"Is it what you want to write?"
The question hung in the air between us. I didn't have an answer. Or maybe I did, and I was afraid to say it out loud.
"I don't know," I admitted finally. "I don't know what I want anymore. Only that it's not this."
Jason stood. My breath caught. For a moment I thought he was going to cross to my bed, and I wasn't sure what I'd do if he did. But he moved to the foot of his own mattress, sitting so he faced me more directly. Close enough that I could see the darker ring around his irises, the slight curve of his mouth.
"Then maybe that's okay," he said quietly. "Maybe not knowing is where you start."
The spark from earlier caught, growing warmer. This man I'd known for all of three hours had somehow articulated what I'd been struggling with for months, and he'd done it without judgment, without expectation. And he was looking at me in the dim lamplight like I was worth understanding.
"Thank you," I said, and I meant it for more than the writing advice.
Jason smiled, and I felt the impact of it like a physical thing. "We're all figuring it out, Brent. Even the bestselling authors."
Especiallythe bestselling authors, I thought. But I didn't say it.
We stayed up too late, talking about craft and doubt and the terror of the blank page. Every time he laughed, every time he pushed his glasses up or ran his hand through his hair, I leaned a little closer, drawn to him in a way I wasn't ready to name.
When we finally turned off the lights and settled into our separate beds, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, thinking aboutJason's words. About the warmth in his smile. About how aware I was of him breathing in the darkness a few feet away.
Maybe not knowing is where you start.
In the darkness, I heard Jason's voice, soft and hesitant. "Brent?"
"Yeah?" My own voice came out rougher than I intended.
"I'm glad we're roommates."
I smiled at the ceiling, warmth unfurling in my chest. "Yeah. Me too."
And for the first time in months, I felt like maybe I'd come to the right place after all.
Chapter 2
Jason
I woke to morning light shining through unfamiliar curtains and the disorienting awareness that I wasn't in my apartment above the Juniper Bluff Library.
Right. Elk Haven Lodge. The writing retreat. The retreat where B.L. Cross was my roommate.
I turned my head slowly, careful not to make the bed creak. Brent was still asleep in the other bed, one arm flung over his head, his dark hair mussed against the pillow. In sleep, he looked younger. Less guarded. The lines of tension I'd noticed yesterday had smoothed away.
I looked away quickly. This was my literary hero. Myroommate. I couldn't afford to develop some embarrassing crush in the first twelve hours.
My phone said it wasn’t even seven yet. Early, but I'd always been an early riser. Habit from years of opening the library, and before that, the way my brain worked—most alert in the quiet morning hours before the world demanded attention.
I slipped out of bed, grabbed my clothes, and headed for the bathroom.
The shower was small but nice. I let the hot water work out the stiffness of sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. Yesterday felt surreal in retrospect. The announcement that B.L. Cross would be teaching. Walking into the suite to find him there. The way we'd talked late into the night about writing and fear and all the vulnerable things you only shared with someone who understood.
I thought about Garrett showing up at the library two days ago with coffee and that determined look.You deserve to invest in yourself.About Micah's quiet encouragement, Finn's gruff insistence that I was good at this. Even Asher had shown up with clothes and enthusiastic support.
My friends. My family. The people who believed in me even when I couldn't believe in myself.
I'd texted the group chat last night after Brent fell asleep:Made it safely. You'll never believe who my roommate is.
The responses had come rapid-fire:
