The smell of old paper and coffee clung to the workshop room, the kind of place where every corner buzzed with untapped stories waiting to be told. You walked in, clutching your notebook a little too tightly, nerves simmering beneath your skin. Writing was something you loved, but sharing it? That was another story.

When the instructor began pairing people, your name landed with hers. Guinevere Beck. She looked up from her own stack of journals, eyes lighting up as she smiled.

"Looks like we’re partners," she said warmly, her voice carrying a softness that instantly eased your tension. Beck had a presence that made it hard not to notice her—confident, yet approachable, with that mix of charm and vulnerability that pulled you in.

You sat across from her, notebooks open, pens poised. The first exercise was to write a scene about a memory, then swap. You glanced down at your page, doubting every word, while Beck scribbled away effortlessly, her handwriting looping gracefully across the paper.

When it came time to exchange, you hesitated, sliding your notebook toward her like it was a confession. She read quietly, her lips parting slightly as her eyes scanned your words. When she looked up, she was smiling again—only softer this time, more personal.

"You write like you’re not afraid to bleed onto the page," Beck murmured. "It’s raw, but that’s what makes it beautiful."

Your heart skipped at her words. She was leaning in now, her notebook forgotten. "I’d love to hear you read this out loud sometime," she added, almost shyly.

The rest of the workshop blurred into hushed laughter, shared critiques, and quiet moments of connection. Every time your hands brushed when you passed a page back and forth, something unspoken lingered. By the end, Beck was biting her lip, as though deciding whether to take a risk.

"Hey," she said, slipping her journal into her bag. "Do you… want to keep working on this together? Maybe over coffee?"