Gage #2
Then Reece clears her throat and reaches for the remote. “Okay. Enough emotional honesty. We need a movie.”
I blink. “A movie.”
“Yes,” she says. “Before I start thinking.”
“That’s fair,” I say.
She scrolls through options with an intensity that suggests she’s selecting a legal defense strategy.
I watch her for a second too long.
Because she looks calmer now. Softer. Like her shoulders finally stopped bracing.
And the fact that my house can give her that—can hold her like this—makes something in me swell.
Not just protectiveness.
Something deeper.
Something that wants to keep her safe in ways that have nothing to do with weather.
Reece stops on a movie and looks at me. “This one.”
I glance at the title, then back at her. “Is it emotionally resilient?”
Reece squints. “No. It’s ridiculous. It’s safe.”
“Okay,” I say, and press play.
The movie starts, and within five minutes, Reece is making commentary under her breath like she’s watching a reality show instead of a comedy.
“That man,” she mutters, “has never suffered consequences once in his life.”
I glance at her. “How do you know?”
She gestures at the screen. “Look at his confidence.”
“That’s fair,” I say.
Reece snorts. Then laughs. Then shakes her head like she’s annoyed that she’s laughing.
The couch is long. There’s space between us because I’m in the armchair, still trying to keep things appropriate.
But the closeness is constant anyway—her voice, her laughter, her presence filling the room.
At some point, she shifts on the couch and tucks her feet under her, blanket pulled up around her shoulders like armor.
Her eyes start to droop.
She fights it for a while, blinking harder, trying to stay awake like it’s a competition she refuses to lose.
Then her head tips slightly against the cushion.
Her breathing deepens.
And just like that, Reece falls asleep.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s not a collapse.
It’s the simplest thing in the world: a tired woman finally letting her body rest somewhere it feels safe.
I sit still, not moving, because the last thing I want is to startle her awake.
The movie continues, light flickering across her face.
Her hands are tucked under the blanket, and I can’t see them, but I can picture the way her fingers would curl around the edge of it.
Tenderness swells in me so fast I have to look away.
Not because it’s wrong to care.
Because caring like this makes me want things I shouldn’t.
I want to tuck the blanket closer around her shoulders.
I want to move to the couch and sit near her, close enough to provide warmth.
I want to brush her hair back from her face.
I want—
No.
Boundaries.
Reece is healing.
Reece is vulnerable.
And I refuse to be the man who takes advantage of that softness.
Even if my entire body is screaming to be near her.
I keep my hands on my knees and breathe.
Minutes pass.
The storm outside continues, heavy and relentless.
Inside, the house is quiet except for the movie and the generator and Reece’s steady breath.
Then Reece stirs.
Her eyes blink open slowly, confused for a second, like she forgot where she is.
She turns her head slightly and sees me.
And I realize too late that I’ve been looking at her.
Not casually.
Not neutrally.
Like she’s everything.
Reece’s brows lift faintly. “Did I… fall asleep?”
“Yes,” I say, voice calm even though my chest is doing something reckless.
She sits up a little, hair falling forward. “How long?”
“Not long,” I reply.
Reece squints at me like she doesn’t believe me. Then she yawns—small, human—and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t apologize,” I say immediately.
Her eyes lift to mine.
I soften my tone, because she looks embarrassed, and she doesn’t need to be. “You’re tired. It’s okay.”
Reece exhales, the tension easing again. “Okay.”
I nod toward the stairs. “Don’t hesitate to go to sleep if you’re tired.”
Reece’s mouth twitches. “You’re telling me to go to bed?”
“I’m telling you,” I say, “that the bed is waiting for you. Warm. No judgment.”
Reece stares at me for a beat like she’s trying to decide whether to tease me or accept the kindness.
Then she huffs a laugh. “You sound like an ad.”
“I sound like a person who doesn’t want you to feel like you have to perform,” I reply quietly.
The words land heavier than I intended.
Reece’s smile fades into something softer. “Okay,” she says, voice small. “I’ll go.”
She stands, blanket slipping off her shoulders. She pauses, looking at me like she’s about to say something else.
Then she doesn’t.
She just nods once and heads upstairs, footsteps soft on the stairs.
I stay downstairs until I hear her guest room door click shut.
Then I exhale.
My house feels too quiet without her voice in it.
I turn off the TV, gather mugs, rinse them in the sink. I clean the kitchen like I’m trying to scrub feelings off the counter.
Then I check the generator again, because I need something to do with my hands that isn’t reaching for what I want.
Everything is steady.
Everything is fine.
Outside, the streetlights glow faintly through the white snow.
I stand at the kitchen window for a second and glance toward her house next door—dark, buried, silent.
Then I look back at the stairs that lead to my guest room.
Reece is up there.
In my old room.
In my house.
Safe.
And the truth settles in my chest like a weight I can’t shift anymore:
I’m not just protecting her from the cold.
I’m in love with her.
I head upstairs, moving quietly, and stop outside my bedroom door.
The hallway light is dim. The house is warm.
The storm rages outside, but inside everything is still.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel calm.
I feel terrified.
Because pretending is easy.
Wanting is not.
And being this close to her—in my space, under my roof—makes it harder to pretend.