Reece
My blouse is stuck.
Not buttons are tricky stuck. Not I’m tired and my fingers are lazy stuck.
Stuck-stuck.
One sleeve has decided it lives on my forearm now, and the other sleeve is clinging to my elbow like it’s filing paperwork to become a permanent resident.
I stand in the middle of my bedroom in the weird half-undressed limbo of adulthood—bra still on, hair still pinned in a responsible bun, skirt still zipped—doing the kind of twisting shimmy that would send my high school self into a laughing fit and my current self into a chiropractor’s waiting room.
“Okay,” I whisper, breathing through my teeth like I’m in labor. “We can do this the easy way, or I can donate you tomorrow out of spite.”
The blouse does not respond.
I tug again. It finally releases with the dramatic flair of a curtain drop.
I stumble forward one step, catch myself on the dresser, and glare at my own reflection in the mirror like it was the blouse’s accomplice.
There I am.
Reece Callahan: accountant, adult, allegedly in control of her life.
Also Reece Callahan: the woman who called her best friend and lifelong neighbor “Mr. Donovan” today, like she was reading from a handbook titled How to Ruin Your Own Peace in One Expression of Gratitude.
I press my fingertips to my forehead.
What is wrong with me?
No—wrong is dramatic.
What is happening with me?
Because today’s “Mr. Donovan” wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t even a slip. It came out crisp and polished and intentional, like my brain grabbed the nearest boundary sign and planted it in the ground between us.
Boss.
Employee.
Safe.
Contained.
No candles. No corner. No laughter. No forearms.
Absolutely no hope.
I exhale and focus on the routine, because routines are my favorite form of therapy.
I pull on a soft sweatshirt. I step into leggings. I let my hair down because my scalp feels like it’s been holding a committee meeting all day. I rub my temples. I slip into socks like I’m bracing for emotional winter.
Downstairs, I flick on the kitchen light and immediately get smacked by the draft from the window over the sink.
The window rattles faintly, like it’s giggling at me.
I narrow my eyes at it. “Don’t start.”
The window continues existing, disrespectfully.
I turn the heat up two degrees—just enough to feel like I’m winning—and open the fridge, looking for dinner inspiration. The fridge offers me exactly what I deserve for being emotionally unstable: leftovers and judgment.
I pull out a container of something that might have once been pasta and set it on the counter.
I opt for a salad bag. The one with all the goodies in one bag.
I am a woman of resilience and survival.
I face the counter, rubbing my hands together like warmth can solve everything.
It can’t.
My brain does what it always does when I’m alone and tired: it replays the day.
Not the whole day. The highlights.
The platform quiet. The train ride tension that wasn’t tension, except it was. The way Gage said my name this morning—soft, close—like it belonged in his mouth.
And then the moment my mouth betrayed me.
“Thank you, Mr. Donovan.”
I can still hear the tiny pause after it, the brief stillness before the office noise swallowed it up again.
His face—controlled, calm—except his eyes, which sharpened like he’d been tapped on the shoulder.
And then his voice. “Mr. Donovan?”
I should have laughed. I should have made a joke. I should have said something normal like, Sorry, my brain’s glitching.
Instead, I doubled down.
Practicing professionalism.
On him.
Because I am apparently a chaos gremlin in business attire.
Then my phone buzzes on the counter.
I freeze.
Because my body has started reacting to my phone like it might be carrying a subpoena.
I glance down.
Gage: Weather advisory for tomorrow. You stocked up?
My chest does that inconvenient thing again—tighten and lift and warm all at once—like my body heard his name and decided to be optimistic without consulting me.
Of course he’s checking in.
Of course he is.
He’s been doing it since we were kids. Text me when you get home. Tell me you made it. Text me when you’re ready. Always.
It’s not romantic. It’s routine.
It’s… Gage.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I should answer.
I should keep it normal. Casual. Friendly.
But my brain is screaming: Do not be weird.
And my heart is whispering: You’re already weird.
I stare at the screen and say out loud, to my empty kitchen, “Flirting is fine as long as I call it banter.”
The kitchen does not respond.
Again: rude.
I start to type back—something safe, something normal—
And my phone rings.
Rosie lights up my screen like a warning label.
I stare at it.
Of course.
Of course she’s calling right now.
The universe hates my peace.
I hit accept and put her on speaker because if I hold the phone to my ear, I will start pacing like a trapped animal, and I’ve had enough cardio this week.
“Hi,” I say, trying for calm.
Rosie doesn’t bother with greetings.
“So,” she says, bright as a spotlight. “Debrief. Tell me everything. Start with the outfit.”
I close my eyes.
“Rosie,” I say, “I’m eating dinner.”
“Eating a salad,” she replies immediately. “That’s not dinner, that’s emotional avoidance in a bag.”
I stare at the bag like it personally betrayed me. “It’s… lettuce.”
“It’s denial with croutons,” Rosie says brightly. “Anyway. Debrief. Tell me everything. Start with the sleeves.”
I choke. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” she says, delighted. “The blue button-down. The rolled sleeves. The whole I’m a normal man who definitely doesn’t ruin women’s coping mechanisms look.”
I press two fingers to my temple. “You are obsessed.”
“I am a professional,” Rosie counters. “And I watched you forget how to blink when he leaned on that wall. So. How are we feeling?”
“We are feeling,” I say, poking lettuce with a fork, “like I would like to file a formal complaint against Thursday.”
Rosie laughs. “Great. So you had fun.”
I pause, because the truth is annoyingly loud.
“Yes,” I admit quietly. “I did.”
“Mm-hmm,” Rosie hums, satisfied. “And now you’re spiraling.”
“I am not spiraling,” I say too fast.
Rosie makes an unimpressed sound. “Reece.”
I exhale. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little.”
“Perfect,” she says. “Tell me why.”
Because the answer is stupid and terrifying and has a name.
Because safe is starting to feel like something else.
Because—
“I didn’t want to make it weird,” I say instead.
Rosie’s laugh is soft, almost affectionate. “Honey. It’s already weird. It’s been weird since tenth grade.”
I choke on air. “It has not.”
Rosie barrels on. “Prom. Your date was late. Who was waiting outside the gym like a patient, annoyed bodyguard with good hair?”
“That was… polite,” I protest.
“That was in love,” Rosie says like she’s stating the national anthem.
“He was not in love,” I say, voice rising.
Rosie sighs like I’m a difficult client. “Fine. Not in love. Just extremely devoted and quietly obsessed.”
“Rosie.”
“What?” she says innocently. “It’s a compliment.”
I rub my forehead. “I don’t even know if he has feelings for me like that.”
Rosie makes a sound that is half laugh, half are-you-serious. “Reece.”
“What?” I demand.
“You know that man checks your porch light like it’s a weather report,” she says. “He knows when you’re home. He knows when you’re not. He knows when your car is in the driveway. He knows when you’re sad without you saying a word.”
My throat tightens.
Because… that’s true.
“And,” Rosie adds, voice sharpening with the kind of certainty only best friends have, “you’re happiest when you’re with him. So why are you acting like you need to quarantine your own feelings?”
I grip the counter. “Because if it was meant to be, it would’ve happened already.”
Rosie is silent for one beat.
Then she says, “Or you’ve both been cowards since tenth grade.”
My mouth opens. “We have not been—”
“Reece,” Rosie interrupts, loving but relentless, “you’ve spent years dating men who are safe for you in the wrong ways.”
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
Rosie continues anyway. “Men who don’t threaten your heart because you don’t actually trust them with it. Men you can leave if you need to. Men who can disappoint you without ruining your whole life because they were never… your home.”
My chest aches.
I hate that she’s right.
I hate it because it means I might have done this to myself on purpose.
I stare down at my salad, then whisper, “Gage feels… safe.”
Rosie’s voice softens. “I know.”
“That’s the problem,” I say, words spilling out before I can stop them. “Because safe is starting to look like… desire. And I don’t know how to handle that without messing everything up.”
There’s silence on the line—not awkward. Just Rosie letting the truth breathe.
Then she says softly, “Yeah.”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” Rosie says. “Because when you want someone who actually matters, it’s terrifying. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
I swallow. “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”
Rosie sighs. “You can’t ruin a friendship that strong with one feeling. The only thing that ruins it is pretending it’s not there until you both start bleeding from the effort.”
My eyes sting.
And then, because my mouth hates me, the confession slips out.
“I called him Mr. Donovan today.”
Silence.
Then Rosie inhales sharply like she just heard a car crash.
“You did what,” she says, deadly calm.
“I panicked!” I blurt. “It came out of my mouth like a resume!”
Rosie makes a noise—half laugh, half disbelief. “Reece. That’s not professionalism. That’s panic in a blazer.”
I groan, dropping my head back. “Please don’t say it like that.”
“I will say it exactly like that,” she replies. “Because it’s true.”
I stab a fork into my salad. “I didn’t want to make it weird at work.”
Rosie’s voice turns gentler. “Sweetheart. It got weird the moment you started having feelings you’re trying to file away.”
I close my eyes.