Gage #2
Reece’s phone buzzes a second later.
She glances down, then looks up at me with narrowed eyes. “Did you just close the office?”
“Yes,” I say.
Reece stares at me like I’m a magician. “You just gave me a day off.”
“I gave everyone a day off,” I correct.
Reece walks closer, phone in hand like she’s about to read the email out loud to confirm it’s real. “That is… genuinely kind.”
“It’s weather,” I say, trying for neutral.
Reece’s eyes flick to the window. “Weather didn’t write the email, Gage. You did.”
I swallow.
Because there’s something in her tone—soft, appreciative—that makes my chest tighten again.
Reece looks at her phone, then back at me with a half-smile. “Man. Do I have the best boss.”
I freeze.
Boss.
The word hits wrong in this house.
Reece sees it—sees the flicker in my face—and her smile turns sheepish.
“I mean,” she adds quickly, “as a boss. Not… as a—”
“As a what?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Reece blinks, caught.
Her cheeks flush slightly. “As a person.”
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
Reece shifts her weight, suddenly restless. “Also, you realize you already cleared my driveway.”
“I know,” I say.
“So now I’m off work tomorrow to do snow removal,” she says, voice dry, “even though you did the snow removal.”
“Yes,” I confirm.
Reece gestures at me like she’s presenting evidence. “This is a scam.”
I lift a brow. “It’s called leadership.”
Reece narrows her eyes. “It’s called you being annoyingly good.”
I can’t help the small smile that creeps onto my face.
Reece sees it and looks away quickly like she hates that she made me smile.
The warmth between us grows quieter after that.
Not awkward.
Just… deeper.
Like the jokes are still there, but something softer is moving underneath.
The storm outside has settled into a steady hush. Snow drifts past the windows like slow-motion confetti.
Inside, the house feels like a small world.
And Reece is in it.
She’s sitting on the couch now with her cocoa, blanket tucked around her legs, eyes on the TV, but attention wandering.
I’m in the armchair, laptop closed now, watching her without meaning to.
She tilts her head, glancing at the screen like she’s trying to follow the plot.
Then she sighs. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s a comedy,” I remind her.
“I know,” she says. “I’m just… not used to sitting.”
I blink. “Sitting.”
“Just… being,” she says, like the word is unfamiliar.
I set my mug down. “You’re allowed.”
Reece looks at me.
For a second, she doesn’t joke.
She just holds my gaze, eyes softening.
Then she clears her throat and saves herself with humor. “You’re saying that like you’re my therapist.”
“I am not qualified to be your therapist,” I say.
Reece nods. “Correct. You’d be too calm. I need someone who panics a little.”
“I can panic,” I argue.
Reece lifts a brow. “You?”
“Yes,” I say, deadpan. “I panic internally.”
Reece’s laugh is quiet.
The movie continues, but it becomes background noise.
Because the air between us is… tuned again.
Not loud. Not obvious.
Just a half notch higher.
Reece shifts on the couch, blanket sliding slightly. She tucks it back around her.
I watch her hands do it and feel something twist in my chest that has nothing to do with the storm.
I want to sit closer.
I don’t.
I want to touch her hair where it’s loose at her temple.
I don’t.
I want to—
No.
Boundaries.
She’s healing. She’s vulnerable. She’s here because she needs warmth and power and safety. I refuse to be the man who confuses comfort with permission.
But wanting doesn’t care about morals.
Wanting just… exists.
Reece yawns softly, then covers it like she’s embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I say automatically.
Reece blinks at me.
I soften my tone. “You’re tired.”
“I’m fine,” she says, reflexive.
I stand. “Do you want more storm snacks?”
Reece sits up slightly. “Do you want the remote?”
We both freeze.
Because we said it at the same time.
Because the questions are normal questions.
But the way we said them—too close, too soft, too synchronized—makes them feel like something else entirely.
Reece’s eyes widen a fraction.
My chest tightens.
I clear my throat. “I can get snacks.”
Reece blinks hard. “I can get the remote.”
The remote is on the table in front of her.
She reaches for it anyway like it’s a life preserver.
I turn toward the kitchen like a snack is suddenly the most urgent task on earth.
Behind me, Reece lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh she swallowed.
I make popcorn too carefully, like if I do it perfectly, my hands won’t shake.
When I bring the bowl back, Reece takes it with both hands. Our fingers brush.
Brief.
Warm.
And neither of us moves away fast enough.
Reece’s breath catches. Mine does too.
For one suspended second, the room is too quiet.
Then the house settles—a small creak, a hum, the generator reminding us it exists—and the moment loosens.
Reece looks down at the bowl like it’s suddenly fascinating.
I sit on the couch to share the popcorn and pretend my heart isn’t pounding.
The movie keeps going.
Minutes pass.
Reece shifts. She laughs once at a scene.
Then she glances at me, and her gaze lingers a beat too long.
Not just friendly.
Not just casual.
Curious.
Warm.
Something that feels like a choice.
Reece sets the bowl down on the table and draws the blanket tighter around her legs, but her eyes never leave mine.
And suddenly, it feels inevitable.
Like the storm isn’t the only thing that trapped us.
Like our history is a hallway we’ve been walking down for years, and we finally reached the door at the end.
Reece’s voice comes out quieter than before. “Gage.”
My throat goes dry.
“Yes?” I manage.
Reece swallows. Her hands twist lightly in the blanket. “Can I ask you something?”
My pulse thumps. “You can ask.”
She hesitates.
The air feels thick.
I don’t move. I don’t crowd her. I don’t give her anything that could feel like pressure.
I just… wait.
Because she deserves the choice.
Reece’s eyes flick to my mouth for half a second.
Then back to my eyes.
And the shift in her face is so clear it scares me.
Like she’s tired of being careful.
Like she’s tired of pretending.
Like she wants—
Her breath trembles. “Never mind.”
My chest drops.
But then she shakes her head once, like she’s angry at herself.
“Actually,” she says, voice firmer, “yes. I am asking.”
I stay still.
“Do you ever,” she starts, then stops, then tries again. “Do you ever feel like… you’ve been standing next to something your whole life and you didn’t realize it was—”
She cuts herself off, cheeks flushing. “This is a terrible question.”
“It’s not,” I say quietly.
Reece’s eyes widen a fraction at my tone.
I add, gentler, “You can take your time.”
Reece stares at me, chest rising and falling. Then she whispers, like saying it louder would make it real:
“Do you ever feel like… you missed your chance on purpose?”
My heart stops.
Because that’s exactly what we did.
We missed it on purpose.
We chose safe.
We chose friendship.
We chose routine.
We chose not risking the one person who mattered most.
My voice comes out low. “Yes.”
Reece’s breath catches.
I don’t look away. I don’t make a joke. I don’t soften it into something harmless.
I just let the truth sit between us.
Reece’s eyes shine slightly—not tears, not yet. Just emotion she’s trying to control.
And then she leans forward, slow.
Not rushing.
Not dramatic.
Just… choosing.
I stay still, giving her space to change her mind.
She doesn’t.
Her face is close enough now that I can feel her breath.
Her eyes drop to my mouth again.
My body is full of tension, every muscle begging me to close the distance.
I don’t.
Not yet.
Because I need her to know she can stop.
That I will stop.
That she’s safe.
Reece’s voice is barely a sound. “If I do something stupid…”
I shake my head once, quietly. “It won’t be stupid.”
She swallows.
Then she closes the last inch.
Her lips brush mine—soft, tentative, like she’s testing whether the world will crack open.
It doesn’t.
So she kisses me again, deeper this time, still sweet, still careful, but sure.
And the kiss is… everything.
Not fireworks.
Not chaos.
Warmth.
Home.
Years of history pressing into one moment like it’s been waiting.
My hands stay at my sides for a heartbeat too long because I’m terrified of doing the wrong thing.
Then I lift one hand slowly—permission in the motion—and rest it lightly at her waist, barely touching, like I’m holding her without trapping her.
Reece leans into me.
The room disappears.
The storm disappears.
There is only her and the warmth of her mouth and the fact that my heart feels like it has been trying to get to this moment for years.
I could stay here forever.
And that thought—forever—hits me like a wave.
This isn’t a crush.
This isn’t a moment.
This is forever-level love.
The truth is so big it almost makes me dizzy.
And then reality rushes in, sudden and sharp, like cold air under a door.
Boss.
Job.
Friendship.
Her heartbreak.
Her safety.
My responsibility.
I pull back gently—slow, careful—like I’m afraid of startling her.
Reece’s eyes blink open, dazed, lips parted slightly.
She looks… stunned.
Beautiful.
Vulnerable.
And I hate myself for being the one who put that expression on her face.
I keep my voice low. “Reece.”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares.
Panic flickers across her features like a shadow passing over sunlight.
It’s fast. It’s subtle. But I see it.
Her eyes dart away. Her shoulders tense. Her breath catches.
And I realize, with a sick drop in my stomach, that I may have just scared her.
Because kisses are wonderful in movies.
In real life, kisses come with consequences.
And Reece has been burned before.
My chest tightens.
I force my tone gentle, steady. “Hey. You’re okay.”
Reece swallows hard, eyes still wide.
I don’t reach for her again. I don’t try to hold her. I don’t try to fix it with touch.
I just sit there, heart hammering, and watch her face change as the reality of what we just did catches up.
Because the storm is still outside.
But the real danger—
the thing we can’t undo—
is right here between us.