Garrett:Tell us everything in the morning. Sleep well.
Finn:Is he an asshole? Need me to make a trip?
Asher:OMG WHO IS IT
Micah:Breathe. You belong there.
I smiled at the memory. I had people in my corner. Even two hours away, even at a fancy lodge where I felt out of my depth, I wasn't alone.
When I emerged from the bathroom, dressed in jeans and one of the nicer button-downs Asher had insisted I pack, Brent was awake. He sat on the edge of his bed in sleep pants and a t-shirt, hair sticking up, looking at his phone with a frown.
"Morning," I said quietly.
He looked up, and his expression softened. "Morning. I didn't hear you get up."
"I'm stealthy." I pushed my glasses up—they'd fogged in the bathroom. "There's coffee in the kitchenette if you want it. I made a pot."
"You're my hero." He stood, stretching. His t-shirt rode up slightly, and I looked away. "Give me ten minutes?"
"Take your time."
While he showered, I focused on the coffee maker. Poured two cups—black for him, I'd noticed last night, though I had no idea when I'd started cataloguing details about him. My hands weren't quite steady as I set out my notebooks for the day.
When Brent emerged, he looked polished—hair styled, jeans and a fitted henley, that air of confident competence firmly back in place. But there was still softness around his eyes, a lingering ease from our late-night conversation that made him feel more accessible than intimidating.
"Coffee," he said gratefully. When he reached for the mug I'd poured, our fingers brushed. Brief, but I felt the warmth of his skin. Writer's hands—elegant but strong. I pulled back quickly.
He settled onto the loveseat with his coffee. I took the armchair, aware of the small space between us. The morning felt domestic in a way that should have been weird but wasn't. Dangerous, maybe. Because I could get used to this—waking up to him, sharing coffee, the comfortable quiet of two writers starting their day.
"How'd you sleep?" I asked, wrapping both hands around my mug to keep from fidgeting.
"Better than expected." His smile was genuine, reaching his eyes. "Usually takes me a few nights to adjust to new places. But this was... comfortable."
"Same." I took a sip of coffee to have something to do with my hands. "Though I had anxiety dreams about showing up to the workshop naked."
He laughed. "Classic writer nightmare. Mine are usually about giving a reading and realizing I've brought the wrong manuscript. Or no manuscript. Or a manuscript that's the word 'the' repeated for three hundred pages."
"That last one sounds like experimental fiction. You could probably sell it."
"'The: A Novel' by B.L. Cross. Critics call it 'minimalist' and 'daring.'" His grin transformed his whole face. "My publisher would murder me."
I laughed, and our eyes caught and held for a moment too long. Awareness shifted in the air between us—the reality that we were alone in a suite together, still in that vulnerable early-morning space before the day's armor went on.
He looked away first, taking a deliberate sip of his coffee.
"We should probably head down," Brent said eventually, glancing at his phone. "Breakfast starts at eight and I'm supposed to do an informal Q&A before the first workshop."
Right. Because he was the guest instructor. The famous author. Not my surprisingly easy-to-talk-to roommate.
***
We made our way down to the dining room, where breakfast was laid out buffet-style. Other writers clustered in small groups, coffee cups in hand, that particular energy of creative people trying to be social before caffeine fully kicked in. Through the windows, fresh snow dusted the pine trees, and someone had strung white lights along the mantel—small touches of the season that made the lodge feel warmer.
I grabbed a plate and was debating between muffins when someone appeared at my elbow.
"Jason, right?" A woman in her forties with an enthusiastic smile and what looked like her second cup of coffee. "I'm Claire. How was your first night?"
"Good. Really good." I added a blueberry muffin to my plate. "Still getting used to the space."
