Reece #2
Rosie clears her throat and flips back into Rosie-mode—bright, bossy, determined. “Okay. Here’s my ruling.”
I blink. “Your ruling?”
“Yes,” she says. “I will allow one evening of denial. Max.”
I snort. “You can’t allow—”
“I can and I will,” Rosie says cheerfully. “Because I control the narrative.”
“You do not control my narrative,” I argue.
Rosie laughs. “Tell that to your sock drawer.”
“Goodbye, Rosie.”
Rosie gasps dramatically. “You love me.”
“I do,” I admit through my teeth.
“Sleep,” she orders. “And don’t call him Mr. Donovan again unless you want me to embroider it on a pillow next to Mrs. Donovan.”
I groan. “Please don’t.”
“I already ordered the thread,” Rosie says sweetly. “Bye!”
She hangs up.
I stare at my phone like it just punched me and then patted my cheek.
My kitchen is quiet again—except for the window draft and my own heart, which is being extremely inconvenient.
I stare at my phone for a second after Rosie ends the call like she just slapped me with truth and then sprinkled glitter on it.
My salad stares back at me from the bowl like it’s waiting for an apology.
“Don’t look at me,” I tell it.
The salad does not care.
My screen is still open to Gage’s earlier text from a few minutes ago—because yes, he already knows I’m home. He physically delivered me to my driveway like a very calm, very handsome Uber driver who refused to accept payment and also ruined my emotional stability.
His actual message is exactly what I should expect from him:
Gage: Weather advisory for tomorrow. You stocked up?
Of course that’s what he texts. Of course it is.
Not Did you have fun?
Not Are you okay?
Not Was it weird when we denied being a couple in perfect unison like we were a synchronized swimming team?
Just… stocked up.
Logistics.
Safety.
The steady.
I stab a crouton like it owes me money.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Too flirty?
No.
Flirting is fine as long as I call it banter.
I type:
Me: I have lettuce and stubbornness. I’ll survive.
Me: Also my windows are rattling like they’re auditioning for a horror movie.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
The reply comes fast, because Gage Donovan responds to weather like it’s a personal challenge.
Gage: Your windows are dramatic.
Gage: Do you have batteries, candles, and something that isn’t lettuce?
I smile.
I do not want to smile.
I smile anyway.
Me: Excuse you, this lettuce is very brave.
Me: And yes. I have candles.
Me: Batteries… probably.
Me: If I don’t, I’ll simply glow with rage if the power goes out.
A beat.
Gage: That explains a lot about you, actually.
I laugh under my breath, fork paused halfway to my mouth.
This is ridiculous.
This is also… easy.
Too easy.
My brain tries to pivot back to responsible adult mode, but my fingers have already betrayed me.
Me: Since you’re clearly preparing to become the neighborhood survival leader, we should discuss the most important storm resource.
Gage: Salt?
Me: Incorrect.
Me: Snow-day movie.
A pause.
Then:
Gage: Objection.
My lips tug upward like they’ve been waiting for this.
Me: Overruled. I’m the judge.
Gage: You can’t be the judge and the jury.
Me: I can and I will. I’m an accountant. I control outcomes.
Gage: That’s… concerning.
Me: It’s comforting. Like puzzles. Apparently.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Which means he’s smiling.
Because Gage Donovan only pauses when he’s trying not to encourage me.
Gage: Counsel is dismissed. Present your case.
I sit up straighter at my kitchen table like I’ve been called to the stand.
Okay.
Fine.
If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.
I wipe my hands, open my laptop like I’m about to audit a corporation, and create a note titled:
MOVIE COURT: THE PEOPLE VS. BAD STORM CHOICES
Then I text him:
Me: Movie Court is now in session.
Me: Exhibit A: Comfort factor.
Me: Exhibit B: Rewatchability.
Me: Exhibit C: Hot cocoa compatibility.
Me: Exhibit D: Does this movie require emotional resilience? Automatic disqualification.
Me: Exhibit E: Does this movie contain a dog in peril? If yes, jail.
His reply is immediate.
Gage: Your honor, she’s clearly biased.
Gage: Also define “emotional resilience.”
Me: Emotional resilience = crying, suspense, jump scares, or plotlines where someone learns a life lesson through suffering.
Me: We are not learning lessons during a snowstorm. We are surviving.
Me: With cocoa.
Me: Like patriots.
Gage: Sustained.
Gage: “Like patriots” was unnecessary.
Me: It was essential.
I take a bite of salad, then type my opening statement with the seriousness of a woman who has absolutely lost the plot.
Me: Opening statement: You’ve Got Mail.
Me: Comfort factor: 10/10.
Me: Rewatchability: infinite.
Me: Hot cocoa compatibility: elite.
Me: Emotional resilience required: none. It’s basically a warm blanket with dialogue and small bookstores.
He responds so fast it’s like he’s been waiting for this fight his entire life.
Gage: Objection.
Gage: It’s not a snow-day movie. It’s a “fall in love while typing” movie.
My stomach does a tiny, rude flip at that phrasing.
I ignore it with the determination of a woman who has spreadsheets to hide behind.
Me: Weather is irrelevant. Vibes are the law.
Me: Also, “fall in love while typing” is a valid genre.
Me: It’s called romance. Try it sometime, Mr. CEO.
A pause.
Then:
Gage: I’m trying to survive the storm, not catch feelings.
I stare at the screen.
My chest goes warm.
I tell my heart to stop doing that.
It does not stop.
So I do what I do best: I redirect.
Me: Counterargument denied. Present YOUR candidate.
Gage: National Treasure.
I actually gasp out loud.
“NATIONAL TREASURE?” I say to my kitchen, offended.
Then I text:
Me: That is not a snow-day movie.
Me: That is a “my brain is wired for puzzles” movie.
Me: That is a movie for people who alphabetize their garage.
Gage: You said comfort.
Me: Yes. Like blankets.
Gage: Puzzles are comforting.
I pause, fork hovering.
Of course he would say that.
Of course he would.
It’s the most Gage sentence ever typed: calm, factual, quietly unhinged.
I type back:
Me: Exhibit F: Your honor, the defendant is emotionally attached to riddles.
Gage: Objection. Character assassination.
Me: Sustained.
Me: Not character assassination. Character analysis.
Me: This is Movie Court. We deal in facts.
Gage: Fine. Evidence.
Gage: Exhibit A: It’s impossible to be sad during that movie.
Me: False.
Gage: Prove it.
Me: The man literally steals the Declaration of Independence. That’s stressful.
Me: Also there are tunnels.
Me: And betrayal.
Me: And at least one moment where I would personally pass away if I were trapped in a crypt.
Gage: You would not pass away.
Me: I absolutely would.
Gage: You would complain loudly first.
I snort, laughing despite myself.
Me: Objection. He knows me too well.
Gage: Overruled.
I narrow my eyes at the screen like he can feel it through the phone.
Me: Present Exhibit B then, Mr. Puzzle Patriot.
Gage: Exhibit B: It makes you feel smart by association.
Me: That’s not a real thing.
Gage: It is. You watch it, and your brain goes, “Yes. I too, could find treasure.”
Me: My brain does not do that.
Gage: Your brain absolutely does that.
Me: My brain watches it and goes, “Where is the budget for the property damage?”
Gage: That’s why you’re the judge.
I pause.
Because… that’s sweet.
Too sweet.
I take a dramatic sip of water like it’s going to cool my face.
Me: Fine. Exhibit C?
Gage: Exhibit C: There’s literally a scene with snow.
I hate that he has that.
I hate it.
Me: Objection. One snow scene does not qualify a movie as a snow-day movie.
Gage: Overruled.
Me: You can’t overrule me. I’m the judge.
Gage: You started it.
Me: I regret everything.
A beat.
Gage: You don’t.
My throat tightens for no reason I’m willing to admit.
So I go harder into the bit.
Me: Fine. If we’re allowing heists and felonies, I present The Holiday.
Me: It’s basically a snowstorm in human form.
Me: Everyone is cozy.
Me: Everyone drinks something warm.
Me: And no one steals federal documents.
Gage: Objection. Emotional resilience required.
Me: What?! It’s romantic!
Gage: There are feelings.
Gage: And healing.
Gage: And at least one scene where you will text Rosie and pretend you didn’t cry.
I freeze.
Because… he’s not wrong.
Because he’s describing me like he’s seen it.
Which he has.
I swallow, fingers hovering.
Me: Sustained.
Me: Fine. You win that one.
Gage: I never said I wanted to win.
My heart does a small, stupid flip.
I stare at the screen, suddenly aware I’m smiling.
Not polite smiling.
Not “I’m fine” smiling.
Real smiling.
The kind that feels like my face forgot how to be careful.
It hits me in the chest—warm and scary.
How easy he makes it.
How easy it is to be myself around him.
How dangerous that is.
Before I can spiral, my phone buzzes again—but it’s not a text.
It’s an alert.
Snowstorm Warning: Significant accumulation expected. Prepare now.
My smile fades immediately.
Because my kitchen window chooses that exact moment to rattle harder, like it heard the word accumulation and took it personally.
I glare at it. “Excuse me?”
The window continues its villainous audition.
My phone buzzes again.
A text.
Gage: That alert just hit again, didn’t it?
I swallow.
Me: Yes.
Gage: Are you stocked up for real?
My throat tightens.
I stare at the message, heart doing something inconvenient.
Then I type the truth I can handle admitting:
Me: I have food. I have candles. I have spite.
Me: I do not have windows that respect me.
A beat.
Gage: I can swing by tomorrow morning with plastic and tape.
Gage: Not romantic. Strictly construction.
I laugh softly, even as my chest warms.
Me: Thank you, Mr. Donovan.
His reply is instant.
Gage: Don’t start.
My smile returns—small, unwilling, real.
Outside, the wind picks up.
Inside, my heart does too.
Because the storm is coming.
And so is whatever I’ve been trying not to feel.