Gage
Mr. Donovan?
The words keep replaying in my head as we walk, as if my brain is trying to find the part where it makes sense.
Reece is already moving forward—chin lifted, shoulders squared, stride steady—like she didn’t just draw a line between us.
I match her pace automatically, because that’s what we do. We move together. We always have.
But my attention isn’t on the people passing, or the morning hum of the office waking up.
It’s on her.
On the way, her fingers tighten around her tote strap like she’s anchoring herself.
On the slight rigidity in her posture that wasn’t there yesterday.
On the fact that she looked away first.
Reece doesn’t look away first unless she’s protecting something.
Or protecting herself.
I keep my face neutral because we’re not alone. Because this is the floor where I’m supposed to be “Donovan Holdings CEO” and not “the boy next door who learned her laugh before he learned to drive.”
But inside, my thoughts are loud.
How did she just call me that?
Not why—I can guess why. I can list the reasons like bullet points in a report:
· Last night happened.
· Last night felt too easy.
· Easy scares her.
· Safe scares her more.
· And the quickest way for Reece to regain control is to make everything official.
Boss. Employee. Clean lines.
No room for corners and candlelight.
No room for her smiling for two hours straight.
No room for me—except as Mr. Donovan.
And that’s the part that stings.
Not because I need her to flirt with me in the hallway.
Because I don’t.
Because I won’t.
But because she used my title like a shield, and I hate that she feels like she needs one with me.
We reach her desk area. She veers toward her workspace without slowing, the movement efficient—practiced.
She’s good at this. She’s good at building a version of herself that doesn’t ask for anything.
I stop a respectful distance away, the way a boss should.
The way I can manage.
“Finance check-in moved to ten thirty,” I say, keeping my voice light, contained.
Reece nods without looking up. “I’ll be ready.”
She’s always ready.
That’s part of what makes this so hard—Reece doesn’t fall apart. She rearranges.
She takes the messy thing and files it into a category where it can’t hurt her.
And I’m watching her do it with last night.
With me.
Something settles in my chest—sharp, quiet.
Not anger.
Not embarrassment.
Loss.
Because “Mr. Donovan” isn’t just a title.
It’s distance wrapped in professionalism, delivered in her voice.
And the worst part is… I can’t even blame her for it.
I give a small nod like I’m leaving on purpose.
“Okay,” I say. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Her fingers pause on her keyboard for half a second. Just one beat. Like she almost looks up.
Then she keeps typing. “Will do.”
Two words. Perfect. Polite.
I turn before my face betrays me.
I walk back toward my office, passing familiar faces, returning greetings, playing my role like it fits—because it does.
But behind the calm, there’s a steady pulse of thought I can’t shake:
Last night wasn’t nothing.
And if Reece is calling me “Mr. Donovan” this morning…
Then she felt it too.
Which means being careful isn’t working.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
All day, I do what I do best.
I stay calm.
I make decisions.
I handle problems.
I keep the ship pointed forward.
And I give Reece space.
Not because I want to. Because she asked for it when she said, “Mr. Donovan.”
Every time she speaks to me, her tone is polite. Measured. Work-focused.
It’s not cold.
It’s worse.
It’s controlled.
Reece is never cruel when she’s uncomfortable. She’s precise. She becomes a version of herself that cannot be accused of needing anything.
At ten-thirty, in a finance check-in, she answers questions efficiently, clearly, like she’s walking a tightrope and refusing to wobble. She’s brilliant. She always has been.
I watch her carry the room with facts and calm, and pride swells in me so strongly it almost hurts.
Then she laughs once at a mild joke someone makes—and the laughter stops too fast.
Like she remembers she’s not supposed to be relaxed.
Like she remembers something about last night that she’s trying to pack away before it becomes dangerous.
Her eyes dart away from mine.
I pretend I don’t notice.
Because noticing would mean responding.
Responding would mean pressure.
And pressure is the last thing I want her to feel—especially from me.
I spend most of my day navigating meetings and calls, and the kind of problems that come with being responsible for too many people’s paychecks.
But the whole time, I’m tracking her in my peripheral vision the way I track weather updates on a job site.
Not obsessively.
Automatically.
Reece is part of my day the way the LIRR is part of my day. Routine. Expected. Stable.
Except now she’s unstable in a quiet way, and my brain keeps trying to fix it.
That’s the problem with loving someone who is proud.
If you try to help too loudly, they flinch.
If you do nothing, they assume you don’t care.
And I don’t know where the line is.
Because I’m her friend.
And I’m her boss.
And I’m the person who wants her in a way that doesn’t fit into any professional handbook.
There’s a moment around three when she walks into my office with a folder tucked under her arm, posture straight, voice steady.
“Updated vendor timeline,” she says, placing it neatly on my desk.
Her fingers barely brush the paper.
She doesn’t linger.
She doesn’t make eye contact longer than necessary.
It’s like she’s afraid that if she stands still with me, something might happen.
Something like what happened last night.
Something like laughter that turns into quiet.
Quiet that turns into closeness.
Closeness that turns into—
I swallow the thought.
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
She nods once. “Of course.”
Then she leaves.
And I sit there, staring at a folder I don’t even open right away, because the truth is sitting heavier than any spreadsheet:
I want to talk to her.
Not as her boss.
Not as the CEO of Donovan Holdings.
As the boy who shares a fence line with her, who learned her moods before he learned algebra, who knows when she’s pretending.
I want to say, Hey. What was that? Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? Did I crowd you? Did I make last night harder when it should’ve been yours?
But I don’t.
Because I can already picture her reaction.
She would smile too quickly.
She would deflect with a joke.
She would say she’s fine.
And then she’d build the wall higher.
Because if there’s one thing Reece hates more than feeling fragile, it’s feeling watched while she’s fragile.
So I do the only thing that feels safe.
I stay steady.
Not pushy.
Even if it hurts.
Around four, I’m in the break area refilling my mug when Mark from Operations strolls in like he owns the place—which, in a way, he does. If something breaks in this building, Mark finds it, fixes it, or puts a cone in front of it like a warning to humanity.
He clocks my coffee and smirks. “Ah. Executive luxury.”
I glance at him. “You mean… the burnt blend labeled ‘Medium Roast’?”
Mark leans a hip against the counter. “Don’t play humble. I know all about CEO perks.”
“I don’t have perks,” I say.
Mark snorts. “Please. You have an entire floor that only your badge can access. You probably have a hidden espresso bar behind a fake wall. A little speakeasy but for caffeine.”
“I have a copier that jams if you look at it wrong,” I deadpan. “That’s my speakeasy.”
Mark points at me. “See? That’s the perk. You can call IT, and they answer like it’s 911.”
“I call IT and they send me a ticket number,” I say. “We’re in a committed relationship. It’s emotionally unavailable.”
Mark laughs, shaking his head. “Unreal. We should make you do a week in Operations. You’d be begging for the boardroom by lunch.”
“I would be begging for sleep,” I correct.
He grins like he’s been waiting to pivot to what he actually came in here to say. His gaze flicks past me toward the hallway—toward Reece’s section of the floor.
“So,” he says, casual in the way nosy people always are. “You and Callahan still doing the commuter couple thing?”
I take a sip and keep my face neutral. “We commute.”
Mark lifts a brow. “Together.”
“Most days,” I admit.
Mark’s grin widens. “Wild. If I lived next door to someone I’d known since kindergarten, I’d either be married or in witness protection.”
I stare at him.
Mark holds up a hand. “Kidding. Mostly. I’m just saying—people notice.”
“I’m aware,” I say flatly.
He shrugs, still amused. “Hard not to. You two have that… synchronized thing.”
“Synchronized,” I repeat.
“Like,” he says, gesturing vaguely, “you walk in here at the same time, you leave at the same time, you commute together—” He pauses, smirking. “It’s the start of a highly efficient romance novel.”
“It’s a highly efficient commute,” I correct.
Mark laughs. “Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself, boss.”
Then he pushes off the counter, still grinning as he heads out. “Anyway. Enjoy your executive luxury. Try not to get lost in the VIP break room.”
“I’ll send a search party,” I call after him.
Mark waves without turning around. “Tell your emotionally unavailable copier I said hi.”
By five thirty, my calendar finally stops trying to kill me.
I pack up slowly, because I know what waits outside: the commute.
The routine.
The normal.
And the fact that Reece is going to be beside me in the train car like always.
I step out of my office and spot her at her desk, shutting down her computer, hair tucked behind her ear with a movement so familiar it pulls at something old in my chest.
She stands, slips her tote bag over her shoulder, and turns.
Her eyes flick to mine—quick and unreadable.
“Ready?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
“Yes,” she says. Professional. Polite.
No teasing.
No warmth.
Just… yes.
We take the elevator down with other employees. In this space, we are “Mr. Donovan” and “Reece.”
We are boss and employee.
We are not porch steps and board games and laughter in candlelight.
I get it.
I do.
But understanding doesn’t erase the ache.
Outside, winter air cuts through the city. We walk to Penn Station with the crowd, moving in the current of commuters.
Reece keeps a half-step of distance. Not obvious. Just enough that I notice.
And then she makes a joke—small, quick, like she’s tossing me a bone.
“Don’t get trampled,” she says.
It’s the first hint of her real voice all afternoon.
My chest loosens by a fraction. “That’s your advice?”
“It’s practical,” she replies.
A pause.
Then, softer: “I’m tired.”
It isn’t an excuse.
It’s an offering.
I nod once, accepting it as what it is. “Me too.”
We reach the platform. The train arrives. We board.
We find our usual seats.
And for a while, we sit in a quiet that doesn’t feel hostile—just… careful.
Reece pulls out her laptop, but she doesn’t open it. She just rests her hands on it like it’s a shield she might need.
I stare out the window.
The city blurs into tunnels and lights.
At some point, her shoulder shifts and her coat brushes mine—accidental, brief.
Both of us go still.
Then both of us pretend we didn’t.
The whole ride home, I feel like I’m holding a delicate glass object.
One wrong move and it shatters.
At our stop, we walk to the parking lot and drive home in silence.
On the drive, we’d usually say something casual. A comment about the cold. A complaint about traffic. A joke about the platform trying to kill her again.
But tonight, Reece simply says while she steps out of the car, “See you in the morning.”
“See you,” I answer.
She pauses, like she might add something.
Then she doesn’t.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel the routine shift.
Not dramatically.
Like a song you’ve listened to a thousand times suddenly playing in a different key.
I sit in the car for a moment before turning it off.
Reece’s house is dark except for the glow in her front window.
She’s home.
She’s safe.
That should be enough.
It isn’t.
I go inside, hang my coat, loosen my tie, and move through the familiar rooms of my parents’ old house.
It still smells faintly like cedar and old books and winter.
It’s a good house. A steady house.
A house that’s held a lot of our history—Reece running through the back door, sitting in her chair at the table, and excited to eat anything that my mom was preparing. Reece and me finishing puzzles after we ate dinner.
I can still hear her laughter in these walls if I let myself.
I don’t let myself.
Instead, I make dinner. Something simple. Something boring. Something that feels like control.
While the microwave hums, my phone buzzes.
A weather advisory notification.
Winter Weather Advisory — Saturday midday through Sunday morning. Heavy snow possible.
I stare at it longer than I should.
Saturday.
Midday.
Tomorrow.
The words hook into my brain like a nail.
Reece’s house is older. Draftier. The windows rattle when the wind picks up. The power in this neighborhood can be unreliable when storms hit hard.
My own house has a generator, because I plan for emergencies the way other people plan vacations.
Not because I’m paranoid.
Because being prepared is easier than being helpless.
A second alert follows.
Potential for significant accumulation. Prepare now.
My protective instincts snap to high gear so fast I almost laugh at myself.
Of course they do.
Because this is what I do.
I handle problems.
I show up.
Even when I’m not sure I’m wanted.
Even when I’m trying to be careful.
I glance out the kitchen window at the dark line of Reece’s house next door.
I can picture her right now—probably in her kitchen, telling herself she’s fine, reorganizing a cabinet like it’s therapy.
The thought makes my chest tighten.
I want her—not as a secret, not as a maybe, not as a quiet ache I carry around like a habit.
I want her in the way that means risk.
In the way that means I have to be brave.
And I don’t know how to be brave without breaking something.
So I make a decision I can justify.
Not emotional.
Practical.
I pull my phone out and type:
Me: Weather advisory for tomorrow. You stocked up?
I stare at the message before sending it.
It’s safe. It’s normal. It’s neighborly.
It’s also me, doing what I’ve always done—keeping an eye out.
I hit send.
Then I stand in my quiet kitchen, listening to the microwave beep and the wind pick up outside, and I admit the truth I’ve been avoiding all day:
Careful isn’t working.
And the storm is coming.