Gage
Not in a dramatic, sparks-flying, end-of-the-world way.
In a petty way.
In a beep-beep-beep… error code… way.
I’m crouched in the garage in sweatpants and a hoodie I only wear when I’m pretending I’m not a CEO, staring at the generator like it just insulted my mother.
“Good morning to you too,” I tell it.
The generator beeps again—longer this time—like it’s doubling down.
I lean closer, squinting at the tiny display.
A snowstorm warning doesn’t hit the entire region and then politely wait for me to find the user manual. It arrives with violence, bad timing, and the kind of wind that makes old windows question their life choices.
I tap the display once like that will intimidate it.
It does not.
I rummage through the shelf where I keep manuals—alphabetized, because I am who I am—and pull out the booklet. Then I flip through pages like I’m trying to find the section titled WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?
Error code.
Error code.
Error—
I stop.
The code means something extremely anticlimactic:
Low oil.
I stare at it for a long beat.
I check the oil.
It is low.
Of course it is.
This is normal. This is logistics.
I top it off, wipe my hands on a rag, and the generator finally purrs into compliance like it’s doing me a favor.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate your cooperation.”
The generator, satisfied, goes quiet.
I stand up and stretch my back, then glance out the garage window at the thin gray light of morning. The street is still. Snow crusted along the curb like a warning. The air looks sharp enough to cut skin.
Across the driveway line, Reece’s house is dark.
It should be dark. It’s early.
But the thought that she’s next door—that her windows rattle even in a normal wind—that her house is older and draftier—lands in my chest anyway.
Not romantic, I tell myself.
Practical.
Neighborly.
Basic human preparedness.
I close the garage door and head inside, making a mental list the way I do before any storm and checking it off as I go along:
Generator
Batteries
Flashlights
Candles
Shovel
Salt
Food
Water
Plastic + tape for drafty windows
Plastic and tape.
Because she texted me last night—my windows are making threats—and my brain filed it as a task.
Just a task.
Nothing emotional about buying plastic sheeting.
Nothing emotional about showing up in her kitchen with a roll of tape like I’m fixing the world.
Nothing emotional—
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I don’t need to look. I already know.
Reece.
Because she always answers.
Always.
Reece: I am awake. Unfortunately.
Reece: The window is still threatening me. Just in case you wanted an update.
My mouth twitches before I can stop it.
I type back:
Me: I appreciate the intelligence report.
Me: I’m coming by later with plastic and tape.
A pause.
Then:
Reece: Thank you, Mr. Donovan.
I stare at the screen for one second too long.
My brain does the thing it’s been doing since yesterday—flinching at the title, wanting the name.
I keep it light.
Me: Don’t start.
Reece: I didn’t start. I am simply acknowledging your professional services.
Reece: Do you accept payment in lettuce?
Me: I accept payment in you not freezing to death.
Reece: Dramatic.
Me: Accurate.
I set the phone down before I start smiling too hard. Because smiling too hard at 6:30 A.M. over a text about plastic sheeting is… an indicator.
I make coffee. I eat something that qualifies as real food. I pack a small bag with the plastic and tape and a box cutter.
Then I remember the storm warnings said the worst will hit midday.
Which means I also need to do the other thing I do before storms:
The store run.
Because storms make people irrational. They buy bread like the apocalypse is gluten-based. They wipe out shelves like survival depends on cereal choices.
I check the forecast again. The alert repeats like it wants me to feel personally responsible:
Potential for significant accumulation. Prepare now.
I exhale.
“This is normal,” I remind myself. “This is not romance. This is logistics.”
Then I put on a coat and head out.
The supermarket is chaos in fluorescent lighting.
Carts jam the aisles like it’s a sport. A woman is guarding the last pack of paper towels like it’s a priceless artifact. Someone has knocked over a display of granola bars and left it for dead.
I grab a cart and immediately get hit by a man in a puffy jacket turning too sharply.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“No problem,” I say, and keep moving because if you stop moving in a pre-storm grocery store you become furniture.
I make it to the battery aisle and find exactly one pack left—some brand that looks like it was made in 1997.
I take it anyway.
Flashlights. Salt. Extra shovel handle. Another box of candles. Groceries.
I toss everything into the cart with the efficiency of a man who has handled building emergencies for a living.
Then I pass the hot cocoa aisle.
And I keep walking.
Because this is for me. I do not need hot cocoa.
I take three more steps.
Stop.
Turn around.
Walk back.
Because Reece likes a specific brand. The one with the tiny marshmallows that dissolve too fast. The one she calls “emotional support powder.”
I stare at the boxes like they’re evidence in a case.
I am not buying this for her.
I am buying this because hot cocoa is a sensible storm supply.
People drink warm things during storms.
This is normal.
I reach for the box she likes.
Then I remember I’m a grown man and can buy whatever I want without defending myself to anyone, including my own conscience.
I toss it in the cart.
Then, to make it look less suspicious, I grab a second box—some fancy dark chocolate kind—and throw that in too.
Balance.
Logic.
Untraceable motives.
I head toward checkout.
And that’s when I hear my name.
“Gage!”
I turn and see Mrs. Delaney from down the street—sixty-something, kind eyes, the type of woman who knows everyone’s business and calls it “community.”
She’s holding a basket full of storm supplies and a loaf of bread like it’s a weapon.
She smiles. “Look at you. So prepared!”
My spine goes a fraction straighter.
Of course she would say that.
Of course she would notice.
“Just being practical,” I say.
Mrs. Delaney’s gaze flicks to my cart—salt, candles, batteries, plastic sheeting, tape.
She nods approvingly. “You’re always so steady. Your parents raised you right.”
“Thank you,” I say, because it’s polite.
She squints slightly, as if she’s looking beyond my cart and into my soul. “Did you get enough for—”
She pauses.
And I swear I can see the moment her brain remembers.
Reece. Next door. Alone. Drafty house. Parents in Georgia.
Mrs. Delaney’s mouth opens as if she’s about to say her name.
My internal panic spikes.
Because I do not need the neighborhood connecting dots.
I do not need anyone looking at Reece and me like we are a story they can narrate.
I do not need—
Mrs. Delaney recovers smoothly, like she’s giving me grace. “—for the weekend?” she finishes, as if that was always what she meant.
I exhale. “Yes. Should be fine.”
She nods, satisfied. “Good. Good. And if the power goes out, you’ve got that generator. Always thinking ahead.”
“Always,” I say, and the word feels heavier than it should.
Mrs. Delaney smiles. “Well, stay safe, sweetheart.”
“You too,” I say.
She walks away.
I stare after her for a second, cart handle tight in my hands.
Because she absolutely knew.
And she absolutely didn’t say it.
Which somehow makes it worse.
I pay for my supplies and load them into my car like I’m preparing for a mild apocalypse.
Then I drive home.
By late morning, the air feels different.
Not snowing yet, but the pressure shifts. The sky flattens into a heavy gray. The wind picks up and drags cold along the street like it’s searching for cracks.
I unload the groceries, stack the supplies, and check my generator one more time because I trust nothing.
Then I grab the plastic and tape and step outside.
Reece’s porch light is on even though it’s daylight—probably because she forgot to turn it off. Or because her house has a sense of humor.
I walk to her door and knock once.
Then, because we’re us, I add, “It’s me, Gage.”
The door swings open.
Reece stands there in an oversized sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, hair in a messy bun, face scrunched like she’s offended by the weather.
Her eyes flick to the plastic and tape in my hands.
“Wow,” she says. “Construction man arrives.”
“Don’t,” I warn, but my mouth twitches.
She leans against the doorframe. “Do you have a tool belt? Please say yes. I need the full experience.”
“I have tape,” I say dryly.
She nods gravely. “Very alluring.”
I step inside and immediately get hit by the draft from her kitchen window.
The window rattles like it’s waiting for me.
“Yeah,” I say, glancing at it. “It’s definitely threatening you.”
Reece points at it like she’s testifying. “Thank you. Validation matters.”
I set the supplies down on her counter. “I’m going to put plastic up. It’ll help.”
She watches me for a beat, expression softer than her words. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” I say simply, because we both know I did anyway.
I cut the plastic, tape it carefully. Reece hovers with a mug of coffee, pretending she’s supervising and not just… there.
At one point she says, “Your tape lines are very straight.”
“I’m offended you’re surprised,” I reply.
She snorts. “I’m not surprised. I’m impressed.”
My chest tightens at that—at the simple warmth.
I keep my focus on the window. Practical. Normal.
When I finish, the rattling stops.
The kitchen feels quieter, warmer.
Reece exhales like she didn’t realize she was tense. “Okay,” she says, staring at the window. “That’s… actually amazing.”
“Told you,” I say.
She points her mug at me. “Don’t get smug.”
I lift a brow. “Smug is not the word I’d use.”
“Oh, it’s the word,” she says, matter-of-fact. “It’s just wearing a calm face so people don’t report you.”
I huff a quiet laugh before I can stop it.
Her eyes flick to mine—quick, cautious—like she’s checking whether she pushed too far.
I don’t correct her.
Because she’s right.
And because the second she relaxes, even a little, the kitchen feels warmer than it should.
Reece’s mouth curves—reluctant, real—like she hates how easy it is to make me laugh.
“There,” she says, satisfied. “Human emotion. Verified.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I tell her.
She tilts her mug again, a mock toast. “Too late.”
There it is.
Us.
I clear my throat, stepping back. “Okay. You’re better prepared now.”
She nods. “Yes. I am less likely to be murdered by my own house.”
“Good,” I say.
She hesitates. “Do you want coffee?”
It’s a simple offer.
It feels like a pause where something could happen.
I keep it steady. “I should go.”
Reece nods quickly like she agrees with the decision, even if she doesn’t like it. “Right. Storm prep.”
“Exactly,” I say.
She walks me to the door anyway.
As I step outside, she calls after me, “If you get trapped in your garage by your generator again, I will not be your alibi.”
I glance back. “You would absolutely be my alibi.”
Reece smiles like she hates that I’m right. “Go. Before I charge you for emotional damages.”
I leave, and my chest feels too tight for a normal neighborly exchange.
By afternoon, the first flakes start drifting down.
Slow at first. Almost pretty.
Then the wind changes and the flakes turn sharp, slanting sideways like they’re angry.
I stand by my window and watch the street disappear inch by inch.
Reece’s house next door goes dark early, lights flicking on one by one as the sky dims.
I see her silhouette pass the front window.
She’s home. She’s warm. She’s safer now.
That should settle me.
It doesn’t.
Because caring for her is as natural as breathing.
And I’m tired of pretending it’s nothing.
The snow falls harder by evening.
Cars disappear under white. Trees bend under weight. The wind howls between houses like it’s looking for weaknesses.
By the time I’m locking my door for the night, the world outside has gone muffled—quiet in that ominous way storms create, like the neighborhood is holding its breath.
I check the generator again.
I check the locks again.
I check my phone.
No new messages.
I shake my head, because this is ridiculous.
This is not romance.
This is logistics.
And yet—
Overnight, the storm turns brutal.
The wind pounds the house. Snow hammers our town. The world disappears completely.
And in the dark, with the neighborhood swallowed in white and silence pressing in, one thought keeps circling like a warning siren:
Tomorrow morning is going to be a problem.