The final morning slid by faster than she liked.
Closing circle—debrief, she corrected herself mentally—happened in the living room, chairs in a rough semicircle around the hearth.
No fire this time.
Just the soft gray light of an overcast day pouring through the windows, flattening the view.
“Let’s go around,” Isabel said, perching on the arm of a chair. “One thing you’re taking away. One thing you’re leaving behind.”
Creators spoke of “less chase for shock, more push for truth.”
A staff writer said, cheeks pink, “I’m leaving behind my imposter syndrome. For, like, an hour. Then I’ll pick it up again.”
Laughter.
A showrunner admitted he’d been “coasting on tropes” and wanted to “get weird again.”
When it was Nathan’s turn, he glanced at Sophie before speaking.
“I’m taking away… the reminder that other people are in the trenches too,” he said. “I forget that. In my… box. It’s easy to think you’re the only one wrestling the monster.”
“And leaving?” Isabel prompted.
He hesitated.
“I’m leaving behind… some of the… myth,” he said slowly. “Not all. That’d be… naive. But enough that maybe… next time we do this, you’ll be less interested in whether I have a secret bunker and more in how we can stop glamorizing trauma.”
A murmur of assent.
Sophie’s throat tightened.
When it was her turn, a couple of heads swiveled.
She hadn’t exactly been a participant, but she’d been in the room enough to count.
“I’m taking away… the reminder that rooms like this can be used for more than ego and deals,” she said. “That they can… change the way people think about the stories they put into the world.”
“And leaving?” Dan Mercer asked, a little too eagerly.
She smiled wryly.
“I’m leaving behind the idea that I can control everything,” she said. “Storms. Power lines. Leaks. People. Sometimes all you can do is build the safest structure you can, invite people in, and hope they don’t burn it down. And if they do… you rebuild. Better.”
The room was quiet for a second.
Then Neon Beanie said, “Okay, planner goddess just dropped bars,” and the moment cracked into laughter again.
After that, it was logistics.
Shuttles lined up.
Bags loaded.
Hugs.
Air kisses.
Promises to “keep in touch” and “send that deck.”
A few people pulled Sophie aside.
Dan, again, mentioning the bigger boat in more tactful language.
Hoodie Guy, earnest, saying, “Thanks for not letting him bail. This… mattered.”
Isabel, quietly: “You kept more roofs up here than you know.”
By noon, the last StreamWave car had disappeared down the drive.
The estate… exhaled.
Silence settled like snow.
Rafe leaned against the kitchen doorway, blowing out his cheeks.
“House of horrors is officially closed,” he declared.
Amber high-fived him.
Mia collapsed onto a barstool, head thunking onto the counter.
“I’m sleeping in the linen closet for a week,” she announced.
Priya, packing up the last of the Story Lab props, looked oddly… wistful.
“I’m going to miss this place,” she said. “Even with the corporate overlords.”
“You can come back for something less intense,” Sophie said. “A wedding. A yoga retreat. A non-writer summit.”
“You think this house can handle yoga?” Priya said. “It would revolt.”
Howard wandered in, removing his headset and setting it on the counter like a small crown.
“StreamWave cars are all confirmed past the gate,” he reported. “No one left behind. No one hiding in a bathroom.”
“Good,” Sophie said. “I don’t have the energy to fish anyone out of the plunge pool.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking at her in that way he had—gentle, appraising, a little too aware. “For… all of it.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
He inclined his head and drifted away, probably to write a politely savage debrief email to Isabel.
It was… over.
Officially.
The summit.
The circus.
The part of the story she could put on invoices and in case studies.
She lingered at the kitchen island, fingers tracing the grain of the wood.
“Go,” Rafe said suddenly, snapping a dish towel in her direction.
“Go where?” she asked.
“Where do you think,” he said. “He’s up there wearing a path in the rug. You two have a date with the Truth.”
Her stomach flipped.
“Maybe he wants space,” she said.
Rafe snorted.
“He texted me twice this morning about whether you’d be mad if he cancelled the debrief,” he said. “‘De-brief,’ by the way, is a terrible word. Sounds like taking your pants off.”
Sophie choked.
“Rafe,” she hissed.
He grinned.
“Go,” he repeated. “Before I drag you both into the pantry and lock you in there with a bottle of wine.”
“You wouldn’t,” she said.
He gave her a look.
She went.
The house felt… different now.
Not just because it was emptier.
Because the energy had shifted.
Rooms that had hummed with voices were quiet, but not dead.
The air held echoes.
She paused outside the study.
Her hand hovered.
She took a deep breath.
Then knocked.
“Come in,” his voice called.
She did.
He sat on the edge of the desk, not behind it, sleeves rolled, collar open, hair a little wild.
He looked like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times.
His bare feet dangled above the floor.
He was holding her book.
The copy of *Blackout Corridor* he’d given her.
His thumb stroked the edge of the cover.
“You kept it in here,” she said.
“For… fortification,” he said.
“Summit over,” she said.
“So they tell me,” he replied.
The silence that followed was… different.
He set the book down.
“I was going to come find you,” he said.
“I beat you,” she said.
“You usually do,” he said.
Her heart pounded.
“Rule three,” he said.
She frowned. “What?”
“Honesty,” he said. “If something crosses a line. If something hurts. We don’t swallow it.”
She swallowed.
“Okay,” she said. “Honest, then.”
She stepped closer.
“Are you okay?” she asked softly. “Really.”
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
“No,” he said. “And… yes.”
“Granular, please,” she said.
He smirked, then sobered.
“I’m tired,” he said. “My head feels… scraped. The leak still pisses me off. The summit… was a lot.”
She nodded.
“But…” he added, surprising her, “I don’t regret it.”
Her chest loosened.
“At all?” she asked.
“A little,” he admitted. “But not in the way I thought I would. More in the ‘why didn’t I learn some of this ten years ago’ way. Less in the ‘I never want to see another exec again’ way.”
“You still don’t want to see another exec,” she said.
“True,” he said. “But… I also… kind of want to do a smaller thing. Someday. With less cameras. More… people like Hoodie and Neon and that staff writer who asked if they were allowed to fail.”
She smiled.
“That’s… big,” she said.
He shrugged one shoulder, uncomfortable.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are *you* okay?”
“No,” she said, surprising him. “And… yes.”
“Granular,” he said, throwing her word back.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “My brain is mush. I’m mad at StreamWave. I’m… proud of what we built. Of how you… showed up. I’m also… scared.”
“Of what?” he asked quietly.
“You,” she said.
He flinched.
“Not in the ‘you’re going to hurt me on purpose’ way,” she added quickly. “In the ‘you’re… a lot and I’m… already invested and I don’t know where that leads’ way.”
He stared.
“You could have… not come back,” he said. “For this.”
“I know,” she said.
“You did,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
She took a breath.
“Because I care,” she said simply. “About the work. About the rooms we build. About… you. Because I wanted to see what we could do when we weren’t just reacting to a blizzard, but actually… choosing.”
His eyes darkened.
“Sophie,” he said.
“Rule three,” she repeated. “Honesty.”
He pushed off the desk, taking a step closer.
“Then here’s mine,” he said. “I’m in love with you.”
The words landed like a physical blow.
She swayed.
“What?” she whispered.
“I love you,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “And I have for… longer than I’ve been willing to admit. Definitely since the pantry meltdown. Probably since the crypto conference. Maybe since I saw that stupid brochure with your pen behind your ear.”
Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her fingertips.
“You…” she began.
“Don’t say it back,” he interrupted, fast. “Not unless you mean it. Not because you think you should. Or because you’re afraid not to.”
She closed her mouth.
He raked a hand through his hair.
“I promised you,” he said, voice rougher, “that I wouldn’t make you my… salvation. Or my crutch. I promised I’d do the work. I have been. Therapy. Calendars. Saying yes to things that scare me. Saying no to things that hollow me out. None of that changes the fact that when shit hits the fan, the first person I want to call is you.”
Her eyes stung.
“When I wake up and something feels… off,” he went on, “I want to text you. When something good happens, I want to… tell you before I tell my publisher. Or my agent. Or my mother.”
He swallowed.
“That’s… love,” he said, like he was testing the word on his tongue. “At least, the version of it my therapist and I have hammered out.”
A tear slid down her cheek.
He flinched as if he’d caused it.
“I’m not… good at this,” he said. “At… relationships. The last time I tried, I wrote a character into existence to hold all the parts of me I didn’t want to give the real person, and then I was surprised when the real person left. I’m… selfish. I’m intense. I’m a bad texter when I’m deep in a draft and a worse dinner companion when I’m spiraling.”
She let out a watery laugh.
“Attractive package,” she said weakly.
“I’m also… trying,” he said. “To be… different. To leave my house. To acknowledge when I’m wrong. To apologize before someone has to drag it out of me. To not make my trauma everyone’s problem.”
He swore softly under his breath.
“This is the worst pitch ever,” he muttered.
She laughed, a damp, broken sound.
He took another step.
Close now.
Not quite touching.
“I love that you… build scaffolding for people,” he said. “That you walk rooms and count exits and remember who’s gluten-free and who cries at string quartets. I love that you call me on my bullshit. That you don’t let me hide, but you also don’t drag me into the light just to… display me.”
Her chest ached.
He reached up, slowly, giving her time to flinch.
She didn’t.
His fingers brushed the tear on her cheek.
“I love that you talk about roofs and storms and rooms as if they’re… people,” he said softly. “Because it makes me feel less insane about the way I… live in metaphors.”
More tears.
He caught another.
“I love that you can stare down a billionaire having a tantrum about logo placement and a bride sobbing over cake flavors and give them both the same… steady, kind, uncompromising version of you,” he said. “And I hate that you don’t always give that version to yourself.”
Her vision blurred.
“I love you,” he said again, more quietly. “And I want… us. Whatever that looks like. Messy. Boundaried. Slow. Not in stolen balcony moments, but in… actual days. Weeks. Months. I want to see what it’s like to have you in my life when there isn’t a summit or a storm pressing on us.”
She stared at him.
At his earnest, wrecked face.
At the way his hands shook, just a little.
At the way his eyes—usually so sharp, so cutting—were open and unguarded.
Her heart felt too big for her chest.
“I’m scared,” she said.
“Me too,” he said.
“I don’t know if I… can,” she said. “Be with someone like you. With all this. The attention. The expectations. The way my job and your life are… tied. What if we blow up and it… takes Aurora down with us?”
“We’re not a bomb,” he said. “We’re… two people. Who can talk. Who can set lines. Who can… decouple things if we have to.”
“That’s naive,” she said.
“That’s… hopeful,” he countered.
She huffed.
“I don’t know if I trust… myself,” she admitted. “To not disappear into your gravity. To not make you my project. To not… forget where my life ends and yours begins.”
He nodded slowly.
“I don’t know if I trust myself not to do the same,” he said. “To not lean too hard. To not make you my default coping mechanism. That’s… why we have therapists. And friends. And… people like Miranda and Lia and Howard who will slap us when we start to merge into a codependent blob.”
She snorted, tears still on her cheeks.
“Codependent blob,” she repeated.
He smiled, small.
“I’m not asking for… forever,” he said. “Or marriage. Or moving in. God, no. I’m asking if you’re willing to… try. To go on a date that isn’t disguised as a work thing. To have a night where I cook something that isn’t toast and you judge me. To spend a weekend here when there are no guests, no cameras, no run-of-show. Just… us. And see if, outside the storms, we still… fit.”
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Therapy voice says I should communicate my feelings clearly,” she said, voice shaky.
He huffed a surprised laugh.
“Therapy voice is annoying,” he said.
“Therapy voice is useful,” she said.
She took a breath.
“I love you,” she said.
His eyes widened.
She almost laughed at the shock there.
“But,” she added quickly.
He winced.
“There’s always a ‘but,’” he murmured.
“I love you,” she repeated, steadier. “And I’m… terrified. And I’m not… ready to blow up my life. Or yours. I don’t want to be the reason you miss deadlines or stop doing summits or avoid events. I don’t want to be the person people point at and say, ‘she ruined Nathan Cross.’”
“They already say that,” he said. “About me. Daily.”
“Shut up,” she said, half-laughing, half-crying.
He smiled.
“I want to try,” she went on. “But I need… conditions.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Terms and conditions,” he said. “Of course.”
“You love contracts,” she said.
He nodded, gesturing for her to go on.
“One,” she said. “We keep some separation between work and… us. As much as we can. If Aurora takes a job for you, I don’t automatically sign myself up as the lead. We evaluate each event case by case.”
“Agreed,” he said immediately. “You shouldn’t have to… show up professionally just because I’m involved.”
“Two,” she said. “We both stay in therapy.”
“Already committed,” he said. “Howard has it in the budget.”
“Three,” she said. “We move… slowly. No moving in. No merging finances. No introducing me as ‘my girlfriend, the planner who saved my life’ in every room.”
He grimaced. “Gross,” he said. “Approved.”
“And four,” she said, heart in her throat. “If at any point this starts to… hurt more than it heals, we talk. We don’t ghost. We don’t blow up. We don’t… disappear. We… debrief. Like adults.”
He huffed.
“Closing circle for relationships,” he said. “Very you.”
She smiled weakly.
“Can you live with that?” she asked.
He let out a long, slow breath.
“Yes,” he said. “I can.”
“Are you sure?” she pressed.
“No,” he said. “But I’m willing.”
The echo of her words back at her made her chest tighten.
He took another small step forward.
“Can I…” he began, gesturing vaguely between them.
She knew what he meant.
Her pulse skittered.
“We’re not in a summit anymore,” she said softly.
“No,” he said. “We’re not.”
She swallowed.
“Then yes,” she whispered.
He didn’t lunge.
He didn’t grab.
He lifted a hand, cupped her cheek gently, thumb sweeping away the last dampness.
She leaned into the touch before she could stop herself.
His other hand slid around her waist, fingers splaying against the small of her back.
He bent his head slowly, giving her more than enough time to change her mind.
She didn’t.
His mouth brushed hers once, light, like the ghost of that first kiss on the mountain.
She exhaled against his lips.
He deepened it by degrees.
No rush.
No frantic scramble.
Just… exploration.
A soft press.
A tilt.
The slide of his lower lip against her upper.
Her hands, almost of their own accord, lifted to his shoulders, feeling the warmth through the cotton.
He made a low noise in his throat.
Her knees wobbled.
He felt it.
Tightened his arm fractionally.
It wasn’t a chaste kiss.
But it wasn’t the wild, edge-of-a-cliff thing from before.
It was… fuller.
Grounded.
There was no blizzard outside.
No applause.
No cameras.
Just the quiet hum of the house, the faint tick of the thermostat, the distant sound of Rafe banging pots in the kitchen.
And them.
He pulled back a fraction.
Forehead resting against hers.
Breath mingling.
“Better definition,” he whispered.
She laughed, breathless.
“Yeah,” she said. “Better.”
They stood like that for a moment.
Suspended.
Then, inevitably, reality intruded.
Her phone buzzed on the desk.
Work.
Life.
The world.
He sighed, stepping back slightly, hands sliding from her waist.
“Duty calls,” he said.
“It always does,” she said.
“Go,” he added softly. “Before I forget we have terms.”
Heat flushed her cheeks.
She shook her head.
“You’re… trouble,” she said.
“Awful,” he said. “You should stay away from me.”
She smiled.
“No,” she said. “I don’t think I will.”
She picked up her phone, glanced at the notification—a text from Miranda: *How’s the mountain? Still standing?*—and looked back at him.
“We’re going to fuck this up,” she said.
“Almost certainly,” he agreed.
“And we’re going to fix it,” she said.
“As much as we can,” he replied.
She nodded.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.”
She turned to go.
At the door, she paused.
“Nathan?” she said.
“Yeah?”
“If you leak any of *my* drafts,” she said, “I’m killing you.”
He grinned, sharp and affectionate.
“Deal,” he said.
She laughed.
And stepped out of the study, into a house that felt… different.
Not because of the rooms.
Because of what they now held.
Summits.
Storms.
Leaks.
Love.
Not clean.
Not easy.
True.
Slow.
Burning.
Just getting started.