Reece #3
“No sugar,” I add automatically, because apparently my dignity wants to participate.
He pauses just long enough to glance back at me. “I know.”
And then he’s gone—no questions, no concern that feels like pity. Just a quiet, steady kindness that makes it hard to remember why I ever believed I had to handle everything alone.
I stare at the spot where he disappeared for a second too long.
I should feel annoyed—because I’m pretty sure he noticed, and I hate being that easy to read.
Instead, my chest settles like someone quietly turned the volume down.
I feel… steadier.
And that is the most dangerous feeling of all.
The rest of the day moves the way Mondays always do—fast, loud, and determined to pretend I’m not a human being with feelings.
Numbers behave. Emails multiply. I answer questions. I fix things. I do what I do best: I make messy look clean.
At some point, a coffee appears on my desk like a quiet miracle.
No announcement. No lingering. Just a cup placed perfectly to the right of my keyboard—black, no sugar—like it’s part of the office furniture.
I glance up in time to see Gage already walking away.
“Mysterious,” I call after him.
He doesn’t even turn around. “Neighborly,” he corrects.
I shake my head, but my mouth betrays me by almost smiling.
By late afternoon, my eyes have that sandy, screen-stared-all-day feeling, and my brain is full of invoices and variance reports and the lingering ghost of a text I refuse to answer. I’m packing up when I spot Gage in the hallway, coat on, phone in hand.
He slows just enough to match my pace without making it obvious.
“Long day?” he asks.
“Aren’t they all?” I say.
His gaze flicks over my face—quick, careful, the way he checks in without turning it into a whole thing. “Are you ready to head to Penn now?”
I lift my tote. “Yep. I’m going to attempt to catch a train like a normal citizen who does not sprint for sport.”
“Ambitious,” he says, deadpan.
“I’m growing as a person,” I tell him, and we walk toward the elevators with that same comfortable rhythm we’ve had forever—close, familiar, uncomplicated.
Which is a lie.
Penn Station swallows us the way it always does—bright lights, tiled floors, overhead announcements echoing like they’re personally offended by silence, and about a thousand people moving in different directions with the same frantic confidence.
Gage navigates through it like he’s done it his whole life, because he has. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t panic. He just… moves with purpose, and somehow the crowd parts for him like it respects his calm.
I am less dignified.
A man with a rolling suitcase nearly takes out my ankle, and I hop sideways with the grace of a startled deer.
Gage catches my elbow—again—with the exact same steady hand as this morning, like my balance is a recurring service he offers without subscription fees.
“I’m fine,” I say immediately.
He doesn’t even blink. “I know.”
We reach our track and fall into the waiting cluster, shoulder to shoulder with commuters and tourists and a group of teenagers who appear to be competing for loudest human on earth.
I tilt my head toward them. “Do you think they ever run out of words?”
Gage’s mouth twitches. “Nope, never.”
When the train is announced, the crowd surges like it’s a sporting event and not public transportation. I take one step forward and immediately get boxed in by a backpack and a stroller and someone speaking loudly into their phone about brunch plans.
I look at Gage. “If I don’t make it, tell my spreadsheets I loved them.”
“I’ll inform them respectfully,” he says.
We board, find seats—miraculously together again—and the moment the train starts moving, my shoulders drop.
There’s something about the ride home that always softens the day’s sharp edges. The city disappears. The windows turn into dark reflections. The conversations around us quiet down into a background hum.
Gage leans back, relaxed, and I catch myself matching his breath without meaning to.
We talk about nothing. We talk about everything. We argue about music for five minutes—because apparently that’s our love language as best friends.
“You can’t call that a song,” I tell him.
“It’s a song,” he replies calmly. “You’re just dramatic.”
“I’m passionate.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“And you’re wrong.”
His eyes flick to me, warm with amusement. “Predictably you.”
“Invoice,” I warn.
“Send it,” he says, unbothered.
By the time we reach our stop, my chest feels lighter than it did at lunch.
Which is unfair. Because I didn’t earn that lightness.
He just… exists next to me, steady, and my body decides it can breathe again.
Outside, the air is colder than it has any right to be, and the parking lot is a landscape of salt, slush, and exhausted commuters heading for their cars like it’s the last helicopter out of a disaster movie.
Gage and I split off without making a thing of it—his car in one direction, mine in the other—because this morning was sheer chaos.
The ride home is short and familiar, streetlights smearing gold across the windshield, the radio low, my brain finally quieting down now that the city is behind me.
And then, as I pull into my driveway—
Headlights swing in next door at the exact same moment.
Gage’s car rolls in like it’s choreographed. He parks, kills the engine, and steps out at the same time I do, both of us framed by porch lights and winter air like we planned it.
We didn’t.
Of course we didn’t.
But the timing still makes my stomach do that annoying little flip, because apparently my body thinks coincidence is romantic now.
We meet at the invisible line between our driveways—the same split in our paths we’ve had our whole lives.
“See you tomorrow,” Gage says, like this is ordinary.
I nod. “Unless the platform attacks me again.”
“I’ll bring a helmet.”
“That’s harsh.”
His mouth twitches. “Ok I’m sorry, maybe knee pads.”
I glare at him, but my lips tug upward anyway. “Go inside, Gage.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He turns toward his house, hands in his pockets, calm as ever, and I head toward mine with my keys clenched in my fist, pretending my heart isn’t doing something soft and stupid under my ribs.
Inside, the quiet wraps around me. My parents’ old house feels empty in the way it always does since they moved to Georgia. I turn on the lights, kick off my boots, and hang my coat.
I place my tote bag by the kitchen table and exhale.
I survived.
I’m fine.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
I glance down, expecting another text, email, or a reminder.
Instead, a single name lights up my screen.
Rosie Palmer.
And the message is short enough to be dangerous.
Rosie: You’re coming to my event Thursday. Don’t argue. Wear something cute.
I stare at it.
My mouth drops open.
Because Thursday is… soon.
Because I said I was done dating.
Because Rosie has never respected my boundaries when she thinks my happiness is involved.
Because—
A second text pops up before I can respond.
Rosie: Also, don’t be mad.
I narrow my eyes at the screen.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
I type: Why would I be mad?
And then I pause, because in my experience, “don’t be mad” is never followed by something small.
I hit send anyway.
The bubbles appear immediately.
Rosie is typing.
My stomach flips like it already knows my life is about to get complicated.
And I haven’t even made it to Tuesday.