Gage
The first thing I notice is that she doesn’t take her boots off right away.
Reece stands just inside my entryway, still bundled in her coat and hat, tote bag in my hand instead of hers, cheeks pink from cold, eyes scanning my living room like it’s a crime scene she didn’t plan to walk into.
Not suspicious—Reece isn’t suspicious of me.
Just… braced.
Like she’s waiting for the moment where needing help starts to feel like weakness.
It won’t.
Not here.
Not with me.
I shut the door against the wind and the snow and the rest of the neighborhood. Heat wraps around us immediately—steady, reliable—and Reece visibly registers it, shoulders dropping a fraction like her body finally believes it can breathe.
Good.
Please feel safe here.
I don’t say it out loud, because saying it out loud would make it too big. And Reece doesn’t like big when she’s already carrying too much.
So I do what I always do.
I make it practical.
“Boots,” I say, nodding at her feet as I carry her bag deeper into the house. “Before your socks become smothered.”
She makes a face. “My socks have been through enough today.”
“Then let’s not add tragedy,” I say, and set her tote bag neatly on the bench near the stairs like I’m placing something fragile somewhere it won’t fall.
Reece eyes the bench. Then me. “You put it down like it’s a newborn.”
“It’s your belongings,” I deadpan. “It deserves respect.”
That gets the faintest twitch of her mouth. Not a smile. A warning sign. Like she’s trying not to be amused because being amused would mean she’s relaxing.
I take the win anyway.
She bends to tug her boots off, and I don’t watch too closely—because I’m not a creep and also because I can’t trust my brain to behave right now.
Reece’s hair is messier than it was at work yesterday, face softer without the office lights, and she looks like herself in a way that makes something in my chest ache.
I turn toward the kitchen and keep moving. Movement is safe. Movement is normal.
“Do you want cocoa?” I ask over my shoulder.
Reece pauses mid-boot. “Do you… have cocoa?”
I glance back. “Reece.”
She lifts her chin. “That wasn’t an answer.”
I hold up one finger in a calm, reasonable gesture. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just question my preparedness.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s still not an answer.”
“I have cocoa,” I say, like it’s a basic utility. “I also have coffee. Tea. Soup. And enough snacks to survive a mild apocalypse.”
Reece stares at me for a beat. “Who are you?”
I walk into the kitchen. “A person who lives in New York and has learned winter cannot be trusted.”
Behind me, I hear her boots thump onto the mat. Then her feet pad after me in thick socks.
The kitchen lights glow warm, generator doing its quiet job in the background. My house hums like it’s alive—furnace, fridge, the steady pulse of electricity. It’s ordinary for me, but I catch the way Reece’s gaze flicks to the lit stove clock like she’s relieved it’s there.
I open the pantry and pull out cocoa mix.
Reece stops in the doorway and just… looks.
Not at me. At the cabinets. The counters. The canisters.
Like she’s trying to understand the version of me that exists when she’s not next door.
Which is ridiculous, because she’s next door all the time.
But living near someone isn’t the same as seeing their home when you’ve been forced into it.
I fill the kettle and set it to heat.
Reece’s voice comes from behind me. “Your house is… warm.”
“It’s heated,” I answer, because I’m trying not to make this emotional.
She makes a small noise. “You know what I mean.”
I do.
I let the kettle do the talking.
While it heats, I open a drawer and pull out a flashlight. Then another. Then batteries. Then a set of candles.
Reece’s eyes track each item like she’s watching a documentary about a man who lives alone and has developed opinions.
“Why do you have three flashlights?” she asks, suspicious.
I don’t even look up. “Because I’m normal.”
She snorts. “That’s not normal.”
“It’s practical,” I correct.
“Normal people have one flashlight,” she says.
“Normal people also have power right now,” I reply, and finally glance back at her.
Her mouth opens, then closes.
She looks offended by the logic.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “Why do you have… four boxes of batteries?”
“Because flashlights and the remote both crave batteries,” I say.
Reece’s eyes narrow further. “Why do you have a headlamp?”
I look at her. “Because sometimes your hands are full.”
“Full of what?” she asks.
I gesture around the kitchen. “Life.”
Reece crosses her arms and leans against the counter like she’s about to start taking notes. “And the candles?”
I tap one. “Ambience.”
She stares.
I keep my face neutral, because I enjoy the moment right before she decides whether to laugh or accuse me of being ridiculous.
She chooses both.
“Ambience,” she repeats flatly. “You own emergency ambience.”
“It’s a mood,” I say calmly.
Reece’s gaze drifts to the roll of plastic sheeting and tape on the counter—the same kind I’d used on her kitchen window yesterday. She doesn’t interrogate it this time. She just… looks at it, like it’s proof of something she doesn’t know what to do with.
“You really keep that on hand,” she says quietly.
“Winter doesn’t give warnings,” I reply, keeping it light even though it isn’t. “It just shows up.”
Reece nods once, fingers tightening around her mug for a beat. “Still. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know,” I say. And because I can’t help myself, because it’s the simplest truth I have, I add, “I wanted your house to feel less… mean.”
Her eyes lift to mine—quick, startled—like she wasn’t expecting the words to be that gentle.
Then she looks back at her cocoa, the corner of her mouth softening. “Well,” she murmurs, “it worked.”
The kettle whistles, cutting through the moment like a lifeline.
I turn back to the stove and pour the hot water into two mugs.
Reece’s mug is the one I’ve had since college—plain ceramic, small chip on the rim. She’s used it enough times that it’s basically hers, but I don’t say that out loud. I just hand it to her like it’s normal.
Her fingers wrap around it, and she exhales slowly, heat immediately sinking into her hands.
She looks down at it like it’s a miracle.
“Cocoa,” she murmurs, voice softer than before.
“Cocoa,” I agree, because repeating her words keeps it light.
Reece takes a careful sip.
Her eyes close for half a second.
I feel something pull in my chest at the sight of it—at the simple relief.
She opens her eyes and gives me a look.
“This is very good,” she says, as if she’s surprised.
“Thank you. I’ve made cocoa before,” I reply.
“Yes,” she says slowly. “But have you made cocoa in a storm like a hero?”
“I told you,” I say, “I’m not a hero.”
She points her mug at me. “You have a generator.”
“That doesn’t make me a hero.”
“It makes you… very prepared,” she counters.
I lift a brow. “And you were very cold.”
She glares at me over the rim of her mug. “I was handling it.”
“You were trapped inside with no heat,” I say calmly. “That’s not handling. That’s endurance.”
“I am very good at endurance,” she insists.
“I know,” I say, and the words come out quieter than intended.
Reece pauses.
Her gaze flicks to mine, and something shifts—just a small change, like she heard the part of me that wasn’t joking.
I clear my throat quickly and step back.
“Okay,” I say briskly. “Let’s get you settled.”
Reece’s posture stiffens a fraction again, like the practical part of her relaxes and the pride part wakes up.
“I don’t need—” she starts.
“I know,” I say, gentle but firm. “You don’t need anything. You’re just… here.”
She presses her lips together, because she doesn’t like that I can read her.
I grab her tote bag and nod toward the stairs. “Come on.”
She follows, mug in hand like it’s a security blanket she would deny owning.
We head upstairs, and I keep my pace slow so she doesn’t have to rush. The house creaks softly under the wind outside, but inside everything is steady. Warm.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway light glows.
Reece glances down the hall, eyes narrowing. “Where am I sleeping?”
“Guest room,” I say.
Reece’s gaze flicks to me. “You have a guest room.”
“Yes,” I say. “People occasionally visit.”
She looks unconvinced. “Who?”
“My parents,” I answer. “Sometimes.”
Reece makes a face. “Both of our parents live in Georgia.”
“Which is why the room is available,” I point out.
She huffs a small laugh and shakes her head like I’m impossible.
We reach the door at the end of the hall.
My old room.
It’s been repainted. The furniture changed. The bed made up clean with fresh sheets and a thick comforter.
But it still feels like my room in the way a place holds memory even when you move the furniture around.
I put my hand on the knob and pause.
Please feel safe here.
Again, I don’t say it.
I just open the door.
Warm light spills out.
Reece steps inside.
And I watch her face change—subtle, quick, like nostalgia hits her before she can block it.
Because she knows this room.
She used to sit on my bed when we were kids, cross-legged, reading books, playing cards, and doing homework.
She used to lean against that wall and laugh so hard she’d fall over.
She used to fling herself onto my beanbag chair and claim it was hers because “I touched it first.”
The beanbag chair is gone, but I swear I can still see the outline of it in my mind.
Reece’s gaze sweeps the room, landing on small remnants I didn’t think mattered—like the window, the closet door, the corner where my old desk used to be.
Her throat moves like she’s swallowing something.
I keep my voice light, because if I don’t, this gets too tender too fast.
“Okay,” I say. “Rules.”
Reece turns slowly. “Rules?”
“Yes,” I say. “Rule one: You’re not allowed to freeze. That’s non-negotiable.”
Her mouth twitches. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” I reply automatically.
She gives me a look. “Don’t.”