Reece
Ilaugh so hard I almost snort, which is the universe’s way of keeping me humble.
My hand flies to my mouth like I can physically catch the sound before it becomes public record.
Gage’s eyes flick to me, warm and amused, and the corner of his mouth lifts like he’s been waiting for that exact moment.
“I didn’t hear anything,” he says, calm as ever.
“You absolutely did,” I whisper.
“I heard… joy,” he replies, deadpan.
I squint at him. “That’s not what that was.”
“That’s what it sounded like,” he says, and the way he says it—soft, certain—makes my chest do something ridiculous.
We’re still in our little corner of the room, half-shadowed by a tall plant and the edge of a bookshelf, like the venue accidentally created a hiding place for people who don’t want to be perceived.
Or for people who don’t want to be perceived by anyone but each other.
Which is… not a thought I’m having. Not at all.
My cheeks hurt.
Not from smiling. That would imply I’m happy.
From… facial exertion. Like cardio, but for my mouth.
I glance at the room, at the clusters of strangers chatting and laughing and exchanging phone numbers like it’s easy, and then I glance back at Gage.
Two hours.
I’ve been smiling for two straight hours.
I haven’t done that in months.
Not since before Jesse. Not since before everything got complicated and I started rationing my happiness like it was a luxury expense.
Gage shifts slightly, and the movement pulls my attention in like a magnet.
He looks unfair tonight. Not in a polished, CEO way. In a human way. Button down. Relaxed shoulders. Less armor. More… him.
Which is the problem.
Because I’m not supposed to notice him like this. I spend every weekday sitting next to him on the train and somehow my brain never fully registers what my eyes are doing right now.
Or maybe it always registered, and I just refused to file it.
Gage’s voice pulls me back.
“So,” he says, “how many people have you fiscally responsible’d tonight?”
I groan. “Don’t.”
“You started it,” he reminds me.
“I did not start it. Brett started it.”
“You’re blaming Brett?”
“I am absolutely blaming Brett,” I say. “His handshake was damp.”
Gage’s eyebrows lift.
“Damp,” I emphasize. “Not sweaty. Not clammy. Damp. Like his hands were… recently baptized.”
Gage makes a sound that is definitely a laugh disguised as a cough.
“See?” I point at him. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m not laughing,” he says smoothly. “I’m concerned.”
“About Brett’s moisture?” I ask.
“About your trauma,” he answers, totally straight-faced.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Then I burst out laughing again, because apparently my body has decided this is the night we abandon composure entirely.
Gage’s eyes soften like he’s proud of me for being human.
It’s rude.
I lean back against the wall, clutching my drink like it’s a prop that makes me look normal.
Gage glances toward the room.
Rosie is across the way, watching us like a satisfied gremlin in a pretty dress, sipping something sparkly like she’s toasting her own success.
She catches my eye and lifts her brows in a look that screams, Told you.
I glare.
Rosie smiles bigger.
I turn back to Gage. “She’s going to be unbearable.”
“She already is,” Gage says.
“True,” I admit.
We fall quiet for a beat. Comfortable, just us.
It’s the same feeling as the LIRR—our little pocket of time where the world doesn’t press in.
Except now there are candles. And strangers. And the word singles hovering in the air like a threat.
And yet, with Gage here, none of it feels sharp.
I hate that.
No—hate is too strong.
I’m annoyed by how safe he makes me feel. Like safety is something he just carries around casually, like his keys.
Gage tilts his head. “You okay?”
The question is simple. Gentle.
No pressure. No demand.
Just… him.
I swallow. “I’m good.”
Gage’s gaze holds mine for a beat, like he can see the lie and chooses not to punish me for it.
Then he nods once. “Okay.”
I exhale.
That “okay” shouldn’t make me feel like someone smoothed my hair down after a storm.
But it does.
“Remember when you tried to convince me we could build a fort that connected our houses?” Gage says suddenly, like he’s changing the topic on purpose.
I blink. “That was not me.”
“That was absolutely you.”
“That was you,” I argue.
Gage’s mouth twitches. “Reece. You drew a blueprint.”
I stare at him, horrified. “I did not.”
“You did,” he says calmly. “It involved rope. And a sheet. And—”
“And a neighborhood lawsuit,” I cut in quickly, because now I remember. “Okay, fine. That was me. But I was eight.”
“You were eight and already trying to control the logistics of friendship,” Gage says.
“Someone had to,” I reply. “You were impulsive.”
Gage’s eyes flick to me. “I was not impulsive.”
“You tried to jump off the garage roof with an umbrella,” I remind him.
“That was a science experiment,” he says with a straight face.
“That was Mary Poppins cosplay,” I correct.
Gage’s smile grows. “I landed.”
“You fell,” I say.
“I landed,” he insists.
I shake my head. “This is why I had to make the fort blueprint. Because you were a danger to yourself.”
“And you were bossy,” he replies, warm.
“Organized,” I correct.
“Bossy,” he repeats.
“Fiscally responsible,” I shoot back.
Gage’s laugh escapes for real this time, and my stomach flips like it’s applauding.
I should not like that sound as much as I do.
I do anyway.
We keep talking.
It’s effortless. Like breathing.
Like everything in the room is background noise and the only real thing is the rhythm of us—inside jokes, childhood memories, commute complaints, little details no one else would care about.
Gage tells me a story about an investor who tried to act casual and spilled coffee on a contract.
I tell him about Rosie’s client with the PowerPoint and the pie chart.
Gage’s eyebrows lift. “A pie chart?”
“With transitions,” I confirm.
His mouth tightens like he’s holding back a laugh. “That’s… criminal.”
“I told Rosie love is dead,” I say.
Gage tilts his head. “Love is not dead. Love is just… poorly presented.”
I stare at him. “Did you just make love sound like a marketing campaign?”
He shrugs. “I’m a CEO.”
I laugh again, and it hits me like a small shock: I’m not forcing it.
I’m not performing.
I’m not bracing for the drop.
I’m just… here.
With him.
And for the first time since Jesse, I don’t feel like I’m standing on shaky ground.
I feel like I’m standing on something solid.
Which should scare me.
It doesn’t.
That realization scares me.
To prove to myself that I’m normal and not secretly dependent on Gage Donovan for oxygen, I decide to do something brave.
I decide to talk to another guy.
Because that’s why I’m here, technically.
Because Rosie would carve my name into a pumpkin if she knew I spent the whole night in a corner with my boss.
So when a man nearby catches my eye and smiles—normal smile, normal face, no bulging eyes—I straighten my shoulders and step away from Gage.
Just a little.
“Be right back,” I say, casual.
Gage’s gaze flicks over me, sharp for half a second. “Okay.”
That’s it. Just okay.
No questions. No hovering. No warning.
Which is respectful.
Which is annoying.
I approach the guy with my best attempt at confidence.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he replies, smiling. “I’m—”
“Reece,” I say, holding out my hand like a normal adult.
He shakes it. Dry. Thank you, universe.
We exchange small talk. His name is Daniel. He works in marketing. He likes hiking. He says he’s “really into brunch,” which feels like a personality but I won’t judge.
I try to flirt, which is like trying to ride a bike after a long time: theoretically possible, but my balance is suspicious.
“So,” I say, smiling politely, “do you… brunch fiscally responsibly?”
Daniel blinks.
I want to run.
“I’m kidding,” I add quickly. “Sort of.”
Daniel laughs. “I like your sense of humor.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved. “It’s mostly anxiety with a bow on it.”
He smiles again, leaning in a little closer. “So what brought you here tonight?”
I open my mouth to answer—
—and I feel it.
The shift.
The air changes like a pressure system moved in.
Daniel’s smile falters.
His eyes flick over my shoulder.
I turn my head slightly, curious—
—and there’s Gage, a few feet behind me, standing in that calm, steady way he stands when he’s waiting for a train.
He isn’t glaring.
He isn’t scowling.
He isn’t doing anything dramatic.
He’s just… there.
Present.
Polite.
A protective force field with a button down.
Daniel’s posture changes immediately. Like his instincts just whispered, Abort mission.
“Oh,” Daniel says, clearing his throat. “Is that… your boyfriend?”
My entire body short-circuits.
“NO,” I say too loudly.
Daniel’s eyebrows lift.
I force my volume back down. “No. He’s… my neighbor.”
Daniel looks confused. “Your neighbor came to a singles event with you.”
“He’s… supporting the host,” I say quickly.
Daniel’s gaze flicks between me and Gage again. “Right.”
“He’s also my boss,” I add, because my brain has chosen chaos.
Daniel’s eyes widen. “Oh.”
I want to crawl under the floor.
Behind me, Gage’s voice is calm as ever. “Hey.”
Daniel turns toward him like a man facing an authority figure.
Gage offers his hand. “Gage.”
Daniel shakes it, suddenly very respectful. “Daniel.”
I stare at the ceiling and silently beg the universe to swallow me.
Gage’s eyes flick to me—quick, subtle, warm. “You doing okay?”
“Yes,” I say too fast. “I’m fine.”
Daniel shifts his weight. “I should, uh—let you two—”
“No,” I say immediately.
Daniel’s eyes dart to Gage again.
Gage remains calm. “Nice meeting you.”
Daniel nods like he just survived something. “You too.”
And then Daniel leaves.
He doesn’t just drift away.
He retreats.
Like he sensed a protective force field and decided he enjoyed living.
I turn slowly to face Gage, horrified.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I said hello,” Gage replies.
“You said hello like a guard dog,” I whisper.
“I did not,” he says, offended in the calmest way possible.
“You stood there,” I insist, gesturing wildly. “Like… like a lighthouse.”
Gage blinks. “A lighthouse?”
“Yes,” I say. “Tall. Calm. Judging ships.”
“I wasn’t judging,” he says.
“You were existing loudly,” I counter.
Gage’s mouth twitches. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I am not,” I say, because I am absolutely not exaggerating.
Then I pause.
Because underneath the horror and the comedy, there’s another feeling.
A small, dangerous one.
A pleased one.
I wanted him to be jealous.
Not in a dramatic, toxic way. In a tiny, stupid way. Like I wanted him to care.
And the second I realize that, my stomach drops.
Because what does that mean?
It means my brain is wandering into places it has no business going.
It means I’m not as over this as I’ve been pretending.
It means—
I force a laugh and shove the feeling down so hard it should earn me a medal.
“Anyway,” I say too brightly, “that was… fun.”
Gage’s eyes narrow slightly. “Was it?”
“Yes,” I lie. “I’m thriving.”
Gage’s mouth twitches like he wants to smile. “I see.”
Across the room, Rosie is watching us like she’s witnessing the fulfillment of prophecy.
She raises her brows again.
I glare.
She grins like she’s about to burst into song.
I point at her with my glass.
She blows me a kiss.
I hate her.
I love her.
I might bury her in a pie chart.
Time passes in a blur after that. More laughing. More talking. More of me forgetting I’m supposed to be on guard.
Eventually, I glance at my phone and my stomach tightens.
Too late.
The time on the screen is rude.
The trains are less frequent now. The next one is… not soon.
I look up at Gage, and he seems to know immediately because he always knows things before I say them.
“Too late for the train?” he asks quietly.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Gage’s gaze shifts toward the door, then back to me. Calm. Practical. Steady.
“I’ll get us a car service,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
My mouth opens.
My brain tries to do what it always does—overthink, calculate, warn.
But my heart answers first.
“Yes,” I say, too quick.
Then I blink, realizing I didn’t even pretend to hesitate.
Gage’s eyes soften, just a fraction, like he noticed.
“Okay,” he says gently. “Come on.”
And as we step away from the room—away from the candles and the toothpicks and Rosie’s smug victory grin—I realize something that makes my chest ache:
I don’t want the night to end.
Not because of the event.
Because of him.