Reece
Silence wakes me up.
Not the peaceful kind. Not the ah, a calm Sunday morning kind.
The suspicious kind.
The kind where the house is so quiet it feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting to see if I notice something is wrong.
I blink at the ceiling for a second, trying to orient myself. My bedroom is dim—winter light filtering through the curtains like it’s tired. The air feels… sharper than it should. Cooler.
I roll onto my side and reach for my phone on the nightstand, because I am a modern adult and also because I like starting my day by checking whether the world has fallen apart overnight.
My phone is dead.
Not low battery dead. Not one percent, please plug me in dead.
Dead-dead. Black screen. No response. A tiny slab of betrayal.
I frown and lift it, pressing the button again like I can intimidate it into waking up.
Nothing.
I glance at the charger. It’s plugged in. The cord is connected. Everything appears correct.
Which means…
I sit up.
My breath turns into a little puff of white.
Okay.
That’s not normal.
I swing my legs out of bed, and the floor is cold enough to make my soul leave my body without even packing a bag.
“Good morning,” I whisper to the universe. “I hate this.”
I wrap my robe tighter around me and shuffle into the hallway, calling out the only thing I can think of in a moment of crisis.
“Hello?” I say.
The house does not answer.
Rude.
I head downstairs, stepping carefully because the air feels colder with every step, like the house is actively trying to lower my morale.
In the kitchen, the clock on the microwave is blank.
The light switch does nothing.
The little hum of the fridge is gone.
The window rattles once, like it’s laughing at me.
I stare at the window. Then at the dead microwave. Then at the dead phone.
“Oh,” I say, flatly. “So we’re doing this.”
Power outage.
In the middle of a snowstorm weekend.
Because I have fantastic luck.
My first instinct is to panic.
My second instinct—stronger, louder—is to be stubborn about it.
I am fine.
I can handle this.
I am a capable adult with a master’s degree in… being capable.
Also I have candles.
Probably.
I open the drawer where my parents used to keep junk—batteries, takeout menus, pens that don’t work, rubber bands from 2004.
I find a flashlight.
I click it on.
It flickers twice, then dies.
I stare at it like it just disrespected my family.
“Okay,” I say. “So you’re dead too.”
I toss it back into the drawer and decide I’m not losing to my own house today.
I march into the living room, open the cabinet where I keep emergency supplies like a normal person who definitely doesn’t spiral, and pull out candles.
Three of them.
One is shaped like a pumpkin, which feels emotionally unhelpful in early March.
But I’ll take it.
I find a lighter.
It works.
Small victories.
I light the candles and set them on the coffee table like I’m hosting a very dramatic séance.
Spirit of electricity, I think, please return.
Nothing happens.
I sigh.
“Fine,” I tell the room. “Be that way.”
I pull on sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and a second pair of socks because I refuse to lose toes today. Then I put on a hat inside my own house, which feels like an attack on my dignity.
But it’s cold.
My breath is still visible.
That’s not a great sign.
I shuffle to the front door and place my hand on the knob.
It’s cold too. Like the metal has been outside having a personal conversation with winter.
I twist.
The door doesn’t budge.
I blink.
Try again.
Nothing.
I can’t really see through the storm door.
For half a second, my brain goes blank.
Then the information arrives: snow.
Snow can freeze doors shut. Ice can wedge itself into the frame like it has a personal vendetta.
I press my forehead against the door.
“Of course,” I whisper. “Naturally.”
I try the deadbolt. Nothing.
I try the handle again with more force, like the door is going to respect my authority if I’m firm enough.
It doesn’t.
I glance around like I’m about to start negotiating with a wall.
Okay.
New plan.
Back door.
I stomp to the kitchen, yank open the curtain, and look out.
And immediately regret my eyes.
The yard is gone.
My driveway is gone.
My porch steps are… somewhere under what appears to be a small mountain range.
Snow has swallowed the world.
I check the upstairs windows to try and get a better look.
Cars are buried to their side mirrors. The street looks like a blank sheet of paper someone forgot to write on.
It is beautiful.
It is also deeply offensive.
I press my palm to the glass and squint.
Across the driveway line, I can just barely see Gage’s house.
The porch light is on.
Of course it is. Of course he’s already awake, already prepared, already probably making a checklist in his head like a calm, responsible winter prince.
He has a generator.
I know he does because he’s mentioned it casually before, like generators are normal and not something that makes you secretly feel safe in a way you hate admitting.
But I am not going to run next door.
I am not going to be rescued.
I am going to handle my own power outage like a fierce independent woman who definitely isn’t shivering.
I turn away from the window and head down to the kitchen.
Immediately, I bump my hip on the counter.
“Ow,” I hiss.
My house is also violent now.
Perfect.
I decide to make breakfast, because food helps everything. I open the fridge, stare at the dark interior like it’s a cave.
The fridge is warmer. The milk is questionable. Everything is questionable.
I close it.
“Okay,” I say to myself. “No fridge food. Pantry food.”
I open the pantry—and freeze.
Not because of the cold.
Because my spices are still alphabetized from the singles night.
Paprika. Parsley. Pepper.
I stare at them like they’re judging me.
“Don’t,” I tell the spices.
They remain sorted, smug, and perfect.
I grab a granola bar and take a bite.
It tastes like sawdust and determination.
I chew anyway.
Then my phone, still dead, sits on the counter like an accusation.
I can’t call anyone.
Not that I would.
Because I’m fine.
I can handle—
A loud thump hits the side of the house.
I jump so hard my granola bar nearly becomes a projectile.
“What was that?” I whisper.
Another thump.
Then a scraping sound.
Then a low rumble like something is moving outside.
I rush to the front window, push aside the curtain, and peer out.
A snowplow.
A real one. Not the pathetic little shovel you buy at Home Depot and pretend can handle nature.
A snowblower that sounds turbo jetted.
It’s clearing my driveway.
And I already know who it is before I even see him, because there is exactly one man on this street who treats snow like a problem to solve instead of a personal betrayal.
Gage.
He’s in a winter jacket and gloves, moving with calm purpose, like the storm personally dared him.
He’s plowing both properties.
Of course he is.
Because he can’t not.
My chest tightens with something that is equal parts relief and annoyance.
Relief because I am cold and trapped and my door is frozen shut.
Annoyance because I didn’t ask.
And because needing help makes my pride itch.
But then he kills the engine of the plow, walk toward my front walk path, and starts shoveling like it’s nothing.
Like he’s done it a thousand times.
Like he’s not my boss, not my neighbor, not the man I’m trying not to feel too much around.
Just… Gage.
Showing up.
My throat tightens.
“Of course,” I mutter.
I march to the front door and twist the handle again.
Still stuck.
I grit my teeth and yank harder.
It shifts—barely.
A thin crack of cold air sneaks in.
I shove again.
The door swings open with a reluctant groan.
And there he is on the other side, shovel in hand, cheeks pink from the cold, eyes steady.
He looks up at me like he’s been expecting me to appear.
Which, of course, he has.
“Morning,” he says, like my house isn’t currently auditioning for an arctic documentary.
I squint at him. “Do you make a habit of saving damsels in distress?”
His mouth twitches. “I’m not saving you.”
“You’re literally plowing my driveway.”
“Neighborly,” he says, calm. “Also you have an older electrical line. I assumed it would go.”
I blink. “You assumed my power would go?”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. “Storm like this? Yeah.”
That shouldn’t be sweet.
It is.
I refuse to let it sit there, warm and tender, so I cover it with sarcasm.
“Well,” I say, shivering. “Congratulations. You were right. My house is a popsicle.”
His gaze flicks over me—hat, robe, double socks—and something soft crosses his face. Not pity. Never pity. Just… care.
“You’re cold,” he states.
“I’m fine,” I lie immediately.
Gage gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe in lying as a sport.
I lift my chin. “I have candles.”
“Great,” he says. “Do you have heat?”
“No,” I say, irritated that he’s asking questions with obvious answers.
“And your phone?” he asks.
I hold it up like evidence. “Dead. Even though it was plugged in. Which I consider extremely rude.”
He nods once. “Okay.”
That one word contains an entire plan.
And I hate that I feel relief.
He gestures toward his house. “Pack a bag. You’re staying with me until your power comes back.”
I freeze.
My pride stands up straight inside me like it’s ready to fight.
“I am not,” I say automatically.
Gage doesn’t react. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t get dramatic.
He just looks at me with that calm, steady expression that makes me feel like my panic is less powerful than his certainty.
“Reece,” he says, and my name is gentle but firm. “I have a generator. Heat. Hot water. Coffee.”
My stomach betrays me at the word coffee.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re bribing me.”
“I’m being practical,” he replies.
“I can be practical,” I insist.
He glances at the snowbank that is currently taller than my dignity. “Okay. Be practical. Tell me your plan.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Because my plan was… candles and stubbornness. Possibly a dramatic monologue to the electricity company.
Gage waits, patient.
I hate him.
No, I don’t.
I sigh, defeated. “I have granola bars and lettuce that still looks promising.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s a good start.”
“I also can’t feel my toes,” I add, because if I’m going down, I’m going down honestly.
“Pack a bag,” he repeats, calm as ever.
“I don’t like this,” I mutter.
“I know.”
That’s the worst part.
He always knows.
I step back inside, grumbling the entire way up the stairs like I’m doing this under protest.
Which I am.
I grab underwear, pajamas, a sweater, my toothbrush, my laptop, my charging cords, and then stand in my room staring at my closet like it might offer emotional guidance.
It doesn’t.
I shove random things into a tote bag because I’m not going to be there long. The power will come back. The storm will pass. This will be fine.
Except my heart is not behaving like this is fine.
Because being in his house for any period of time is not a small thing.
It’s not romantic.
It’s a memory.
It’s… trouble.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and stomp downstairs.
Gage is still outside, finishing the shovel work like he’s closing out a project.
When he sees me, he nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
I glare at him. “Don’t look pleased.”
“I’m not pleased,” he says. “I’m relieved.”
That word lands softer than the snow.
I swallow.
“Fine,” I say briskly. “Lead the way, snowday superhero.”
His mouth twitches again. “I’m not a superhero.”
“You have a generator,” I say. “That’s basically a cape in this neighborhood.”
He steps closer, takes the bag from my shoulder before I can protest, and carries it like it’s nothing.
Like he’s done it a thousand times, too.
“Hey,” I start.
He glances back. “What?”
“I can carry my own—”
“I know,” he says. “I’m choosing to.”
My throat tightens.
I hate that it doesn’t feel like weakness with him.
It feels like… being cared for.
We trudge across the snow-dusted strip between our houses, the world quiet and white and muffled, like the storm pressed mute on the neighborhood.
His porch light glows warm.
His steps are cleared.
His door opens easily.
Of course it does.
He holds it for me, and heat spills out like an invitation.
I pause on the threshold with my bag and the weight of a thousand complicated feelings.
Then I step inside.
And the door closes behind me.