Around eleven, Brent closed his laptop with a frustrated sound.
"Stuck?" I asked.
"Blocked. Still trying to force this into thriller shape when I know it's not working." He rubbed his eyes. "Sorry. You don't need to hear me complain."
"I don't mind." I set aside my manuscript. "Want to talk through it?"
He looked at me for a long moment. Then: "Yeah. I do."
So we talked. He outlined the story he was trying to tell—not a thriller at all, but quieter. More personal. About a writer who'd lost himself in other people's expectations and was trying to find his way back.
I listened, asked questions, and offered thoughts when they came. We ended up sitting on the floor between our beds, backs against the wall, close enough that our shoulders were almost touching. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. And somewhere in that conversation, I watched him relax. Watched the tension leave his shoulders as he worked through the tangle out loud.
"You're good at this," he said eventually, turning his head to look at me. We were close—too close. I could see the darker ring around his irises, could smell his soap and coffee and him underneath. "At listening. At asking the right questions."
My mouth went dry. "Librarian training." My voice came out rougher than intended. "And I've spent a lot of time helping my friends work through their problems. I'm the Observer."
"The Observer?"
"That's my role. In my friend group back home. Garrett's the Heart—he keeps everyone connected. Finn's the Protector.Micah's the Wise One. And I'm the Observer. I notice things. Help people see patterns they might miss."
Brent's expression softened. "That's a good role. Important."
"It's easier than being the main character," I admitted. "Safer."
"Is that what you think you're doing? Observing instead of living?"
The question hit closer than I expected. "Maybe. I moved to Juniper Bluff two years ago because I wanted to write. But I've spent that time watching other people fall in love, build businesses, and chase dreams. And I've stayed safe. Behind my desk at the library and my perpetual revisions."
"But you're here now," Brent pointed out. "That's not safe. That's putting yourself out there."
"Barely. This retreat is like... observer-level risk. I'm watching real writers work while I pretend to be one of them."
"You are a real writer, Jason." His voice was firm. "You have a complete manuscript. You show up every day and do the work. That's what makes someone a writer, not publication or fame or any of that external validation."
I wanted to believe him.
"Come on," he said, standing and offering me his hand. I took it, and the warmth of his palm against mine sent electricity up my arm. He pulled me to my feet, and for a second we stood too close, his hand still holding mine. Then he let go, stepping back. "Let's get lunch before the workshop. I need to carb-load before I have to be 'on' again."
***
The afternoon workshop was held in one of the lodge's smaller conference rooms—a circle of chairs, natural light streaming through windows that overlooked the snow-dusted pines. The room smelled like coffee and pine and the mustywarmth of old books from the shelves lining one wall. All twelve retreat participants settled in, notebooks ready, energy high.
Brent stood at the front. I watched him shift into instructor mode. Confident. Generous. Passionate about craft in a way that made it clear why he'd been successful. Watching him teach made my chest tight—not just because he was good at it, but because I was seeing another layer of him. The generosity underneath the cynicism. The teacher he could be when he let himself.
"Today we're talking about emotional truth in fiction," he began. His eyes found mine across the circle. Held just a beat too long before moving on. "Not plot mechanics or structure, but the beating heart of why we write and why readers read. The stuff that makes people stay up until three in the morning finishing a book, or cry on the subway, or think about characters years after closing the final page."
He was captivating. The entire room leaned forward, hungry for whatever wisdom he was offering. I tried to focus on his words and not on the memory of sitting too close on the floor of our room, not on the way his henley fit, not on the warmth I'd felt radiating from him.
"The challenge," he continued, "is that emotional truth requires vulnerability. It requires writing the stuff that scares us. The questions we don't have answers to. The feelings we'd rather not examine."
Rebecca raised her hand. "But doesn't that risk being self-indulgent? Readers want story, not therapy."
"Good question." Brent didn't look annoyed by the challenge. "The difference between self-indulgent and emotionally true is craft. Self-indulgent writing is the author working through their issues on the page without transforming it into art. Emotionally true writing takes those raw feelingsand shapes them into universal experience. Something that resonates beyond the personal."
He asked us to share opening pages—volunteers only. Several people offered. I stayed quiet but Brent's eyes found mine across the circle. Not pressure. Just... invitation. The kind of look that saidI see you, and I think you're brave enough for this.
My heart hammered but I raised my hand.
