Reece #2
“Yes, you were.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I was checking to make sure you didn’t hit your head when you attempted to launch yourself into the afterlife.”
I roll my eyes. “I did not attempt anything. The platform attacked me.”
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small packet—hand warmers. He holds them out without a word.
My chest tightens in a stupid way.
“How do you just… have those?” I ask, taking them before I can stop myself.
He shrugs. “It’s winter.”
“Normal people don’t carry hand warmers.”
His mouth twitches. “Normal people also don’t sprint like they’re in an action movie.”
I press the packet between my palms. Warmth blooms. Comfort.
I don’t like that I’m comforted.
I make my voice light. “So you’re saying we’re both abnormal.”
“I’m saying,” he replies, “that you’re predictably you.”
There it is again—that quiet knowing. The one that makes me feel seen in a way I’m not always sure I deserve.
I drop my gaze back to my screen, blinking too hard. “Well. Predictably me has quarterly reports to reconcile.”
He makes a low sound that might be a laugh. “Do you want me to stop you from working and force you to be a person for five minutes?”
“Absolutely not. Work is my personality.”
“Explains a lot.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.” He shifts, elbow on the armrest, and his tone turns mildly curious. “So… you okay?”
It’s the simplest question in the world.
It lands like a pebble thrown into a pond I’ve been pretending is solid ground.
I keep my eyes on the spreadsheet. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he says, and the way he accepts it—doesn’t push, doesn’t pry—should make me feel relieved.
Instead, it makes my throat burn.
Because my ex didn’t do that. He either ignored my feelings completely or demanded them in ways that made me feel like a problem to solve, not a person to love.
Gage doesn’t demand. He just… shows up.
He always has.
I exhale, slow, and force my tone to stay breezy. “You know what I am? I am thriving.”
Gage’s gaze lingers a beat. Then he says, deadpan, “Yes, now you are.”
“I was testing gravity,” I say.
He looks away, but not before I catch the hint of a smile.
And there it is—my first real laugh of the morning, quiet but genuine.
The train carries us toward the city.
Toward work.
Toward the place where he is my boss and I am his employee, and we pretend we don’t also share over twenty years of history.
I tuck the hand warmers into my coat pockets like they’re normal, like my chest isn’t doing ridiculous things, and I focus on the numbers.
Because numbers don’t leave.
Numbers don’t lie.
Numbers don’t make your heart feel like a soft, squishy stuffed animal.
By the time we reach the city, I’ve reassembled myself into a competent adult with a functioning spine. The cold has retreated from my hands. My hair is mostly where I left it. My dignity is… recovering.
We step off the train with the rest of the commuters, swallowed into the movement of bodies and the echo of announcements.
Gage falls into step beside me.
Like it’s always been this.
Which is true.
That’s the problem.
Outside, Manhattan is sharp and bright and impatient. The air bites. Traffic blares. People move like they have somewhere urgent to be, which, to be fair, they probably all do.
And so do we.
Our building rises ahead—Donovan Holdings—glass and steel and money. The kind of place that makes people straighten their backs when they walk in.
Gage doesn’t change when he steps inside. He doesn’t puff up. Doesn’t turn into a different person.
He just is… contained. Like he’s putting on a layer of leadership.
Still him. Still steady.
We ride the elevator up, surrounded by other employees. There are polite greetings for him—“Morning, Mr. Donovan,” “Good morning, sir”—and he nods, calm, and professional.
I keep my eyes forward, because even though I’ve worked here long enough that no one thinks it’s strange that I’m with him, I still don’t like being a topic.
Office gossip is a hungry thing.
And I’m not feeding it.
We step out on our floor and the noise of the office wraps around us—phones, keyboards, quiet voices, the hum of work that makes my brain snap into place like a seatbelt.
“Reece.” Gage’s voice shifts into that CEO-calm that makes people straighten without even realizing they’re doing it. “Quick check-in when you get settled. Ten minutes. Same numbers we flagged Friday.”
“Already in your inbox,” I say, because I’m me. “I sent a one-page snapshot from my driveway while I was committing commuter crimes—what changed, why it changed, and the invoice timing.”
His mouth twitches like he’s amused and trying not to reward me for it. “I saw. I’m good with the big picture. Just walk me through the vendor timing before everyone gets in the room.”
Relief loosens something in my chest. Of course he already read it. Of course he isn’t making my late train sprint a referendum on my competence.
We split—him to drop his coat and field whatever CEO thing is already waiting, me to my desk to drop my tote bag and pull up the file. Two minutes later, he’s at the corner of my workspace with a coffee in hand, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
I turn my monitor slightly so he can see. “Okay—this looks worse than it is. Facilities paid for a lobby repair invoice earlier than expected, so the expense showed up this month instead of next. The work is real, the timing is early.”
“And cash flow?”
“Fine,” I say. “Just temporarily cranky because the invoice showed up early. I warned everyone in the notes so nobody starts lighting flares.”
His eyes flick to mine, warm with something that feels like trust. “You always think of that.”
“I try,” I say.
A chime sounds down the hall—people arriving for the finance meeting—and Gage straightens.
“I knew you’d have it,” he says quietly, like it isn’t just about the spreadsheet.
The simple certainty in that sentence settles in my ribs.
“Fortunately for you,” I tell him. “I’m very reliable.”
He gives me that almost-smile again. “Yes, you are.”
We head into the conference room together with the file already pulled up and the story already clean in my head.
People filter in. Chairs scrape. Small talk happens.
Gage takes his seat at the head of the table like it belongs to him because it does, and I take mine like I belong here too—because I do.
When it’s my turn, I keep it simple. “Here’s what moved, here’s why, here’s what to watch.”
Questions come. I answer them. One person tries to turn it into a bigger problem than it is, and I calmly bring it back to the facts. Gage doesn’t speak over me; he backs the clarity. That’s what working with him is like—steady, respectful, quiet competence meeting quiet competence.
By the time the meeting breaks, the room is calm again, and everyone leaves with their panic neatly packed away.
As people file out, Gage hangs back while I close my folder.
“You made that painless,” he says, quiet.
I shrug like it didn’t take effort. “Try living inside my brain. It’s all spreadsheets and emergency plans.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m aware.”
I slide my pen into the folder. “If you say ‘predictably you,’ I’m charging you.”
He steps closer just enough to be annoying about it. “For what? Emotional damages?”
“For knowing me too well,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I mean it to.
His gaze catches mine—steady, warm. “Someone has to.”
My stomach does a small, rude flip. I lift my chin like I’m not affected. “Scoot, would you?”
“You got it,” he says, and lets me pass like he’s doing me a favor.
I walk back to my desk with my spine straight and my face composed and my heart… behaving.
For now.
Around lunchtime, my phone buzzes.
I glance down automatically, expecting a calendar reminder or an email notification.
Instead, I see a name I haven’t seen in two months.
My stomach drops so fast it feels like my body forgot how gravity works.
Jesse. My ex.
One text preview. Nothing dramatic. Just: Hope you’re doing well.
It shouldn’t matter. It’s a harmless sentence. A polite tap on the shoulder from the past.
Except my chest tightens like someone pressed a thumb into a bruise.
My fingers go cold around my phone as I stare at the screen, and the office noise fades until it’s just me and that one line pulsing like a warning.
He doesn’t get to pop back in like this.
He doesn’t get to check on me and pretend he didn’t leave me picking up pieces.
He doesn’t get to—
I inhale. Exhale. Slowly. Like I’m talking myself down from a ledge no one else can see.
Rule Four: Do not reopen closed doors.
I lock my phone and set it face-down on the desk with careful precision, like it’s a document that needs filing under absolutely not.
The sting lingers anyway.
So I do what I always do when my emotions start acting recklessly—I reach for numbers. I open the spreadsheet in front of me, line items and totals, the comforting honesty of things that add up the same way every time.
But my brain keeps sliding back.
Hope you’re doing well.
A shadow falls across my desk.
“Hey,” Gage says—quiet, casual, like he’s just passing by.
I look up too fast. “Hi.”
His expression stays neutral, but his eyes sharpen slightly, like he’s reading a line I didn’t mean to show. “You okay?”
It’s a simple question. No spotlight. No pressure. Just… an opening.
I give him my best version of normal. “Yep. Just living the dream.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile but won’t risk it. “Looks like a thrilling dream.”
I huff a laugh that almost works. “It’s very exclusive. Extremely boring.”
He nods once, accepting my answer the way he always does—like he trusts me to tell him the truth when I’m ready, and not a second earlier.
Then, instead of lingering, he tilts his travel mug slightly. “I’m grabbing coffee. Want one?”
I blink, because that shouldn’t make my throat tighten. “Sure.”
“Black,” he says, already turning away.