Reece #2
I stare at it like it might vanish.
Gage sits across from me with his own plate and takes a bite like this is normal.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m assessing,” I correct.
“Assessing what?”
“Whether this is real,” I say.
Gage lifts a brow. “It’s eggs.”
“It’s cooked eggs,” I emphasize.
He snorts quietly. “Eat.”
I take a bite.
It’s good.
Of course it is.
I hate him.
No, I don’t.
I eat anyway.
We fall into an easy rhythm—coffee, breakfast, small talk.
It’s the kind of morning that would feel domestic and cozy and romantic if my brain didn’t keep screaming BOUNDARIES like it’s an airhorn.
Gage asks, “How’s your phone?”
“Alive,” I say. “Fully charged. Thriving.”
He nods, amused. “Good.”
I think of my dream again—Georgia beach, his hand in mine—and immediately shove it into a mental closet.
Not today.
We finish breakfast, and Gage stands, collecting plates.
“I’ll do it,” I say automatically, because I cannot be cared for without trying to earn it.
Gage pauses, looking at me. “Reece.”
I freeze.
He doesn’t sound annoyed. Just… steady.
“You’re a guest,” he says simply. “Sit.”
I bristle. “I’m not—”
“Reece,” he repeats, gentler this time. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
My throat tightens.
Because that’s the whole point, isn’t it?
I’ve been proving my whole life.
Proving I’m fine. Proving I’m capable. Proving I’m not too much.
Even with Jesse, I proved. I made myself easy. I made myself convenient.
And it still wasn’t enough.
Gage gathers the plates and moves to the sink.
I sit there, hands wrapped around my mug, feeling… seen in a way that makes me want to both laugh and cry.
To avoid crying, I choose humor.
“So,” I say. “What’s on today’s agenda?”
Gage turns on the water. “Survive.”
I nod. “Excellent. I excel at survival.”
“Also,” he adds, “we could play cards.”
I perk up. “Cards.”
He glances back. “Or music. Or reading. Or we could just… exist.”
Exist.
The word lands softly.
I swallow. “Okay.”
He finishes cleaning up and wipes down the counter like he’s closing out a workday, then looks at me with mild challenge.
“What do you want to do, Reece?”
My stomach flips at the sound of my name.
I clear my throat. “Cards.”
Gage’s mouth twitches. “Of course.”
We move to the living room. Gage pulls out a deck of cards like it’s an old friend.
I sit on the floor by the coffee table, because I am apparently reverting to childhood settings.
Gage sits across from me, long legs folded, posture relaxed.
He deals the cards with calm precision.
I squint at him. “Are you going to cheat?”
“No,” he says, offended.
“You always cheat,” I accuse.
“I do not,” he counters.
“You do,” I insist. “You just do it quietly.”
“I win quietly,” he corrects.
“That’s worse,” I mutter.
We start playing War—something simple, competitive, familiar. The kind of game you can play half-asleep and still somehow take personally.
Within ten minutes, I’m laughing again.
Not cautiously. Not politely.
Actually laughing.
Because Gage keeps acting like he’s not competitive, which is hilarious considering he’s literally the kind of person who could negotiate a treaty over a parking spot.
He flips a card with the calm of a man signing paperwork.
I flip mine like I’m trying to intimidate the universe.
“Eight,” he says, glancing at my card like it’s mildly interesting.
“Ten,” I reply, already smug.
He nods once, collecting the cards like he’s filing them.
“You’re stealing my joy,” I accuse.
“I’m winning,” he corrects.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is in War,” he says, deadpan.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re doing the calm thing on purpose.”
“What calm thing?” he asks, like he doesn’t know exactly what I mean.
“The one where you pretend you don’t care,” I say, pointing at him with my card. “And then you quietly destroy me.”
“I’m not destroying you,” he says, flipping again.
I slap down my next card. “You’re destroying me spiritually.”
He glances at it. “That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate,” I insist.
We go a few rounds—me complaining like it’s a sport, him collecting cards like a man who’s never panicked a day in his life.
Then it happens.
We flip at the exact same time.
Ace.
Ace.
The air in the room changes like we just activated a trap door.
I freeze, staring at the two aces like they’re a personal attack. “Oh no.”
Gage’s eyebrows lift. “War.”
“I know what it’s called,” I say, voice low. “I don’t like it.”
Gage starts gathering the piles with a calm that is frankly disrespectful. “Then don’t lose.”
My mouth falls open. “Did you just threaten me in a card game?”
“I stated a fact,” he replies, perfectly even.
I sit up straighter, suddenly feral. “Fine. Let’s do this.”
He lays down his three face-down cards with the unbothered precision of a man building a spreadsheet.
I slam mine down like I’m making a point to the entire deck.
Gage looks at my pile. “You’re being aggressive.”
“I’m matching your energy,” I lie.
“You’re creating energy,” he says, and I hate that he’s right.
We both place the final card face-up.
He flips first.
King.
I flip mine.
Two.
Silence.
Absolute, humiliating silence.
Gage looks at my card. Then at me.
I stare at the two like maybe, if I glare hard enough, the deck will apologize and change its mind.
It doesn’t.
Gage reaches for the pile.
I slap my hand over it so fast it’s almost athletic.
He stops, blinking. “Reece.”
“No,” I say, voice firm. “I would like to file an appeal.”
“This is not a court,” he says.
“It is,” I argue. “It’s a war tribunal. I demand a recount.”
Gage’s mouth twitches. “A recount of… cards.”
“Yes,” I say, as if this is reasonable. “That king looks suspicious.”
“The king is a king,” he replies, calm.
“Exactly,” I say. “Overpowered. Unfair advantage.”
Gage gently nudges my hand aside—careful, not forceful, like he’s handling a wild animal who might bite—and gathers the cards anyway.
“You’re awful,” I mutter.
“I’m steady,” he corrects.
“You’re smug,” I counter.
“I’m not smug,” he says, and the fact that he’s clearly amused makes me want to throw the entire deck into the fireplace.
Instead, I take a breath and declare, “Again.”
Gage’s eyebrows lift. “Again?”
“Yes,” I say, flipping my hair like I’m not in pajamas in his living room with storm snacks and a bruised ego. “I am not losing the war.”
Gage shuffles with practiced hands. “You realize War is mostly luck.”
“Not to me,” I say. “To me, it’s personal.”
He deals, and our fingers brush for a second as I take my half of the deck.
The touch is nothing. Barely there.
It still sends a little spark through my ribs like my body is awake in a way my brain can’t control.
We start again.
A few minutes pass—more flipping, more complaining, more of Gage quietly winning like it’s his natural state.
Outside, the storm keeps falling. Snow piles higher. Wind rattles the windows.
Inside, the warmth stays steady.
And somehow, the day begins to feel like a pocket in time—like the world outside can’t touch us here.
That’s when it happens.
A quiet moment.
Not dramatic. Not obvious.
We both reach for the cards at the same time—because I’m apparently incapable of understanding he won that hand—and our fingers brush.
My breath catches.
Gage’s hand stills.
My hand stills.
We both look up.
The air shifts.
It feels like standing at the edge of something—something we’ve been circling for years.
I want to say something honest.
Something like: That dream felt real.
Something like: I don’t know how to stop thinking about you.
Something like: I’m tired of being careful.
My mouth opens—
Then I panic.
And I do what I always do when my heart gets too close to the surface.
I make a joke.
“Stop trying to touch my cards,” I blurt.
Gage’s eyes flicker with amusement and something else. “Your cards.”
“Yes,” I say, too fast. “They’re very sensitive.”
Gage leans back slightly, giving me space without making it a whole thing.
“Of course they are,” he says dryly.
I exhale, relieved and disappointed at the same time.
We keep playing.
We keep talking.
We keep pretending we’re not walking along the edge of something that could change everything.
Later, we switch to music—because I cannot exist in a house without eventually locating a speaker.
Gage puts on something old, something from our childhood.
The kind of song we used to blast in his room and dance to like idiots.
I freeze when the first notes hit.
Gage glances at me. “Do you remember this?”
I swallow. “Unfortunately.”
He smirks. “We were terrible.”
“We were iconic,” I correct.
Gage leans back on the couch. “You tried to choreograph it.”
“I did,” I say, offended. “And you refused to commit.”
“I committed,” he argues.
“You did not,” I say.
“I did,” he insists.
“You made fun of me,” I accuse.
Gage’s eyes warm. “I made fun of you because you were taking it seriously.”
“It deserved seriousness,” I say.
Gage watches me for a beat, and the warmth in his gaze makes my chest tighten.
Then he says, softly, “You always did.”
Always did.
Always took life seriously. Always tried. Always cared.
I look away first, because if I don’t, I’ll start feeling things again.
To avoid that, I go to the kitchen and decide to contribute something.
Food, maybe.
Because food is safe.
Food is not feelings.
I rummage in his pantry and find something simple—soup, bread, something easy.
I decide to make grilled cheese.
Because grilled cheese is comforting. Grilled cheese is foolproof.
I put a pan on the stove, butter bread, add cheese, and set it down like I know what I’m doing.
Gage appears in the kitchen doorway, watching.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Providing,” I say.
Gage leans against the counter. “You don’t have to.”
“I know,” I say. “I want to.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods once like he accepts it.
“Okay,” he says.
I feel weirdly triumphant.
Then the grilled cheese burns.
Not lightly toasted.
Burns.
The smell hits first—too dark, too fast.
I flip the sandwich and see it.
Charred.
Black.
A tragedy.
I freeze, panicking.
Gage steps closer, peering into the pan. “Reece.”
I lift my chin. “It’s artisanal.”
Gage’s mouth twitches.
“Artisanal,” he repeats.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “It’s… intentional. A smoky profile. Bold.”
Gage reaches for a plate like he’s taking this very seriously. “I see.”
I slide the sandwich onto the plate with dignity, even though it looks like evidence from a fire.
Gage sits at the table, picks it up, and takes a bite with a perfectly straight face.
I stare at him, horrified. “You don’t have to do that.”
He chews thoughtfully.
Swallows.
Then says, calm as ever, “It’s… very assertive.”
I clap a hand over my mouth to stop the laugh that tries to escape.
Gage lifts a brow. “Are you laughing at my suffering?”
“I am not,” I lie.
He takes another bite like a man committed to protecting my pride at all costs.
I burst into laughter—real, full, helpless.
It’s so sudden it surprises me.
Gage’s eyes soften as he watches me, and something in my chest loosens like a knot I didn’t know I was carrying.
I lean against the counter, laughing until my stomach hurts.
When I finally calm down, I wipe at my eyes, embarrassed. “I can’t believe I burned a grilled cheese.”
Gage sets the sandwich down gently. “It happens.”
“It does not,” I argue.
“It does,” he insists. “To people who are distracted.”
My heart stutters.
Distracted.
By what?
By who?
I swallow, feeling heat crawl up my neck.
To avoid answering, I grab another pan.
“I’m making a new one,” I declare.
Gage’s mouth twitches. “I have soup.”
“I am redeeming myself,” I say.
He holds up both hands. “Okay. Redemption it is.”
I make the second grilled cheese with intense focus, like I’m defusing a bomb.
It comes out perfect.
Gage takes a bite and nods. “There. Competence restored.”
I exhale dramatically. “Thank you.”
We eat our lunch—soup and grilled cheese—and it feels like childhood again.
Except now, every time our eyes meet, there’s something charged underneath.
Something close.
Something that makes my fear surface.
Boss.
Job.
Friendship.
Heartbreak.
If I cross a line and it goes wrong, I don’t just lose a romance.
I lose my person.
And I don’t know if I could survive that.
The thought sits heavy in my chest.
Gage talks about his parents in Georgia—how his mom keeps trying to feed him through text messages, how his dad is now obsessed with building a raised garden bed even though he’s never gardened in his life.
I tell him my mom is the same, and my dad keeps sending photos of their neighbor’s dog like it’s a grandchild.
We laugh.
We talk.
We exist in this warm pocket of time.
And the more we exist like this, the more I realize something that scares me:
I want to be wanted by him.
Not as a friend.
Not as a neighbor.
As… something else.
I’m tired of being careful.
Tired of pretending the longing isn’t there.
Tired of living like love is something that happens to other people.
The snow outside keeps the world quiet.
Inside, the closeness stays constant.
It becomes harder and harder to pretend that we’re not heading toward something we can’t take back.
A quiet moment finds us again—near the living room bookshelf, both of us reaching for the same book, hands brushing, breath catching.
This time, we don’t joke right away.
This time, we pause.
We look at each other.
Too close.
Too warm.
My heart pounds in my throat.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My breath stalls.
The air feels thick.
And for one terrifying, hopeful second, I think—
He’s going to kiss me.
Then the timer on his phone goes off—shrill and sudden—because apparently the universe enjoys interrupting my emotional crises with alarms.
I jump.
Gage blinks like he’s coming back to himself.
I clear my throat too fast, stepping back.
Gage’s mouth twitches, but his eyes are darker now. “That’s my reminder to check the generator. I’ll be back.”
We move apart.
The moment breaks.
But the echo of it stays in the air, lingering like heat.
And I know—deep down, with sinking certainty—
We’re not going to make it through this without something happening.