Reece #2
I unlock my door and step inside.
Warmth wraps around me—my heat is working again, thank you, electricity.
But the quiet is immediate.
And wrong.
Not peaceful wrong.
Lonely wrong.
I set my bag down and stand in the entryway staring at nothing.
Because my brain is now free to spiral at full speed.
We kissed.
And now he’s being polite and careful like it was a mistake.
Or like he’s afraid I’ll regret it.
Or like he regrets it.
And the worst part is I don’t know which one is true because we didn’t talk about it.
We didn’t say: That meant something.
We didn’t say: Are we okay?
We didn’t say: What now?
We just… separated like adults who are pretending they didn’t just crack open something that can’t be resealed.
I kick off my boots and walk into my kitchen because it’s what I do when I don’t know what else to do.
I stare at my counters.
Then, because I am me, I open my laptop.
Work emails.
Comfort.
Structure.
Numbers don’t kiss you and then politely offer you space.
Numbers just behave.
I wrap myself in a blanket like a burrito because my nervous system needs containment, and apparently, this is my coping method now.
I balance the laptop on my knees and start scanning emails.
Routine.
Normal.
Fine.
Then I start composing an email to a vendor about an invoice question, because I cannot handle my emotions, but I can absolutely handle someone else’s payment timeline.
I type the subject line:
Subject: PLEASE DO NOT PANIC
I freeze.
I stare at it.
Why did I type that?
Because my brain is still in storm mode.
Because my soul is still in kiss mode.
Because apparently I am one minor inconvenience away from turning into an office menace.
I quickly delete it.
New subject line:
Subject: Invoice Question
Normal. Professional. To the point.
I exhale.
Then my phone buzzes.
Rosie.
Of course.
Because the person I would normally talk to about this is—
Gage.
Which is the entire problem.
I answer on the second ring.
“Rosie,” I say. “If you scream, I will hang up.”
There’s a beat.
Then Rosie inhales like she’s powering up.
“I will whisper,” she says, voice shaking with excitement. “What happened?”
“I have an event,” I say quickly.
Rosie makes a sound like she’s smiling so hard her face hurts. “Start with the ending.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Rosie.”
“Reece,” she says, gentle but relentless. “Did something happen?”
I swallow. My throat tightens.
“Yes,” I admit.
A squeal explodes through the phone anyway.
“AHHHHH—” Rosie cuts herself off mid-screech, like she promised whispering and is trying to respect it. “Okay. Okay. I’m calm. I’m calm. I’m not calm. Tell me. Tell me!”
“We kissed,” I whisper, like saying it louder will summon consequences.
Rosie goes silent.
Then, softly, reverently: “You kissed?”
“Yes,” I say.
Rosie makes a strangled noise that could be joy or spiritual awakening.
“Where?” she demands.
“In his living room,” I say.
Rosie exhales dramatically. “Of course. Of course it was. The cozy setting. The generator. The storm snacks. The fate.”
“Rosie,” I warn.
“I’m listening,” she says quickly. “Keep going.”
My chest tightens again. “He pulled back.”
Rosie pauses. “Pulled back like—stopped because you looked uncomfortable? Or pulled back like—regret?”
“I don’t know,” I admit miserably. “That’s the problem. He was careful. Gentle. Respectful.”
Rosie sighs. “That sounds like him.”
“It does,” I say, frustration creeping in. “And I’m reading it as regret because my brain is a disaster.”
Rosie’s voice softens. “Okay. Deep breath. Did he say he regretted it?”
“No.”
“Did he act like you did something wrong?”
“No.”
“Did he throw himself into the snow dramatically and scream ‘I’ve made a mistake’?”
“Rosie.”
“I’m making a point,” she says. “He was careful because you’re important, Reece. He’s your boss and your best friend, and he knows you’ve been hurt.”
My chest aches at the truth of that.
“But then,” I whisper, “this morning… he was so calm. Like nothing happened.”
Rosie hums thoughtfully. “Or like he was trying not to pressure you and make you feel uncomfortable.”
I press the heel of my hand into my forehead. “I hate that this makes sense.”
Rosie laughs softly. “I know. You prefer chaos you can organize. That’s why emotions and feelings are my wheelhouse.”
I glance around my quiet kitchen, blanket still wrapped around me. “I’m literally in a blanket burrito answering work emails.”
Rosie gasps. “Oh, you’re in it.”
“I’m in it,” I confirm.
Rosie’s tone turns serious under the humor. “Reece. Are you okay?”
The question lands differently than Gage’s “You okay?” because Rosie doesn’t let me dodge.
I swallow hard. “I’m scared.”
“Of your job?”
“Yes.”
“And?” Rosie pushes gently.
I stare at the window—my drafty, disrespectful window that Gage literally taped yesterday like it was nothing.
My voice comes out small. “I’m scared of losing him.”
Rosie goes quiet.
Not the dramatic silence. The real one.
Then she says softly, “Yeah.”
That simple agreement makes my throat burn.
Because it’s true.
I can handle office politics. I can handle spreadsheets. I can handle the world.
I don’t know if I can handle a life where Gage Donovan isn’t my constant.
Rosie exhales. “Okay. Here’s what we’re not going to do.”
“What?” I ask, desperate.
“We’re not going to catastrophize,” she says. “We’re not going to assume regret. We’re not going to run so far away you end up dating another Jesse.”
I flinch. “Rosie.”
“I love you,” she says firmly. “And you deserve better than men who make you feel like you have to earn being cared for.”
My chest aches again.
Rosie continues, softer. “Gage cares without being asked. He always has. That kiss didn’t create something new. It just… revealed what’s been there.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“So what do I do?” I whisper.
Rosie’s voice turns bright again—classic Rosie, because she can’t stay serious too long or she’ll explode. “You breathe. You hydrate. You shower. You eat.”
I freeze. “I do need a shower.”
“I know, I can smell you from here,” Rosie says charismatically. “Now. Tomorrow is Wednesday. Work is happening. You are going to look him in the eyes like the capable queen you are.”
My stomach flips. “I can’t.”
“You can,” Rosie says. “Because you’ve done harder things.”
“I have?”
“Reece,” she says, “you once corrected a CFO in a meeting without blinking. You can survive eye contact.”
I groan. “This is worse.”
Rosie laughs, softer this time. “Because it matters.”
“Exactly,” I whisper.
“Okay,” she says, shifting into her bossy-best-friend voice. “Drink water. Eat something that didn’t come from a bag. And tomorrow? You walk into work like you own the building.”
“I do not own the building,” I mutter.
“You own your dignity,” Rosie corrects. “Same thing.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, small and tired and grateful.
“Reece,” she adds, gentler now. “I love you. I’m proud of you.”
My throat tightens. “I love you too.”
“And thank you,” I say, because it’s the truth. “For… not letting me spiral alone.”
“Oh, please,” Rosie scoffs, but it’s affectionate. “Spiraling is my cardio.”
I smile, blinking too fast. “Goodbye, Rosie.”
“Goodnight,” she says. “Text me if you start titling your spreadsheets with ‘PLEASE DO NOT PANIC.’”
“I will not.”
“I don’t believe you,” she sings. “Bye, babe.”
“Bye.”
The call ends, and the quiet rushes back in.
I stare at my laptop.
My inbox is still there.
Work still exists.
Wednesday is coming.
Gage is next door.
And I have no idea how I’m supposed to walk onto that platform tomorrow morning and act like my world didn’t tilt.
I close my laptop gently, like I might hurt it.
Then I sit in my kitchen, blanket around my shoulders, listening to my house hum with electricity again.
Normal.
Fine.
Except nothing is normal now.
Because we kissed.
And tomorrow, I have to face him.
And I don’t know whether he’ll look at me like last night meant everything—
—or like it was a line we should never have crossed.