Gage #2
I lift both hands. “Fine. Revised statement: you are mildly irritated by my existence.”
“That’s better,” she says, satisfied.
I nod toward the bed. “Rule two: you sleep. That’s also non-negotiable.”
Reece glances at the bed like it’s a trap. “I’m not a good sleeper in… other people’s houses.”
“It’s not other people,” I say before I can stop myself.
Reece’s eyes lift to mine.
I feel my chest tighten.
I correct quickly, because I’m not trying to confess anything in a hallway.
“It’s… familiar,” I say. “You’ve been here a million times.”
Reece’s gaze softens for half a second.
Then she looks away and sets her tote on the bed like she needs something to do with her hands.
“Okay,” she says. “Fine.”
I nod toward the closet. “There are extra blankets in there. And towels in the bathroom across the hall. If you need anything—”
Reece holds up her mug. “I have cocoa.”
“That’s a good start,” I say.
She turns in place, still scanning the room. “You changed it.”
“I grew up,” I say.
Reece hums thoughtfully. “Debatable.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “You’re staying here. Warm. Safe.”
She clears her throat like the word safe has weight.
“Thanks,” she says quietly.
I nod once, because if I say anything else, it’ll sound like I’m making it bigger than it has to be.
“So,” I say, aiming for humor. “Do you want the grand tour of my emergency preparedness?”
Reece’s eyes brighten with immediate suspicion. “Is there more?”
I gesture toward the hall. “Oh, there’s more.”
She follows me downstairs, mug in hand, and I lead her back to the kitchen.
I open the pantry.
Reece peers in.
Then she looks at me with slow disbelief. “Why do you have… two gallons of water?”
“In case the pipes freeze,” I say.
“And why do you have… three jars of peanut butter?” she asks, horrified.
“In case the grocery store turns into a battlefield,” I reply.
Reece points at the stack of canned soup. “And those?”
“In case we lose power longer than expected,” I say.
She looks around my warm kitchen like it personally betrayed her. “You have a generator, Gage. This is not survival. This is vibes.”
“Soup is morale,” I tell her.
Reece narrows her eyes. “You keep using morale like you’re in the army.”
“Because it works,” I say calmly. “Warm bowl. Warm hands. No emotional decisions.”
She exhales a reluctant laugh through her nose. “No emotional decisions,” she repeats. “In your house. Bold strategy.”
Then she reaches into the pantry and pulls out the bin labeled STORM SNACKS like she’s holding evidence.
“Explain,” she demands.
I lift my brows. “What’s to explain?”
Reece opens the bin.
Inside: crackers, trail mix, granola bars, chocolate, marshmallows, and a bag of pretzels.
She stares at the chocolate like it’s a secret.
“You,” she says slowly, “have marshmallows.”
“For cocoa,” I answer.
Reece points at the second bag of marshmallows. “And those?”
I pause. Then choose honesty. “For emergencies.”
She closes the bin gently and sets it down like it might explode. “You are… unsettling.”
“Prepared,” I correct.
“You have snacks categorized by disaster,” she says.
“I have snacks categorized by purpose,” I reply.
Reece’s eyes narrow. “What purpose is this chocolate bar?”
“Hope,” I say, deadpan.
She stares.
Then she laughs—one short burst—before she can stop herself.
It’s not the full laugh yet.
Not the one that fills a room.
But it’s something.
And it loosens the tightness in my chest like a knot untying.
I pretend I don’t notice how much it matters.
“So,” I say, casual. “Storm snack?”
Reece hesitates like accepting a snack is admitting she’s human.
Then she takes the chocolate bar and mutters, “Fine.”
I grab a bowl and dump some pretzels and trail mix into it. Then I gesture toward the living room.
“Movie?” I ask.
Reece’s eyes light up slightly. “Movie.”
We move to the couch, and Reece sits on the far end like she’s being polite.
Which is ridiculous. She’s sat on this couch a hundred times. She’s taken over this entire living room during family barbecues and game nights.
But today she’s careful again.
I sit in the armchair instead of next to her.
Not because I don’t want to sit next to her.
Because I do.
Because I want to lean into the familiar and pretend nothing changed after Thursday night.
But I’m not going to crowd her.
I’m not going to make her feel like she has to manage my feelings on top of her own.
So I keep it safe.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing the remote. “You’re the judge.”
Reece’s brows lift. “Excuse you.”
I gesture with the remote. “Movie Court. You established precedent.”
Reece’s mouth curves. “Correct.”
I scroll through options.
She leans forward, intent, like she’s selecting a life-saving resource.
“No,” she says immediately at an action movie.
“It’s snowing,” I remind her. “It could be comforting.”
“That is not comforting,” she counters. “That is ‘my blood pressure is now a sport.’”
I keep scrolling.
She stops me so fast my thumb practically files a complaint. “That.”
I glance at the screen. “Bridesmaids?”
Reece nods like she just signed the peace treaty. “Yes.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because,” she says, popping a pretzel into her mouth, “I am not emotionally resilient today, and that movie is the closest thing to a controlled disaster.”
I pause. Then I nod. “Fair.”
I press play.
The opening scene barely starts before Reece snorts—surprised, like she forgot her body could still do that.
I pretend not to watch her face too closely.
But I do anyway.
Because Reece laughing is my favorite sound in the world, and hearing even a hint of it today feels like relief.
We eat storm snacks. We trade quiet commentary. We argue over one scene like it’s a court case.
At one point, I mutter, “She is absolutely the problem.”
Reece immediately points at me with a pretzel like she’s sworn in. “Objection. She is stressed.”
“She is chaos,” I counter.
“She is relatable,” Reece says, solemn as a judge.
I shake my head. “You’re defending her because you see yourself in her.”
Reece leans back, unbothered. “Correct.”
I laugh under my breath.
A minute later, Reece throws a pretzel at me because I call one of the characters “a menace.”
It bounces off my shoulder.
I look at her.
She lifts her chin. “Self-defense.”
I shake my head, amused. “You’re here for at least two days.”
Reece’s eyes widen slightly. “Two days?”
“Storm’s supposed to keep going,” I say. “Plows are always slow. Train service is stopped.”
She stares at the TV like it just threatened her.
Then she turns to me. “I have work.”
“You have a laptop,” I remind her.
“I have… power issues,” she counters.
I gesture around. “Not here.”
Reece exhales slowly. “This is unreal.”
“Welcome to winter,” I say.
She glances at the firewood stacked neatly by the fireplace. “Do you also have a fireplace plan?”
“I have a fireplace,” I say.
Reece points at me with her chocolate. “You are dangerously competent.”
I lift a brow. “You say that like it’s a warning.”
“It is,” she replies, and her voice is light but there’s something warm under it.
The movie plays. Outside, the wind howls. Snow taps the windows like a persistent visitor.
Inside, the house holds.
Warm.
Steady.
Safe.
Eventually the light outside fades into a gray dusk. The storm thickens, flakes racing past the windows.
Reece shifts on the couch, pulling a blanket over her lap without asking.
Good.
I pretend I don’t notice the way her shoulders ease when she’s wrapped in it.
The movie reaches a funny scene—something genuinely ridiculous—and Reece tries to hold her laugh in.
She fails.
It bursts out of her—real, full, unguarded—and the sound fills the room like it belongs there.
It hits me like hope.
Not the fragile kind.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that makes you forget you were trying to be careful.
I glance at her.
Reece is still laughing, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, looking like she’s twelve again, sitting on my couch like the world can’t hurt her.
And in that moment, with snow pounding the windows, all I can think is—
Please.
Please let this be okay.
Please don’t let me ruin this.
Please don’t let her pull away again.
Because hearing her laugh like that makes me want things I’ve been pretending I don’t.
And I don’t know how to hide this anymore.