Gage
The zipper on the garment bag catches, and for one stupid second, I’m convinced it’s going to expose me.
Not in a dramatic, “caught in a lie” way.
In a practical way—like the teeth will split, the bag will gape open, and my carefully folded jeans will spill onto my bedroom floor like evidence.
I tug again. Slower this time. Controlled. Like I’m negotiating with fabric.
It gives.
I exhale, quietly annoyed that I’m relieved.
It’s Thursday morning. Still dark outside. The kind of dark that makes the house feel like it’s holding its breath.
The clock reads 5:41 A.M.
I never wake up at 5:41 a.m. unless I have a terrible nightmare or if Reece needs me for some reason.
I’ve decided on dark jeans, a soft button-down that doesn’t look like CEO armor, and a gray sweater I’ve said is “just an option” instead of a decision with consequences.
The button-down is steamed and a light blue. The jeans are folded. Everything is arranged with the precision of a man trying to make casual look accidental.
I stare at the sweater.
Not flashy gray. Not “I’m trying” gray. Just… gray. Soft. Normal. The kind of sweater a man wears when he wants to look approachable and not like he’s ever said the words quarterly forecast without irony.
I hold it up like it’s a dangerous object.
Because it is.
A sweater is not just a sweater when Rosie Palmer has texted you three times, used the word singles, and told you not to wear anything that screams board meeting.
A sweater is a decision.
A sweater is intent.
A sweater might be the wrong choice.
I fold it anyway and tuck it into the bag, because apparently I’m committed to committing crimes before sunrise.
Then I zip the garment bag closed and pick it up.
It’s heavier than it should be for a change of clothes.
Or maybe it just feels heavier because my brain won’t stop attaching meaning to fabric.
I carry it downstairs, careful with my steps so the wooden stairs don’t creak and announce to the whole neighborhood that I’m up early planning an outfit like a teenager.
The kitchen is cold. Quiet. Familiar.
I set the garment bag on the chair by the table—out of the way, but visible enough that I won’t forget it. Like that’s even possible. Like I could forget the entire reason I woke up at 5:41.
The coffee maker starts, filling the room with warmth and something close to peace.
For five minutes, I let myself pretend today is normal.
I drink coffee. I shower. I shave. I button my usual shirt and knot my usual tie. I pull on my suit jacket and become the version of myself the world expects—contained, polished, steady.
CEO.
My phone buzzes while I’m tightening my watch.
Rosie: Don’t be a statue tonight.
I stare at it.
I don’t respond.
I set the phone down like it’s not a message and more like a warning.
By the time I’m ready, the sky outside has shifted from black to that thin early-morning gray that makes the snow look like it’s glowing.
I grab my travel mug.
I grab my keys.
I grab the garment bag.
Then I step onto the porch and lock the door.
Cold air snaps against my face, sharp enough to clear the last of the sleep from my head. The street is quiet in that winter-morning way—snow crusted along the curb, porch lights still on, everything waiting.
Across the driveway line, Reece’s porch light flicks on.
Of course it does.
Her front door opens a moment later, and she steps out—coat zipped, tote bag on her shoulder, coffee in hand. She looks up as I lock my door.
“Morning,” she calls.
“Morning,” I answer.
Normal. Routine. Predictable.
Except my brain has been vibrating since I woke up, because tonight exists.
Reece walks across the strip of lawn between our houses and climbs into the passenger seat of my car like she has a permanent lease on it.
She does. At this point, she could probably claim it on her taxes.
As I set my travel mug in the cup holder, I slide the garment bag into the backseat, careful not to wrinkle anything. Not because wrinkles matter.
Because the bag matters.
Reece’s eyes flick to it immediately.
Her stare sharpens just a fraction—small enough that anyone else would miss it, but I’ve known her too long not to feel it.
She nods toward the backseat. “What’s that?”
My spine goes a fraction straighter.
“Work thing,” I say evenly, like that’s a complete sentence and not a lie with a zipper.
Reece’s mouth twitches. “That’s vague.”
“It’s supposed to be,” I say, pulling out of the driveway.
She leans back, unimpressed. “I didn’t know you did ‘work things.’ I thought you just made one phone call and buildings bowed in your presence.”
“Please,” I say dryly. “Buildings don’t bow. They leak.”
Reece laughs, and the sound hits something soft in my chest.
“Okay,” she says, sipping her coffee. “So. Work event?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Like… fancy?”
“Like… work,” I reply.
Reece hums as if she’s filing that away. Then she gestures with her cup toward the garment bag again. “And you’re bringing an outfit?”
“It’s a function,” I say. “Sometimes functions require… fabric changes.”
Reece squints. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m not being weird,” I say automatically, which is what a person says when they are being weird.
Reece’s eyebrows lift. “You are being weird.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and aim for calm. “I’m being efficient.”
“You’re being suspiciously efficient.”
I glance at her. “Do you want me to be inefficient?”
She pauses, considering. “That would be fun to watch, actually.”
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m entertained,” she corrects.
We pull into the station lot, park, and walk toward the platform together. Breath visible in the cold, commuters around us, the same familiar rhythm.
Reece tucks her scarf higher and grabs another bag with her tote bag. “Rosie has an event tonight,” she says casually, like she’s talking about the weather.
My heart does something stupid.
I keep my face neutral. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she says, then glances at me. “She asked me to help with something.”
Help with something.
That’s also vague. That’s also suspicious.
Reece looks down the platform, expression careful, like she’s trying to act like this is nothing. Like she didn’t plan her whole week around not feeling too much.
My throat tightens.
“So you’re… going?” I ask, making the question sound like it’s about logistics.
Reece’s eyes flick to mine. Sharp. Knowing. “Maybe.”
Maybe.
That single word is a hook under my ribs.
I force my voice into an even line. “Okay. Just—” I stop, because I can’t say be careful without sounding like I’m claiming something I have no right to claim.
Reece’s expression softens anyway, like she can hear what I didn’t say. “I’ll be fine,” she says.
Then she adds, lightly, as if that makes it easier: “It’s just a thing that I need a change of clothes for,” patting the extra bag.
Just a thing.
Sure.
The train arrives. Doors open. We board. We find seats. Routine restored.
Except today, we both have extra baggage tucked at our feet and overhead, like we’re two people trying very hard to pretend we’re not headed toward the same collision.
Reece glances up at my bag again, then looks away. I can feel her curiosity like a physical thing. She doesn’t ask.
I’m grateful.
And irritated.
And… oddly disappointed.
Because part of me wants her to ask. Part of me wants her to care. Part of me wants to answer with the truth:
Rosie is doing something tonight, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to go or stay out of it.
Instead, I say nothing.
Reece opens her laptop and starts typing. Her calm face is back in place. Her competence is the shield.
And if she’s walking into a room full of strangers tonight, I can’t decide whether that’s brave or cruel.
Probably both.
She pauses typing and glances at me. “You’re thinking too loud.”
I blink. “I’m not thinking.”
Reece’s mouth twitches. “Yes, you are.”
“What am I thinking?” I ask because I enjoy losing.
She studies me with that maddening ease—like she’s always known how to read me, like our friendship comes with subtitles. “You’re thinking about your work thing. And whether it’s a good idea.”
My chest tightens.
She’s not wrong.
I keep my tone light. “It’s a fine idea.”
Reece hums. “Mm. That’s what people say right before they make a questionable decision.”
“I don’t make questionable decisions,” I say.
Reece lifts a brow. “You ride the LIRR on purpose.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Quiet, brief.
Reece smiles like she’s proud of herself. “There it is.”
“What?”
“Your human face,” she says, and goes back to typing like she didn’t just punch a hole in my control.
The day at work refuses to cooperate with my plan.
By noon, there’s a tenant issue that isn’t technically an emergency but is being treated like one. By two, legal needs a signature. By four, a vendor calls with a timeline shift that affects three buildings and about 200 people’s expectations.
I handle it all the way I always do—calm, efficient, direct.
But the whole time, tonight sits in the back of my mind like an open tab I can’t close.
Every time I check the clock, I see 7:00 p.m. approaching like it’s on a mission.
By six, my office is quieter, the building mostly emptied out. I’m still at my desk because that’s what being a CEO is most days: you’re the last person holding the thread.
I look at the garment bag hanging on the coat rack, my clothes waiting like a dare.
It’s just an event.
It’s just Rosie.
It’s just one hour.
I should go home. I should be sensible. I should stay out of whatever Rosie has planned and let Reece have her night without my presence complicating it.
Then I think of Reece walking into that room.
Of her smile that’s polite first and real second.
Of her laugh that comes easily with me but takes work with strangers.
Of someone mistaking her competence for coldness and deciding she’s “too much.”
And I realize the truth, sharp and unavoidable:
I’m not going because I want to see if Reece meets someone.
I’m going because…
She’s my friend.
She’s my employee, and I have an obligation to keep her safe—yes, even off the clock.
Because she’s Reece Callahan, and I’ve spent years choosing her in quiet ways, I can pretend don’t count.
I stand, grab the garment bag, and head for the restroom down the hall like a man walking toward a decision he is fully aware will change his life.
In the mirror, I look like myself.
Suit. Tie. CEO armor.
I strip it off with practiced movements. Fold. Hang. Replace.
The sweater goes over my head and settles against my shoulders like it belongs there.
It doesn’t.
It makes me look younger. Softer. Less… contained.
Exposed.
I take it off and just wear the blue button-down.
I stare at myself and feel a strange mix of irritation and nerves.
I can face investors without my pulse changing.
I can deliver bad news without blinking.
I can negotiate contracts with rooms full of men who think intensity is a weapon.
But I put on jeans and a button-down, and suddenly I’m a teenager again, standing in Reece’s living room reading aloud like it’s a play, waiting for her laugh like it’s oxygen.
I grab my coat and leave the building.
My phone keeps buzzing with useless notifications that aren’t the one I’m waiting for.
I don’t even know what I’m waiting for.
A text from Rosie telling me I’m late?
A sign from the universe that this is a terrible idea?
A message from Reece that says Don’t come even though she doesn’t know I’m coming?
I’m late.
Of course I am. Work didn’t care that my life is inconveniently full of feelings now.
I try to steady my breathing.
Be normal.
Be respectful.
Don’t make her night about you.
If Reece is there, she has the right to enjoy herself without my presence rearranging the room.
If Reece is there and she’s meeting someone, I will smile. I will be polite. I will not glare at strangers like I’m protecting the nation.
I take one breath.
Then another.
And before I can talk myself out of it, I keep walking—a bit late, steady, and absolutely not prepared for what I’m about to walk into.