Reece
My front door clicks shut behind me, and I immediately whisper, “Nothing happened.”
It’s not for anyone else. No one is here. The house is quiet in that familiar, hollow way it’s been since my parents moved to Georgia—too much space, too much silence, the kind that makes your thoughts echo.
It’s for me.
Because if I say it out loud, maybe my brain will accept it as fact instead of playing the last four hours like a highlight reel on a loop.
Nothing happened.
I kick off my boots. I hang up my coat. I walk into my kitchen like I’m a normal woman who went to a singles event, survived, and came home.
My cheeks are still warm from laughing.
My throat is still a little sore from talking.
My body is still humming like it doesn’t know the night is over.
Nothing happened.
I set my keys on the counter and stare at them like they might confess.
What did happen?
I went to an event I didn’t want to go to.
I talked to a man with damp hands.
I told someone I’m fiscally responsible as a personality trait.
I laughed so much my face hurts.
And Gage Donovan—my boss, my neighbor, my best friend since forever—showed up in a laid- back look and ruined the entire concept of “moving on” without even trying.
I walk to the living room and stop in the middle of it, because my brain is not coming with me anymore. It’s still back at the venue, stuck in that corner.
The one with the plant and the candlelight and his quiet voice and the way his eyes looked when I told him I was trying.
He didn’t laugh at me.
He didn’t make me feel silly.
He didn’t make me feel like I had to be charming or easy or fun to deserve attention.
He just… stayed.
And the worst part—the truly offensive part—is that it worked. It made the room feel less sharp. It made me feel less alone.
Which is not supposed to happen at a singles event.
The singles event is supposed to feel like a brave new chapter. A fun little field trip. A harmless hour where I prove to myself I can still talk to strangers without forgetting how vowels work.
Instead, it felt like a bizarre experiment where Rosie released me into the wild and the universe immediately went, Okay. Here. Have your best friend in a button-down.
I press my fingers to my forehead.
Okay.
Here’s the problem: Rosie might be right.
Not about the damp handshaker. She was wrong about that. That man should be banned from public handshakes until he completes a certified drying program.
But about Gage.
About the thing she’s been saying since high school, like she’s predicting weather.
You two should just date.
Back then, I thought it was hilarious. Like Rosie was playing matchmaker because she likes love stories, and the two of us were simply the nearest available characters.
It didn’t help that Gage and I did everything couples do—minus the couple part.
We had our own routines. Our own language. Our own gravity.
We’d sit on my porch steps when we were teenagers, sharing earbuds because we thought we were edgy, swapping songs back and forth like it was a love language. We’d read books aloud and do dramatic voices until my mom yelled from the kitchen for us to “stop shouting Shakespeare at midnight.”
We’d ride our bikes down the street at the same time every summer morning like it was scheduled.
We’d show up at each other’s houses without knocking, because there was no point.
And even then, even with all of that, it still felt safer to call it friendship.
Because friendship doesn’t ask anything from you.
Friendship doesn’t ask you to risk your heart.
Friendship doesn’t look you in the face and say, What if this isn’t enough?
But now?
Now I’m standing in my living room at nearly midnight, thinking about the way Gage looked at me tonight.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Maybe Gage is the person I’ve been looking for all this time.
Maybe that’s why dating never felt quite right—because my brain always compared everyone else’s effort to the way Gage shows up without being asked.
Not in big ways. Not dramatic ways. In small, steady ones that you don’t notice until you’re suddenly missing them.
The way he walks on the windward side of me like he’s “strategic” when he’s really just protective.
The way he asks, You okay? like he actually wants the answer but doesn’t demand it.
The way he says my name like it’s something he’s used to keeping safe.
But if it was meant to be, wouldn’t it have happened already?
We’ve had over twenty years of opportunity.
We’ve had porch steps and board games and read-aloud nights and train rides and mornings and inside jokes and that time we tried to build a fort that would “connect our houses” like we were eight and feral.
If there was something there, shouldn’t it have… surfaced? Exploded? Forced itself into the open?
Or maybe it did.
Maybe it did a long time ago.
And I shoved it down because it was easier to call it friendship than risk losing it.
My stomach twists.
Because friendship is safe.
Friendship doesn’t come with heartbreak.
Friendship doesn’t end with you sitting in your car crying so hard you have to pull over because you can’t see.
Friendship doesn’t make you feel stupid for wanting to be held.
And that’s the part of Jesse that keeps sliding into my thoughts like an unpaid bill.
The last month of our relationship felt like trying to hold water in my hands. The tighter I gripped, the faster it slipped through my fingers.
And when I finally said, “I miss you,” he looked at me like I’d asked him to carry something heavy.
“I just don’t know if I can do this,” he said.
“This” meaning: effort. Feelings. Me.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I didn’t cry in front of him, because I refused to give him that.
That’s what heartbreak does.
It doesn’t just hurt. It humiliates you.
It makes you feel like you were foolish to believe anyone could choose you fully.
And two months later, I still function. I still work. I still commute. I still laugh.
But I’m careful now.
Careful with hope.
Careful with softness.
Careful with anyone who might get close enough to matter.
Which brings us back to Gage, standing in a corner, quiet and steady, like he belongs in my life the way he always has.
And that’s the problem.
He already matters.
He always has.
I walk into my kitchen and open the pantry door like it has the answers.
It does not.
It has pasta. It has rice. It has spices I’ve been meaning to reorganize for months.
Perfect.
Something to control.
I grab the cinnamon and stare at it.
Then I grab the cumin.
Then I start lining them up on the counter in neat little rows.
Alphabetical. Obviously.
Because if my heart is going to behave like a chaotic gremlin, then at least my spices can be orderly.
Paprika. Parsley. Pepper.
My brain, unfortunately, is not cooperating with my therapy.
Because while my hands alphabetize, my thoughts are replaying the moment Gage leaned against the wall in that corner, sleeves folded slightly up, looking like a man who has never had to try to be handsome because he simply is.
And I am very irritated that my brain has chosen his sleeves as the detail to fixate on.
It’s not even a scandalous detail.
It’s just… forearms.
Forearms should not be life-changing.
My brain disagrees.
I slam the pantry door a little too hard.
“Nothing happened,” I repeat to the kitchen like it’s going to back me up.
It doesn’t.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I glance down and—of course—it’s Rosie.
Rosie: HOME???
Rosie: Please confirm you are alive and not currently being abducted by Damp Hands.
Rosie: Also, I will debrief soon. People are STILL mingling. I’m basically running a small romance economy over here.
I snort despite myself. The sound bounces off the quiet walls.
I type back:
Me: I’m home. Alive.
Me: No abductions. No damp hands.
Me: I am reorganizing my pantry like a normal person.
Three dots appear immediately.
Rosie: THE PANTRY.
Rosie: Reece.
Rosie: That’s not a coping mechanism, that’s a cry for help in alphabetical order.
Rosie: I’m proud.
I shake my head, smiling even as my chest aches.
I type:
Me: I hate you.
Rosie: No you don’t.
Rosie: Sleep.
Rosie: And just so you know… tonight went exactly how it was supposed to.
My stomach flips.
Because that sentence feels like a door opening.
And I’m not ready to walk through it.
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t know what I’d say without admitting something I’m not ready to admit.
Instead, I set my phone down and stare at the neat spice row like it can keep my feelings contained.
It can’t.
I go upstairs, brush my teeth, change into pajamas, and climb into bed.
Nothing happened.
Except it did.
And my brain refuses to let it go.
I stare at the ceiling for too long.
I replay everything.
Not the whole night. Just the parts that matter.
Gage’s voice in my ear when he leaned in slightly in that corner. His laugh when I told him about damp hands. The way his eyes softened when I smiled without forcing it. The way he asked if I was okay, like it wasn’t a formality.
And then the worst part: the car ride home.
The way the cold hit our faces when we stepped outside. The way we denied “couple vibes” at the same time, like we were a synchronized team. The way I said yes to a car service too quickly, without thinking, because it didn’t feel like a risk.
And that terrifies me.
Because it means my body trusts him.
Even if my brain is still terrified of wanting anything.
Eventually, exhaustion wins.
Not peace. Not closure.
Just exhaustion.
Friday morning arrives with no respect for my emotional crisis.
My alarm goes off like it’s never heard of personal growth, and I stumble into my bathroom, tie my hair back, and stare at my own reflection like I’m trying to locate the version of me who was laughing freely in candlelight last night.
She’s still in there.
Annoyingly.
My phone is quiet. No Jesse texts. No Rosie emergencies. Just the normal hum of life.
I make coffee. I put on my work face. I grab my tote bag.
I step outside.
Cold air bites my cheeks.
And across the driveway line, Gage’s porch light flicks on like it’s part of the routine.
Because it is.
He steps out a moment later, already in his suit again, travel mug in hand, calm in the way that makes me want to either hug him or throw a snowball at him.
Both seem inappropriate.
He locks his door, glances over, and his eyes meet mine.
And my heart does something so obvious I almost look behind me to see if it’s visible.
“Morning,” he calls.
“Morning,” I answer, voice steady.
I am normal.
I am so normal.
Gage walks toward his car with the same easy familiarity as always, and I have to remind myself not to stare at his arms.
Or his hands.
Or his mouth.
Or… anything.
We walk in sync to his car.
His eyes flicking over my face like he’s checking in without making it a whole thing.
“You sleep?” he asks.
“Yes,” I lie smoothly.
Gage’s mouth twitches like he knows.
“Good,” he says anyway.
Because he’s kind.
Because he’s careful.
Because he’s Gage.
We climb into his car together like we’ve done a thousand times. He starts the engine. The heat kicks on. The world keeps moving like nothing happened.
But I can’t stop noticing everything.
The way his knuckles look on the steering wheel.
The way his voice sounds closer in the small space of the car.
The faint scent of coffee and winter and him.
I turn my gaze out the window and try to reset my brain.
It does not reset.
He pulls out of the driveway, and we roll down our street, passing the familiar houses, the same stop sign, the same little stretch where the road always has a bump that makes my coffee jump.
“Coffee too hot?” he asks, glancing at my cup.
I take a sip and wince on purpose, because I refuse to let him win. “It’s fine.”
He hums, amused. “Liar.”
“Accurate,” I correct.
His eyes warm, and the look should not make my stomach flip.
It does.
I stare out the window harder.
At the station, we park, walk to the platform, find our usual spot.
Reece Callahan: normal commuter.
Definitely not a woman who spent last night in a candlelit corner laughing with her boss like it was the safest place in the world.
The platform is crowded. People cluster with their coffee and their scarves and their dead-eyed determination to survive Friday.
Gage stands beside me like he always does. Close enough to feel familiar. Not close enough to be obvious.
But today everything is obvious to me.
His shoulder. His elbow. The way his breath fogs in the cold.
The train arrives. We board. We sit.
And immediately, the air between us feels… different.
Not big different.
Not obvious.
Just… tuned.
Like the volume got turned up half a notch, and I’m the only one who can hear it.
We trade small banter. Routine banter. Train banter. The safe kind.
But it sparks in a new way, like the words have edges now, like everything has a second meaning I didn’t order and cannot return.
When he says, “Busy day?” it feels like he’s asking, Are you okay?
When I say, “I’m fine,” it feels like I’m lying with my whole body.
He doesn’t push. He never does.
Which makes me want to tell him everything.
Which makes me want to do the opposite.
By the time we reach the city, my nerves are tight in a way they weren’t yesterday.
Because now we’re heading to the place where last night isn’t allowed to exist.
We step into the crush of Penn Station, walk toward the building, enter the elevator.
And the second the office doors open, my brain panics.
Because here is where he’s my boss.
Here is where I am supposed to be professional.
Here is where last night is not allowed to exist.
So I overcorrect.
Hard.
I straighten my shoulders. I tighten my grip on my tote strap. I put distance in my tone.
When we step onto our floor, Gage pulls the door open, waiting for me to walk through, with him like always.
I do.
But my voice comes out before my brain can stop it.
“Thank you, Mr. Donovan.”
Silence.
The office hums around us. Keyboards clack. Phones ring.
Gage freezes mid-step like he’s been personally insulted by a customer service email.
Slowly, he turns his head toward me.
“Mr. Donovan?” he repeats, calm and dangerous.
I feel my soul leave my body again. It must be getting a lot of frequent flyer miles lately.
“I—” I clear my throat. “I’m… practicing professionalism.”
“On me?” he asks, brow lifting.
“Unfortunately,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “Reece.”
My name sounds different in his voice this morning. Softer. Closer.
I hate that. It is inconvenient.
I lift my chin. “What? You’re my boss.”
Gage’s gaze holds mine for a beat too long. “And you’re still you.”
My chest tightens.
I look away first, because if I don’t, I’m going to do something unprofessional like smile.
Or worse—hope.
And hope is the thing I’ve been careful with for years on purpose.
Because if you never want too much, you never have to lose it.
And that’s a lie.
But it’s been my lie.