Reece #2
I look away first, focusing on my fork like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
“Okay,” I say briskly, because if I sit in softness too long, I’ll start crying for no reason. “What’s the plan after dinner? Are we doing another movie?”
Gage’s mouth twitches. “We could.”
“Or,” I add quickly, “we could do board games.”
His eyes lift, amused. “Board games.”
“Yes,” I say, already feeling more like myself. “Because if I’m going to be trapped in your house, I need to establish dominance early.”
Gage leans back slightly. “Dominance.”
“Correct,” I say. “And before you get any ideas, I mean in board games.”
“Sure,” he says, tone dry. “That’s definitely what you mean.”
I glare at him.
He looks innocent.
I don’t believe him for a second.
We clear our plates together—me insisting I can carry my own dish, him not arguing because he’s learned which fights aren’t worth it.
Then he opens a cabinet in the living room and pulls out a stack of board games like he’s presenting options to a committee.
Reece Callahan: immediate focus.
Because board games are safe. Board games are familiar. Board games are a place where I know what the rules are.
Unlike… everything else.
“Okay,” I say, scanning boxes. “What do you have?”
“Everything,” he says casually.
I squint at him. “Everything.”
“I’m normal,” he says, and I don’t miss the way his voice mirrors mine from last night’s text exchange.
“Normal people don’t have everything,” I argue.
Gage lifts a box. “Monopoly.”
“No,” I say immediately. “We are not ruining this weekend with Monopoly.”
He huffs a laugh.
He holds up another. “Scrabble.”
I point at him. “Absolutely not. You quietly intimidate the tiles.”
“That’s not a thing,” he replies.
“It is,” I insist. “You stare at the board like you’re negotiating a merger, and suddenly I’m spelling ‘cat’ out of fear.”
Gage’s mouth twitches. “That’s a you problem.”
“It’s not,” I say. “It’s a you-being-quietly-terrifying problem.”
He sets Scrabble down and reaches for another box.
“Sorry!” I say, then pause. “Not sorry.”
Gage lifts a box. “Sorry.”
I blink. “You own Sorry.”
“Yes,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“That tracks,” I mutter.
He holds up Clue.
My eyes light up. “Yes. That.”
Gage’s brows lift. “Clue?”
“Because,” I say, sitting down on the floor by the coffee table like a child, “I would like to solve a murder mystery while trapped in a snowstorm. It feels appropriate.”
Gage sits across from me slowly, like he’s careful about how close he gets.
“Fine,” he says. “But I’m calling it now—your accusations will be wildly unhinged.”
“My accusations will be accurate,” I correct.
We set up the game.
Cards. Pieces. Tiny weapons.
The board unfolds with a satisfying crackle.
For the first time since I stepped into his house, my chest feels… lighter.
This is familiar territory.
This is us.
Until I catch his eyes on me again—soft, amused, steady.
And I remember:
This is still his house.
I’m still here because I needed help.
And the warmth I feel isn’t just from the generator.
We start playing.
Immediately, I become aggressively competitive.
Not on purpose.
It just happens.
Because if I win at Clue, I can pretend I’m in control of something.
Gage, of course, stays calm.
He moves his little token around the board like he has all the time in the world.
He makes observations like he’s solving an actual crime.
And somehow, that makes me more intense.
“You’re cheating,” I accuse, pointing at him.
Gage doesn’t blink. “I’m not cheating.”
“You’re quietly intimidating the dice,” I say.
He looks at the dice. Then at me. “They’re cubes. They don’t have feelings.”
“They do when you stare at them like that,” I insist.
Gage’s mouth twitches. “Reece. I’m not staring at the dice.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re doing the CEO face,” I say.
“What is the CEO face?” he asks, calm.
“The one where you look like you’ve already won,” I tell him.
Gage leans back, mildly amused. “Maybe you’re just losing.”
I gasp. “How dare you.”
“You accused me first,” he replies.
“This is character assassination,” I mutter.
He lifts a brow. “Objection.”
I point at him. “Sustained. Stop talking.”
His laugh is quiet. Warm.
And the sound does something dangerous to me because it feels like home.
At some point, I catch myself laughing too.
Really laughing.
Not the careful kind.
The full kind.
And it startles me so much I go quiet for a second.
I never laughed like that with Jesse.
I started treating my heart like a fragile object that needs to be kept in bubble wrap.
Gage notices, because he always notices.
But he doesn’t comment.
He just smiles and keeps playing like nothing happened, like he’s giving me space to be human without making it a whole thing.
That makes my throat tight.
I clear it quickly. “Okay. Your turn.”
He rolls the dice with gentle precision.
They land.
I squint suspiciously. “You did something to those.”
Gage looks at me over the board, calm as ever. “I did not.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
I narrow my eyes. “Prove it.”
He gestures toward the dice. “Interrogate them.”
I lean forward like I’m about to put the dice under a spotlight. “Okay. Dice. Blink twice if you’re under duress.”
Gage’s laugh escapes, and it makes my chest warm in a way that scares me.
This is what Rosie meant.
This is what safe feels like.
And the terrifying part is that safe is starting to feel like something I want more of.
Later—after I win, because obviously I do—Gage leans back and says, “You’re insufferable.”
I smile sweetly. “Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “Do you want another game?”
I should say no.
I should say I’m tired.
I should go upstairs and let the day end before my feelings get too loud.
Instead, I say, “Yes.”
Because I don’t want it to end.
We play another game—cards this time, something fast and competitive.
The storm pounds at the windows.
Inside, the house stays warm.
And somehow, without meaning to, we fall into an old rhythm.
The kind we had as kids.
Only now, there’s a thread of something else running underneath it.
Something tender.
Something careful.
At some point, I wander to the bookshelf in the living room—because I can’t help myself—and my fingers land on another familiar spine.
Another book we used to read aloud.
I pull it out.
Gage notices immediately.
His gaze flicks to the book. Then to me.
Something soft crosses his face.
“You found it,” he says quietly.
I swallow. “You kept it.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s a good book.”
“It’s a very good book,” I agree, voice quieter now.
The room shifts.
Not bad.
Just… different.
I sit down on the couch with the book in my lap.
Gage sits in the armchair again, but closer this time—angled toward me, like he’s drawn in without meaning to.
I flip the book open, thumb brushing the pages.
My voice comes out before I can overthink it.
“Do you want to…” I clear my throat. “Read?”
Gage’s eyes hold mine for a beat.
Then he nods once. “Yeah.”
My chest tightens.
I open to the marked page and start.
At first, it’s awkward.
Not because reading aloud is awkward—we used to do it for fun—but because we’re adults now and everything carries extra meaning.
But after a few paragraphs, my voice settles.
The words start to flow.
And then Gage does it.
He does the voice.
Just a little.
Not full performance.
But enough.
It catches me off guard, and I laugh—soft and surprised.
Gage’s mouth curves. “What?”
“You said you weren’t going to do the voices anymore,” I accuse.
He lifts a brow. “I never said that.”
“Yes, you did,” I insist.
“When?” he asks, amused.
“Like… years ago,” I say.
“That doesn’t count,” he replies.
“It absolutely counts,” I argue.
Gage’s eyes warm. “Read, Reece.”
My stomach flips at the sound of my name in his voice.
I look down quickly and keep reading.
We trade pages.
We trade lines.
Sometimes he reads, and his voice goes softer, the room quieter.
Sometimes I read, and I get dramatic, and he shakes his head like he’s amused and fond at the same time.
And somewhere in the middle of it, my walls loosen without me noticing.
I’m warm.
I’m safe.
I’m laughing.
And for the first time in months, I’m not bracing for the drop.
Then I feel it.
His gaze.
I look up mid-sentence and catch him watching me.
Not just listening.
Watching.
Like he’s memorizing this moment.
My breath catches.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I look away first, eyes dropping back to the page, pretending my heart isn’t doing something loud.
My fingers tighten on the book.
I keep reading anyway.
Because stopping would mean admitting something is happening.
And I’m not ready to name it.
Not yet.
Not when his hand is just an arm’s length away.
Not when my own hand is resting on the edge of the book like it belongs there.
Not when the quiet between our words feels like it’s holding its own secret.
I turn the page.
Gage reaches for the book at the same time.
Our fingers brush—brief, warm, unmistakable.
And neither of us moves away fast enough.