Reece
My foot catches the edge of the stair tread like it’s been waiting.
Not in a whoops, silly me way.
In a welcome to my house, enjoy your face meeting my staircase kind of way.
I lurch forward, arms windmilling, dignity leaving my body in a calm, orderly exit.
Behind me, Gage’s voice cuts in—steady, immediate.
“Reece.”
A hand lands on my elbow.
Firm. Sure. Familiar.
My whole body snaps back into alignment like I’m a puppet and he’s holding the invisible strings.
I freeze, one foot still half raised, heart punching my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“I was,” I say breathlessly, because I am physically incapable of accepting help without pretending it was part of my plan, “testing structural integrity.”
Gage’s hand stays on my elbow for one beat longer than necessary. Not gripping. Not hovering.
Just… there.
Then he eases it away like he’s giving me the choice back.
“You’re very committed to testing things,” he says, voice mild.
I straighten like I didn’t just almost introduce my face to the hardwood. “I like to be thorough.”
“I can tell,” he replies.
I glare down at the stairs. “Your steps are aggressive.”
“They’re normal steps,” he says.
“No,” I insist. “They have energy. They want to hurt me.”
Gage’s mouth twitches. “It’s a staircase, Reece.”
“It’s a hostile staircase,” I correct, and continue up, one hand on the banister like I’m climbing Everest instead of twelve steps in a warm house.
Behind me, I hear him exhale what might be a laugh.
The sound makes something in my chest loosen in a way I don’t want to talk about.
I reach the top and pause at the hall, glancing back down.
Gage is at the bottom of the stairs, remote in hand, the glow of Bridesmaids credits still flickering on the TV behind him. The living room is warm, lit by lamps and candlelight and the quiet hum of his generator. Outside, the storm presses its face to the windows like it’s curious.
Inside, everything is… steady.
Gage looks up at me.
“Shower?” he asks.
I nod, suddenly aware of myself—of my hair, my socks, my everything. “Yeah.”
He gestures toward the bathroom across the hall like I’ve never been here before, even though I have. “Towels are in there. Take your time. We’ll… call it dinner when you come back down.”
Dinner—loosely defined. Time is fake in a snowstorm, and anything warm eaten after a movie counts as dinner.
The word should be nothing.
But something about the fact that he said it—like there’s a plan, like there’s a rhythm—makes my stomach twist.
I’ve spent the last two months eating dinner alone in my kitchen standing up, because sitting at the table felt too quiet.
I push that thought away.
“Okay,” I say, aiming for casual, and turn toward the guest room—his old room—because that’s where my tote bag is and that’s where my pajamas are, and that’s where my brain is about to become completely unhelpful.
The door is cracked open.
Warm light spills out.
I step inside.
And everything inside me shifts.
Because this room is different.
New bed. Fresh paint. Adult furniture. Practical.
But the bones of it are the same.
The window.
The closet door.
The corner where the old desk used to be.
The spot on the wall where he once taped a poster so crooked that thirteen-year-old me had marched in and fixed it without asking.
My throat tightens.
I set my tote bag down on the bed and stand still, letting the memory hit me like a wave I wasn’t braced for.
It’s not just remembering.
It’s feeling.
Gage at twelve, sprawled on the carpet, holding a paperback upside down because he was pretending he didn’t care what he was doing. Me sitting cross-legged on his bed, reading aloud dramatically like I was on stage. The two of us laughing until my stomach hurt.
The night we built a “fort” out of blankets and couch cushions and declared it an international peace treaty zone between our houses.
The afternoons we played board games so aggressively we nearly ended our friendship over a deck of cards.
The way he always—always—let me win when I was upset, but pretended he didn’t.
My lungs pull in a breath, and it catches.
Because nostalgia doesn’t just bring the good.
It brings the grief too.
All the years I thought friendship was enough.
All the years I chose boys who felt safe because they didn’t matter like Gage matters.
All the years I avoided looking too closely at what this—what we—might be.
I sink onto the edge of the bed before my legs decide to quit.
And suddenly it’s hard to breathe.
Not because I’m in danger.
Because I’m in a place that holds too much history, and my heart is not a filing cabinet. It can’t neatly categorize this.
I press my palms to the comforter and stare at the pattern in the fabric like it’s going to anchor me.
Okay.
Shower.
That’s the goal.
Water. Warmth. Reset.
I stand up and walk into the bathroom, turning the light on. The mirror shows my face flushed from heat and feelings and whatever else is happening.
I stare at myself.
“You are fine,” I tell my reflection.
My reflection looks unconvinced.
I shower anyway.
The hot water hits my skin and my body releases tension I didn’t realize I was holding. I let my head rest against the tile for a second and breathe.
This is temporary.
Dinner.
Board games.
Normal.
Safe.
Just… an abnormal amount of closeness.
I wash my hair. I rinse. I step out, wrap myself in a towel, and for one second I feel like a kid again—safe in a house that isn’t mine, not worrying about anything except whether someone will accuse me of cheating at Scrabble.
Then my brain reminds me:
Adult.
Gage is downstairs.
Gage is cooking dinner.
Gage is not just my friend. He’s my boss. He’s the man who showed up at a singles event and made me laugh until my face hurt. He’s the man who makes safety feel like something I want to lean into instead of run away from.
I close my eyes.
Don’t be dramatic.
I dress quickly—soft pajamas, thick socks—and towel-dry my hair until it’s damp and messy.
When I step back into the guest room, I pause again, letting my gaze sweep over the space.
A bookshelf sits along one wall. Not packed, but curated.
It’s the kind of shelf that tells you someone lives here, really lives here—not just sleeps here between meetings.
My feet carry me to it without permission.
I scan the spines.
Some business books. Some classics. A couple of thrillers.
And then—
A worn paperback with a cracked spine.
I recognize it instantly.
Because I’ve held it.
Because we read it aloud together.
Because Gage did the voices, even though he pretended he was too cool to do the voices.
My throat tightens again.
I slide the book out gently.
The pages are slightly yellowed. A corner is folded where we must have stopped.
My thumb brushes the crease, and memory blooms:
Gage, twelve years old, reading a line with the most serious voice he could manage, then pausing to glance at me like he was checking whether it landed. Me laughing so hard I fell backward onto his bed.
I clutch the book to my chest like an idiot.
Like it’s evidence.
Like it’s… precious.
Downstairs, I hear movement in the kitchen. The clink of a pan. The soft sound of a cabinet closing.
Gage.
Cooking.
My stomach growls, which is rude timing.
I set the book back on the shelf carefully, like it deserves respect, then head out of the room and down the stairs—slowly this time, because I am not giving the staircase another win.
The smell hits me halfway down.
Not microwave.
Not “I threw a frozen thing in the oven.”
Something cooked.
Warm.
Real.
Garlic. Butter. Maybe herbs.
I step into the kitchen doorway and stop.
Gage is at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pan like he’s done this a thousand times.
The sight should be normal.
Men cook.
CEOs cook.
Probably.
But it does something to my brain anyway—something soft and stupid—because it’s domestic, and it’s him, and he looks like he belongs there.
He glances back over his shoulder and sees me.
“Hey,” he says, easy. “How was the shower?”
I blink. “Good.”
That feels like an understatement. The shower was a small miracle. The shower was the only thing stopping me from turning into a dramatic Victorian heroine.
But “good” is safer.
Gage nods and gestures toward the table. “Sit. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I hesitate.
Because sitting down while someone cooks for you feels like accepting care. It feels like being looked after.
And my pride still twitches about that.
But my toes are warm. My chest isn’t tight from the cold anymore. And I’m tired.
So I sit.
Gage plates pasta with sauce and sautéed vegetables, with a side of bread—real food that smells like comfort.
He sets the plate in front of me like this is completely normal.
Then he sets down a second plate for himself.
Then he sits across from me.
And for a second, it’s… quiet.
Not awkward.
Just that moment where your brain goes, Oh. We’re doing this. We’re eating dinner together.
It feels like childhood.
It also doesn’t.
Because I’m noticing things I didn’t use to notice.
The way his hands look when he tears bread.
The way his eyes flick to mine and then away like he’s being careful.
The way his voice is softer in the warmth of his kitchen.
“You cooked,” I say finally, because I need to say something, and that’s the least emotionally dangerous option.
Gage lifts an eyebrow. “Yes.”
I narrow my eyes. “Since when do you cook?”
He shrugs. “Since I learned I can’t live on takeout and coffee forever.”
“That’s disappointing,” I say. “I liked thinking of you as a man who survives on spreadsheets.”
“I still survive on spreadsheets,” he replies. “I just added vegetables so I don’t perish.”
I snort despite myself.
We eat.
The food is good—simple, warm, calming.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now.
Halfway through, I glance up and catch Gage watching me.
Not staring.
Not intense.
Just… watching, like he’s making sure I’m okay.
Heat pricks the back of my neck.