Gage
The cold slaps us in the face the second we push through the venue doors, sharp enough to drag us out of candlelight and back into real life.
Reece scoots in first, smoothing her coat over her dress like she’s trying to reassemble herself into “normal human woman who definitely did not spend two hours laughing in a corner with her boss.”
I slide in beside her and immediately have one clear thought:
Do not touch her.
Do not crowd her.
Do not breathe too loud.
The backseat door shuts with a soft thunk that sounds way too final for something I’m pretending is casual.
My coat brushes hers, because the backseat of a car is not designed for two people who are trying very hard not to acknowledge the space between their knees.
The driver checks the mirror. “Headed to Long Island?”
“Yes,” I answer at the same time Reece says, “Unfortunately.”
I turn my head slightly. She’s watching the city lights through the window like they personally offended her.
Her hair is still down, loose from the night, and the soft scent of her perfume lingers—something clean and warm, like vanilla and winter air and the kind of comfort you don’t realize you’re craving until it’s right there.
I keep my eyes forward.
I’m being respectful.
I’m being normal.
I’m also very aware of her warmth beside me, radiating through layers like my body has suddenly developed a new sense.
The car pulls away from the curb, weaving into traffic. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
It isn’t awkward. It’s… full.
Reece clears her throat like she’s about to say something practical, then chooses sarcasm instead.
“I can’t believe you made me miss the train,” she says.
I blink. “I did?”
Reece turns her head toward me, eyes bright with mischief. “You lured me into a corner and distracted me with childhood trauma and regular clothes that pack the charm.”
“Regular clothes charm,” I repeat slowly.
“Yes,” she says, nodding like she’s presenting evidence in court. “It’s a new weapon. Very effective. Very unethical.”
I keep my face neutral, because if I smile too much she’ll notice, and if she notices, I’ll have to deal with what it means that I like her noticing.
“I offered a car service,” I say instead.
Reece huffs. “As if that’s a solution.”
“It is literally the solution,” I point out.
“It’s… a rich solution,” she says.
I glance at her. “You were at a singles event with candles and shrimp skewers.”
Reece’s mouth tightens. “Do not say shrimp.”
“Rosie’s spiritual no-shrimp cleanse again?” I ask.
Reece groans and leans her head back against the seat. “She told a man I was emotionally unavailable to shellfish.”
“That's hilarious,” I say. “She could’ve said emotionally unavailable to people.”
Reece’s eyes narrow. “I am not emotionally unavailable.”
I lift a brow.
Reece stares at me for a beat, then points at my chest. “Do not. Don’t do that eyebrow thing.”
“What eyebrow thing?” I ask, innocent.
“That one,” she says, poking the air like she can physically push my expression back into place. “The calm one. The ‘I’m not judging you but I’m absolutely judging you’ one.”
I try—and fail—not to smile. “I’m not judging.”
“You are the human version of a judge’s bench,” she mutters.
The car hits a small bump, and Reece’s shoulder shifts just slightly toward mine. It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
I adjust, carefully, putting more space between us without making it obvious. The last thing I want is for her to feel crowded. Or trapped. Or like she has to perform.
Reece notices everything. She always has.
When we were kids, she used to call it her “observation skills.” Like she was a detective, and I was her sidekick, and the great mystery was why our parents insisted on early bedtimes.
She’d sit on her porch steps with a notebook and a pen, watching the neighborhood like she was taking notes on suspects.
“What are you doing?” I’d asked once.
She’d looked up, dead serious. “Monitoring.”
“Monitoring what?”
“The truth,” she said.
I’d thought she was joking.
She wasn’t.
She was eight and already trying to make the world make sense.
Now she’s older, sitting beside me in the backseat of a car, and she’s still monitoring—just better at hiding it.
The city lights blur past outside, reflections sliding over the glass. Reece’s face is softer in the dark. Less armored. Less ready to fight.
Tonight did that.
I’m not sure if it’s because she was brave, or because she was exhausted, or because for two hours she forgot she was supposed to be “fine.”
Either way, she looks… lighter.
And I don’t want to ruin it.
So I keep the conversation safe.
“How many damp handshakes did you survive?” I ask.
Reece makes a face. “One.”
“Only one?” I say, impressed.
She points at me again. “Don’t sound proud. That was one too many.”
“Fair,” I reply.
She shifts, tucking one foot under her other leg, like she’s trying to get comfortable without acknowledging she’s comfortable.
A small silence stretches.
It’s the kind of silence that feels like sitting on the couch after a good movie—quiet, shared, still full of whatever you just felt.
Reece’s fingers tap lightly against her knee. Then she says, quieter, “Thank you for coming.”
My chest tightens. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do,” she says, still looking out the window. “It was… less awful with you there.”
Less awful.
That’s the Reece version of I felt safe.
I keep my voice steady. “You did great.”
She snorts. “I told someone I was fiscally responsible.”
“That’s not a crime,” I say.
“It should be,” she mutters. “It’s basically flirting in Excel.”
I glance at her. “You flirt in Excel?”
She turns her head toward me, eyes narrowing. “Don’t make that a thing.”
“It already is a thing,” I say.
Reece sighs like she’s burdened by my existence. “This is why Rosie was right about you.”
My pulse jumps. “Right about me?”
Reece blinks once, like she forgot she said that out loud. “I didn’t say that.”
“You did,” I remind her gently.
Reece stares at me for a beat, then looks away too fast. “I’m tired.”
That’s her escape phrase. Her approved emotional exit.
I let her have it.
“Me too,” I say.
The driver turns the radio down, maybe out of politeness, maybe because the car has decided we’re having a moment and doesn’t want to interrupt.
Reece exhales slowly. “Did you have fun?” she asks, like the question slipped out before she could stop it.
I answer honestly. “With you? Yes.”
Reece’s throat bobs. She swallows. “Not… in general?”
“In general,” I say, carefully, “it was less painful than I expected.”
Reece huffs a laugh. “That’s the nicest thing you can say about a singles event.”
“It’s the truest,” I reply.
She turns her head toward me again, studying my face like she’s trying to see what I’m really thinking.
I keep my expression calm.
Because what I’m really thinking is:
I liked watching you laugh.
I liked watching you breathe.
I liked that you looked at me like you were seeing me.
And I don’t get to say any of that.
Reece shifts again, and her hand brushes mine.
Barely. An accident. A tiny graze of warmth.
Both of us go still.
In perfect unison, we pull our hands back like the contact was a spark.
Reece clears her throat. “So.”
“So,” I echo, because I’m also a mature adult who can handle brief accidental touch without acting like a teenager.
Reece stares out the window again. “I can already see Rosie doing a victory lap .”
“She already is,” I say.
Reece nods solemnly. “She’s going to request a trophy.”
“She’ll engrave it herself,” I reply.
The driver glances in the mirror, and for a second I see the faintest smile on his face—like he’s been listening and drawing conclusions.
I ignore it.
Reece, unfortunately, does not ignore anything.
We hit a red light. The driver looks back again, friendly. “You two have a nice night?”
Reece and I answer at the exact same time.
“Nothing happened.”
The words leave our mouths in perfect sync, like we rehearsed.
There’s a beat of silence.
The driver blinks. “Uh—okay.”
Reece turns slowly toward me.
I turn slowly toward her.
Her eyes are wide with horror.
Mine probably are too.
“Why did we say that like a team?” she whispers.
“I don’t know,” I whisper back.
Reece presses her lips together, fighting a smile. “That was… embarrassing.”
“Yes,” I agree.
The driver clears his throat and very intentionally looks forward again like he has decided to mind his business for self-preservation.
Reece’s shoulders shake once.
Then she laughs—quiet, helpless, into her sleeve like she’s trying not to make a sound.
And I watch her, and something in me loosens.
Because this is the Reece I know. The one who laughs until she can’t breathe. The one who forgets to be careful for a second.
I want to keep her there.
The car pulls onto the parkway, the city fading behind us. Long Island stretches ahead—dark roads, scattered lights, the familiar drift back to home.
Reece’s head tips slightly toward the window. Her eyelids look heavier.
“Tired?” I ask softly.
She hums. “Mm.”
“Good tired or bad tired?” I ask.
Reece’s mouth tugs upward. “Annoyingly good tired.”
My chest tightens again, because that’s what I’ve been feeling too, and I don’t know what to do with it.
The neighborhood appears—quiet, snow-lined, porch lights glowing. The car slows, turning onto our street like it belongs here.
Reece sits up a little straighter as the car approaches our houses.
The driver pulls to the curb.
Reece reaches for her seat belt like she’s bracing to step back into reality.
I should let her go.
I should say goodnight. I should be normal.
Instead, the words catch in my throat—something honest, something dangerous.
Something like: I didn’t want to stop talking to you.
Something like: I liked being your safe place tonight.
Something like: I want more.
Reece looks at me, waiting. Quiet. Open in a way she hasn’t been in months.
I almost say it.
I feel it on my tongue.
Then I swallow it like it’s a mistake.
“Home,” I say instead, softer than I mean to.
Reece’s gaze flicks over my face as if she heard everything I didn’t say.
Then she nods once, small. “Home.”
We climb out of the car, cold air hitting us like reality.
And the space between us follows us onto the sidewalk—still there, still humming, still full of things neither of us is brave enough to name.