"Writer's brain. Can't turn it off."
"That's cheating," Finn said, but there was no heat in it.
"That's strategy," Brent countered.
Around eight, Finn stood and stretched. "We should probably head to Candles and Carols if anyone wants to go. Starts at eight-thirty."
"I'm going," Garrett said, checking his phone one more time before pocketing it.
Finn looked Micah and Cooper. "You two coming?"
Micah and Cooper exchanged a look. "We're going to skip it this year," Micah said.
Finn grinned. "Fair enough. You’ve got better things to do."
He looked at us. "What about you two?"
I glanced at Brent, and he shook his head slightly. "We're going to head back to the cabin."
"Makes sense." Finn grabbed his coat, then paused at the door. "Brent? You did good tonight. Keep doing good."
"I will," Brent promised.
We said our goodbyes and walked out into the cold December night. Snow was falling softly, the world quiet except for the crunch of our boots. The cabin was only a few minutes away—close enough that we could see the porch light Brent had left on glowing through the trees.
"That went well," I said as we reached the car.
"Better than well." Brent pulled me close before opening the door, his breath fogging between us. "I'm part of it now. Your family."
"Our family," I corrected, then kissed him.
The drive back took less than five minutes. When we walked into the cabin, warmth enveloped us—the fire still burning low in the hearth, Christmas tree lights twinkling in the corner, everything exactly as we'd left it.
Brent shrugged off his coat and went straight to his laptop on the kitchen table.
"What are you doing?" I asked, hanging up my own coat.
"Starting." He opened a blank document, the cursor blinking on a white page. "Our collaboration. Right now. Chapter one."
"It's Christmas Eve."
"Exactly." He looked up at me, his eyes bright with excitement. "Best time to start our story. Come on. Let's write."
My heart squeezed. This man. This beautiful, brilliant man who wanted to start building our creative life together on Christmas Eve.
I grabbed my laptop from my bag and sat beside him on the couch. We positioned ourselves so we could both see his screen, our shoulders pressed together.
"So," Brent said, hands hovering over the keyboard. "Two writers at a retreat. Forced proximity. What happens first?"
"They hate each other," I suggested, grinning.
"Do they?"
"No. They're terrified of each other. Of what they represent."
"The successful one who's lost his way," Brent said, typing as he spoke. "And the talented one who's too scared to believe in himself."
"They get assigned as roommates."
