Gage
Warm air hits my face. Music hums low. Conversations overlap. The room is candlelight and teeth and optimism.
My eyes scan automatically, the way they always do when I walk into a new space. It’s instinct. It’s leadership. It’s the part of my brain that calculates exits and risks and where I’d stand if something went wrong.
Then my gaze catches on the bar.
And everything in me shifts.
Reece is there.
Of course she is.
She’s facing the counter, one hand wrapped around a glass like it’s an anchor, her shoulders held a little too tight as if she’s bracing for impact.
But she’s different.
Not drastically. Not like a costume.
Just… softer. More open.
She’s wearing a dress that is both simple and devastating.
Something dark and flattering and completely unfair, the kind of thing that makes her look like she belongs in a room like this even if she doesn’t feel like she does.
Her hair is down, falling over her shoulders like she isn’t trying to be practical for once.
Her face has always been beautiful. That isn’t new.
What’s new is the way she’s letting it be seen.
The way she’s standing there like she’s trying to be brave and glamorous at the same time.
And then she looks up.
Her eyes meet mine across the room.
And her expression changes so fast I feel it in my chest.
Like something heavy just slid off her shoulders.
Like she was holding her breath without realizing it and now she can breathe again.
The look doesn’t say oh no.
It says oh hi!
And I have to remind myself—immediately, urgently—that this is not about me.
This is her night.
Her healing.
Her trying.
I’m not supposed to matter here.
Except my feet move before my brain can negotiate with them.
I head toward her.
As I cross the room, I clock other things. Rosie at a high-top table, watching like a satisfied gremlin in a pretty dress. A cluster of men hovering too close to Reece’s orbit. The general vibe of hopeful desperation that always follows the word singles like a stray puppy.
Reece’s grip tightens on her glass when a guy approaches her again.
He says something I can’t hear.
She smiles politely.
The smile is good. Practiced. The kind she uses at work when someone asks her a question they could’ve answered themselves if they have used their eyes.
She tilts her head. Laughs once.
And I see the effort underneath it.
Pride and tenderness collide in my chest so hard I almost stop walking.
I don’t.
I reach her just as the guy’s hand gestures too close to her shoulder, and I don’t touch her—because I don’t get to—but I step in close enough that my presence changes the math.
Reece turns slightly toward me as if she’s always been turned toward me.
I keep my tone light. Familiar. Safe.
“Hey,” I say.
Reece blinks once, like she’s resetting. “Hey.”
The guy glances at me, then back at Reece, and whatever he was about to do… stops.
Reece doesn’t introduce me.
She doesn’t have to.
Something about the way she looks at me answers the question for both of us.
The guy clears his throat. “I, uh—nice meeting you,” he says, to Reece.
“Totally,” Reece replies, because she is polite even when she is escaping.
He drifts away.
Reece exhales, the kind of breath you let out when you didn’t realize you were holding one.
I tilt my head. “How’s it going?”
She narrows her eyes like she’s deciding whether to be honest or dramatic. “I just told a grown man I’m fiscally responsible… as a personality trait.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
Then her mouth twitches.
Then she makes a small, pained noise. “Please don’t laugh.”
I don’t laugh.
I smile.
Which is worse.
Her cheeks go pink. “Gage.”
“You said it,” I point out, calm.
“It happened,” she says, defensive. “It was an accident.”
“I believe you.”
She groans softly and takes a sip of her drink like it’s medicine. “Why are you here?”
The question is casual.
Her voice is not.
My brain flashes through the lie I prepared: work thing, networking, support Rosie, one hour.
My mouth chooses the safest version.
“Rosie said I had to come,” I say.
Reece’s eyes narrow. “Rosie said I had to come.”
“Sounds like her,” I reply.
Reece shifts her weight, still facing me, still anchored. “You’re late.”
“I was working,” I say.
She lifts her brows. “That’s not an excuse.”
“It’s my entire personality,” I tell her.
Reece’s mouth tugs upward. “Explains a lot.”
I glance at her dress—quick, respectful—and then back to her face. “You look…” I stop, because saying anything at all feels like stepping onto thin ice.
Reece lifts her chin, challenging. “What?”
I choose the truth that won’t scare her. “Like you didn’t reorganize your sock drawer tonight.”
Her laugh is immediate. Real. The kind that makes her shoulders drop another inch.
“Rosie would be so proud of you,” she says.
“Rosie is proud of herself right now,” I reply.
Reece’s eyes flick past me, and I follow her gaze.
Rosie is watching us with a smile so smug it belongs in a museum.
When Rosie catches Reece’s eye, she raises her glass in a tiny toast and mouths, One hour.
Reece glares back and mouths something that is absolutely not polite.
I pretend I didn’t see it. For her dignity.
Reece turns back to me, and for a moment we just stand there.
The room keeps moving around us—voices, laughter, clinking glasses—but something about the space between us goes still.
It’s familiar.
It’s us.
Which is a problem, because “us” is complicated in a room like this.
Reece clears her throat. “So. Work thing.”
I keep my expression neutral. “Work thing.”
She gestures at my sweater. “This is your work thing outfit?”
I glance down at myself. “Is it acceptable?”
“It’s…” She pauses, eyes flicking over my chest like she’s evaluating a spreadsheet and found an error. “Different.”
“Good different or witness-protection different?” I ask, and immediately regret it because I sound like myself.
Reece’s mouth twitches. “Annoyingly good different.”
My chest tightens.
I pretend it doesn’t.
“Reece,” I say, warningly.
She lifts her brows. “What? I’m being honest. I’m practicing.”
“Practicing what?” I ask carefully.
She opens her mouth.
Stops.
Looks away for a beat, like she doesn’t want to say it.
Then she looks back at me, and her voice softens by half a degree. “Being… out.”
Out.
In a room.
In her life.
Trying.
And suddenly it’s not funny anymore.
It’s brave.
“You’re doing great,” I say quietly.
Reece squints. “Don’t get motivational on me.”
“I’m serious,” I reply.
She studies my face like she’s looking for a joke. Like she’s looking for pity. Like she’s looking for the catch.
There isn’t one.
Her expression shifts into something I don’t have a name for—soft, cautious, almost grateful.
Then Rosie appears beside us like a magician again.
“Hi!” she says brightly, as if we are not standing in the middle of a moment. “Gage! You made it! Reece! You’re still alive! I’m so proud of both of you.”
Reece’s jaw tightens. “Rosie, another thing.”
Rosie smiles sweetly. “Yes, my love?”
Reece points toward the room with her glass. “Why didn’t you let me know that Brett has damp hands?”
Rosie blinks innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do know,” Reece says.
Rosie turns to me, eyes wide. “She’s exaggerating.”
“I am not,” Reece says sternly.
Rosie sighs as if burdened. “Fine. I will relocate Damp Hands.”
“You cannot relocate a grown man,” Reece mutters.
Rosie is already drifting away, smiling bright, scanning the room like a predator in heels.
A man starts toward Reece again—different one—and Rosie intercepts him with a grace that is deeply suspicious.
“Oh my gosh,” Rosie says, hands clasped. “So sorry—quick question. Are you allergic to shellfish?”
The man blinks. “What?”
Rosie nods like this is reasonable. “We have shrimp skewers and I simply cannot risk tragedy.”
“I—no?”
Rosie beams. “Amazing. Reece is temporarily on a no-shrimp cleanse. For spiritual reasons.”
The man looks terrified. “Oh. Okay.”
Rosie pats his arm. “You’re doing great. Go find someone who eats shrimp.”
She sends him away with a smile like she just performed a civic duty.
Reece watches, stunned. “What are you doing?”
Rosie turns back, still smiling. “Protecting your peace.”
Reece narrows her eyes. “You’re a menace.”
Rosie shrugs. “And yet you love me.”
Reece opens her mouth.
Closes it.
“She’s not wrong,” I say.
Rosie’s grin goes feral. “I’ll be over there if you need me,” she says, then points two fingers at her eyes and then at us like she’s tracking prey. “Behave.”
She disappears into the crowd again, and within seconds she’s intercepting another man with an even more ridiculous excuse.
“I’m so sorry,” Rosie says to a tall guy with great hair. “Reece is currently in a committed relationship with her beverage.”
The guy laughs awkwardly. “Oh.”
Rosie nods solemnly. “It’s very serious.”
Reece’s laugh bursts out before she can stop it.
It’s soft, surprised, real.
And the sound does something to me.
Because I’ve heard her laugh a thousand times.
But tonight it feels… new.
Like she’s letting it happen.
Like she’s not afraid of the drop afterward.
I can’t stop looking at her.
And I can’t stop noticing that she knows I’m looking.
Her eyes keep flicking to mine, then away, then back again, like she’s trying to pretend her body isn’t reacting.
Which is adorable.
And dangerous.
“Do you want to move?” I ask, nodding toward a quieter corner near the edge of the room.
Reece’s shoulders ease. “Yes. Please.”
We drift together without touching, but close enough that it feels like we are. Like our orbit is pulling us into the same space the way it always has.
In the corner, the noise dulls a little. The room blurs. The candles flicker.
Reece leans her shoulder against the wall and exhales.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
“For what?” I ask, even though I know.
She gestures vaguely with her glass. “For… existing.”
My chest tightens. “That’s a low bar.”
Reece’s mouth lifts. “You’d be surprised what the bar has been lately.”
Something sharp moves through me at that—anger, maybe, at Jesse, at the world, at the fact that anyone ever made Reece feel like she had to earn basic care.
I keep my voice steady. “You don’t have to earn anything.”
Reece’s eyes lift to mine, and the air shifts.
This is the part where I should step back.
This is the part where I should remember I’m her boss. Her neighbor. Her safe place. Not her complication.
Instead, I stay.
Because she’s looking at me differently tonight.
Not just as her best friend.
Not just as the guy who makes sure she gets home.
There’s something else in it—something curious, something warm, something that makes my pulse pick up like it’s recognizing a door it’s been standing in front of for years.
And I want it.
I want it more than I’ve allowed myself to want anything in a long time.
Reece breaks the silence first, because she always does when things get too close.
“So,” she says lightly. “How long are you staying?”
“One hour,” I say automatically.
Reece blinks. “We are both on the one-hour plan.”
“It’s a good plan,” I say.
“It’s a suspicious plan,” Reece counters.
“It’s survival,” I tell her, and she smiles.
Then she pauses, gaze flicking over my outfit again like it has offended her personally.
“You look… nice,” she says, quieter this time. Less teasing.
My throat goes dry.
“You look…” I start, then stop because no word feels safe.
Reece lifts a brow. “What?”
I choose a word that’s true and also not enough. “Happy.”
Reece’s expression softens, and for a beat she looks like she might not have an answer.
Then she huffs a laugh and looks down at her glass. “I’m trying.”
I nod slowly. “I can tell.”
The room shifts behind us—someone laughs loudly, a tray clinks, Rosie’s voice floats over the noise as she tells someone, “No, no, she can’t talk right now, she’s emotionally unavailable.”
Reece snorts again, and her smile stays.
It stays.
And something in me settles, like I’ve been holding my breath for two months and didn’t realize it until now.
Then a voice cuts into our corner.
“Reece?”
A man stands near us—clean-cut, confident, holding a drink. Not aggressive. Just… hopeful.
Reece’s body tenses, just slightly, like she’s remembering she’s in a room that expects her to perform.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Reece looks at him.
Then she looks at me.
And the flicker of hesitation there is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.
Because it means she wants to stay in this corner.
With me.
She wants the moment not to break.
Rosie’s voice suddenly appears out of nowhere, cheerful and bright.
“Oh!” Rosie says, sliding in like a stage manager. “So sorry—Reece can’t. She’s in the middle of a very serious conversation with—”
Rosie glances at me, then smiles sweetly.
“—with her… boss,” she finishes with complete confidence.
Reece’s eyes widen.
I stare at Rosie.
The man blinks, confused. “Oh. Okay. Sorry.”
He backs away.
Rosie beams like she just won an award.
Reece turns to her, horrified. “Did you just call him my boss?”
Rosie shrugs. “Technically, he is your boss.”
Reece makes a noise that is half laugh, half disbelief. “Rosie.”
Rosie pats her shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
Then she leans in, voice dropping. “Also, you’re smiling.”
Reece goes still.
Rosie grins and whispers, “Two hours, babe. I’m counting.”
Reece’s glare returns, but it’s weaker than usual. Fond, even.
Rosie straightens and claps her hands. “Okay! Everyone! Continue to mingle!”
A ripple moves through the room—people turning, attention shifting, energy lifting.
Reece’s shoulders tense again.
The moment wobbles.
I watch her, the way she tries to steel herself, the way she tries to put the armor back on.
I don’t want her to.
I don’t want the corner to end.
I don’t want the room to come rushing back in.
Neither does she.
She looks up at me again—and in her eyes is that same quiet question:
Can we stay here a little longer?
Before I can answer, Rosie’s voice cuts through the room again, bright and smug.
“And don’t forget!” she calls. “If you’re having fun, you’re not allowed to leave yet!”
Reece groans under her breath.
I tilt my head closer, voice low. “One hour plan,” I remind her.
Reece’s eyes flick to mine, and her mouth curves into something small and dangerous. “We’re already failing it.”
And the way she says it—like she doesn’t hate the failure—makes my chest fill with something a lot like hope.
The room keeps moving.
But in our corner, for one more beat, it’s still just us.
And neither of us wants it to break.