Chapter 6
Jason
I woke up warm and happy, with Brent's arm still around me.
Day six. Two days left.
For a moment I lay there, listening to him breathe, feeling the solid weight of him against my back.
Watching the morning sun come through the curtains, painting everything in soft gold.
Outside, another layer of fresh snow covered the trees, the world hushed and white.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this content.
This peaceful.
This right.
Brent stirred behind me, his arm tightening briefly before he seemed to realize where he was. He went still and I wondered if he was having second thoughts. If waking up together in the clear light of day was going to make everything awkward.
Then he pressed a kiss to the back of my neck, soft and sweet, and I relaxed.
"Morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." I rolled over to face him, and the sight of him—hair mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded, a slight smile on his lips—made my chest ache. "Sleep okay?"
"Better than okay." He reached up to push a strand of hair back from my forehead, the gesture so tender my breath hitched. "Best sleep I've had in months."
"Me too." I adjusted my glasses—they'd gotten knocked askew at some point. "Though we should probably..."
"Get up and pretend to be professionals?" He groaned, but then his hand slid down my side, over my hip. "Or we could stay here a little longer."
Heat sparked through me as his fingers traced patterns on my skin. The room was warm, close, filled with the scent of us—sleep and skin and the faint cedar from his soap. "We have breakfast in—" I checked the clock. "Forty minutes."
"Forty minutes." His mouth found my neck, kissing slowly. "That's plenty of time."
"Brent..." But I was tilting my head to give him better access, my hands sliding over his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my throat, his hand moving lower. "Tell me you don't want this."
I couldn't. Because I did want it. Wanted him. Had been half-hard since I woke up pressed against him.
"Don't stop," I breathed.
His hand wrapped around me, and I gasped at the contact. He stroked slowly, deliberately, watching my face as he did. His palm was warm, slightly rough, and the friction was perfect.
"Like that?" he asked.
"Yes. God, yes."
He kissed me as he worked me, swallowing my moans, his hand finding exactly the right rhythm. I was already close—too wound up from sleeping beside him, from waking up to his touch.
"Brent, I'm going to—"
He held my gaze, wouldn't let me look away, and I shattered under that attention, my whole body shuddering, and he held me through it, kissing me softly as I came down.
When I could breathe again, I reached for him. "Your turn."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I pushed him onto his back and wrapped my hand around him, feeling the weight and heat of him in my palm. "I've been thinking about this. About touching you like this."
He groaned, his hips lifting into my touch. "Jason..."
I stroked him steadily, learning what made him gasp, what made his fingers tighten in the sheets. He was beautiful like this—head thrown back, lips parted, lost in sensation. The sounds he made—soft gasps and low groans—went straight through me.
"Close," he managed. "I'm—"
I leaned down and kissed him as he came, feeling him pulse in my hand, his whole body going taut before relaxing into the mattress.
We lay there for a moment, both catching our breath, and then he pulled me down for a lazy kiss.
"Good morning," he said, grinning.
"Best morning," I agreed.
We cleaned up quickly and by the time we made it down to breakfast we looked like two perfectly professional roommates who definitely hadn't started the day with our hands on each other.
***
The dining room was decorated with evergreen boughs and red ribbon this morning, the scent of pine mixing with coffee and fresh pastries. Someone had set small poinsettias on each table. Christmas was everywhere, getting closer, and I felt the countdown like a ticking clock.
Two more days. Then what?
The day was torture.
All through the morning workshop on scene structure, I could barely focus. Every time I looked at Brent, I remembered the way he'd looked in bed this morning, the sounds he'd made, the feeling of him in my hand.
And from the way his gaze kept finding mine, he was having the same problem.
"Jason?" Claire was looking at me expectantly.
"Sorry, what?"
"Your thoughts on the scene we just discussed?"
I scrambled to remember what scene that was. "I, uh... I think the emotional beat needs more setup?"
Brent was watching me, amusement dancing in his eyes. He knew exactly why I was distracted.
"That's a good point," he said and I could hear the laughter in his voice. "The emotional payoff only works if we've laid the groundwork. If the reader understands what's at stake."
His eyes held mine for a beat too long and I felt heat creep up my neck.
Rebecca was watching us with that calculating expression. I looked away.
***
I spent the afternoon free time trying to write, but I couldn't focus. Last night kept replaying in my head—not just the sex, but the way Brent had looked at me. The way he'd held me after. How right it had felt.
And that was the problem. It felt too right for something that had an expiration date.
I opened a new document and let my thoughts pour out onto the page. Wrote about the impossible mathematics of caring about someone when you live in different worlds. About wanting someone when you don't know how to keep them. About the fear that intensity born in isolation doesn't survive reality.
He touches me like I'm precious, like I'm worth keeping. But we've known each other five days. Five days in a bubble where the real world doesn't exist. What happens when we step outside? When there's distance and daily life and all the reasons this shouldn't work?
The words came fast and raw, several pages that felt more honest than anything I'd written in months. When I finally looked up, it was almost dinner time, and I felt wrung out but clearer. Or maybe just more aware of how unclear everything was.
My phone buzzed. Garrett: How's it going? You've been quiet.
I smiled and typed back: Busy writing. It's been good. Really good.
That's great! Miss you around here.
The message made my chest tighten. I pictured the library—my desk by the window, people asking for book recommendations, the familiar rhythm of my days. The life I'd built. The home I'd found.
Miss you too. Miss home.
Home will be here when you get back, Garrett sent. And we want to hear EVERYTHING. Finn's already planning an interrogation. Fair warning.
I could picture it—all of them gathered in the coffee shop, demanding details, teasing me, being excited for me. My family.
And Brent would be back in New York. Three thousand miles away. Living his own life with his own people.
Two more days. Then what?
I shook off the thought and went to get ready for dinner.
***
Dinner was the usual group affair, but I sat on the opposite side of the table from Brent. I needed space to think. To figure out what the hell I was feeling. But halfway through the meal, I felt a foot press against mine under the table.
I looked up to find Brent watching me, that small almost-smile playing at his lips before he turned back to his conversation. His foot stayed pressed against mine, solid and reassuring.
Some of the tightness in my chest eased.
After dinner, I skipped the social hour—more holiday music and wine, laughter echoing through the lodge—and went back to the room. I needed to be alone for a bit, to sort through the tangle in my head.
I was sitting on my bed with my laptop, rereading what I'd written earlier, when Brent came in around nine.
"Hey," he said, concern in his voice. "You okay? You seemed quiet at dinner."
"Yeah. Just thinking."
He sat on his own bed, giving me distance. "About?"
I closed my laptop. "About what happens in two days. When this ends."
His expression shifted, became more guarded. "Jason—"
"You go back to New York and your career, and I go back to Colorado and my library. We live on opposite sides of the country." I pulled my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. "We've known each other less than a week. How do we know this is real and not just... the bubble?"
"Is that what you think this is?" His voice was quiet.
"I don't know what this is." I met his eyes. "Do you?"
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood and crossed to my bed, sitting beside me. Close enough that I could feel his warmth. "I think this is two people who found something unexpected. Something that scares the hell out of me because it feels too good to be temporary."
My breath caught.
"I don't have answers," he continued. "About how we make this work, or what happens when the retreat ends. But I know I don't want to stop. I know that what I feel when I'm with you is more real than anything I've felt in years."
"Brent..."
"We'll figure it out." He took my hand. "Maybe it's complicated. Maybe it's imperfect. But I'd rather figure out complicated with you than walk away because it's easier."
I looked at our joined hands. Outside, snow was falling again, soft and steady. "I'm scared."
"Me too." He squeezed my hand. "But I'd rather be scared with you than safe and empty without you."
I kissed him then, pouring all my confusion and fear and hope into it. He kissed me back with the same desperation, and somehow we ended up horizontal on my bed, tangled together.
"I wrote something today," I said when we came up for air. "About this. About us. About being scared."
"Can I read it?"
"Later." I pulled him back down. "Right now I need... I need you."
"I'm here." He kissed me slowly. "I'm right here."
We sat there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, just breathing. His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone.
"I don't want to lose this," I whispered.
"You won't." He kissed me again, softer this time. "I promise you won't."
Then we were undressing each other, hands and mouths exploring with new tenderness. This felt different from this morning's urgency or last night's desperate need. This felt like something shifting, deepening. Like we were choosing each other with full knowledge of what it might cost.
When he kissed down my body, taking me into his mouth, I nearly came apart from the intimacy of it. The trust it took to let him see me like this, vulnerable and wanting.
"Brent," I gasped, my hands in his hair. "You don't have to—"
He pulled off long enough to meet my eyes. "I want to. Want to taste you, make you fall apart."
And then his mouth was on me again and I couldn't think anymore.
Could only feel the heat and pressure building, his hands on my hips holding me steady, the wet sounds and my own broken moans filling the room.
The room was warm and golden, and outside the snow kept falling, and I'd never felt so undone.
I came with a cry, my whole body shaking, and he worked me through it before kissing his way back up my body.
"Your turn," I managed when I could speak again.
I returned the favor, taking my time learning what made him moan, what made his hips buck, what made him curse and pull at my hair.
He was gorgeous like this—all his careful control shattered.
His taste was salt and musk and uniquely him, and the sounds he made—low groans and gasped curses—were better than any praise he could give my writing.
When he came, he whispered my name, broken and reverent, and I felt it in my chest—sharp and sweet and terrifying.
After, we lay tangled together, both of us boneless and sated. The room smelled like sex and his soap, and the snow outside made everything feel muffled and safe.
"I don't think that was in the workshop materials," I said eventually.
"No?" His chest vibrated with quiet laughter against my cheek. "Must have missed that handout."
"Definitely an oversight."
He pressed a kiss to my hair. For a while we just lay there, listening to each other breathe.
"Brent?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't want this to be just a retreat thing." The words came out quiet but sure. "I know it's complicated and scary and probably impractical. But I don't want this to end when we leave here."
He pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Neither do I."
"We'll figure it out?"
"We'll figure it out." He tilted my face up to look at him. "I promise."
I believed him. Maybe I was naive, maybe I was setting myself up for heartbreak. But in that moment, wrapped in his arms while snow fell outside and Christmas lights twinkled somewhere in the lodge below, I chose to believe we could make this work.
We fell asleep like that, the world outside our room temporarily forgotten.
Tomorrow was the last full day together. Then we would have to figure everything out. But tonight, we had this. We had each other.
And for now, that was everything.