiet."
"I doubt that." I nodded toward the manuscript. "Can I read some of it?"
Jason's eyes widened. "You want to read my manuscript?"
"Only if you want me to. But yeah. I'm curious."
For a moment he looked at me, unreadable emotion flickering across his face. Then he stood, retrieved the bound pages, and handed them over. Our fingers brushed again in the exchange, and this time neither of us pulled away immediately. "Okay. But be gentle. It's rough."
"All first drafts are rough." I accepted the manuscript, still feeling the ghost of his touch on my hand. "I'll treat it with care."
"In that case," Jason said, settling back onto his bed, "only fair if you let me read whatever you're working on. Even if it's notes or fragments."
I almost said no. Almost protected my ego and my failures. But the way he'd opened himself up, made himself vulnerable, made me want to do the same.
"Deal," I said.
"I should probably..." Jason gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. "Get ready for bed. Unless you want to go first?"
"Go ahead." I tried to ignore the flutter in my stomach at the domesticity of negotiating a nighttime routine.
He grabbed his toiletry bag and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water run, the sound of him moving around in the small space. When he emerged ten minutes later in sleep pants and a worn t-shirt, his hair damp and his glasses slightly fogged, my chest tightened.
This was going to be a long week.
I took my turn in the bathroom, fully aware that Jason was just on the other side of the door. That he'd been in here moments ago, that the mirror still held traces of steam from his warmth. I brushed my teeth quickly, splashed water on my face, and tried not to think about how I was more aware of this man than I had any right to be.
When I came back out, Jason was in bed with my laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration as he read. The lamplightcaught in his hair, turned it golden at the edges. I forced myself to look away and settled onto my own bed with his manuscript.
We spent the next hour reading in comfortable silence—me sprawled on my bed with his pages, him cross-legged on his with my laptop. Occasionally one of us would make a note or a small sound of interest, but mostly it was quiet. Intimate in a way that had nothing to do with words.
Jason's writing was beautiful. Understated but clear, with the kind of careful observation that could only come from someone who paid attention to the world around him. His protagonist was achingly real, struggling with questions that had no easy answers.
I was thirty pages in when I realized I'd stopped reading like an editor and started reading like someone who wanted to know what happened next.
"This is good," I said, looking up.
Jason glanced over from the laptop, surprised. In the warm lamplight, his eyes looked darker. "Really?"
"Really. Your character work is exceptional. The voice is clear." I set the pages aside carefully. "You should be proud of this."
His expression softened into gratitude and disbelief. I had the sudden urge to cross the space between our beds and... what? I wasn't sure. Touch his hand? Brush his hair back? The impulse startled me. "Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you."
"What do you think?" I nodded toward the laptop, trying not to let my anxiety show. "Of the mess I've been making?"
Jason was quiet for a moment, choosing his words. The silence stretched, charged. "I think you're trying to force yourself into a box that doesn't fit anymore. These notes—there's a story in here about someone searching for meaning, for authenticity. But you keep trying to shoehorn it into a thriller framework."
"Because that's what I write."
