Gage
Her voice softens on the last line.
Not on purpose. Not dramatically. Just… naturally, like the room has warmed her from the inside out. Like the storm outside can’t reach her here.
She turns the page, and the paper makes a small sound in the quiet. The lamp light pools over her hands. Her hair is still damp from her shower, ends curling slightly at her shoulders.
And I think, with the kind of clarity that makes my chest hurt:
This is a long time to pretend I don’t want her.
Reece clears her throat and reads again, doing her best imitation of a fancy narrator voice—just subtle enough to pretend she isn’t doing a voice.
I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t smile too openly.
The room feels smaller than it did an hour ago.
Not because it changed.
Because we did.
Because every time she laughs, my body registers it like relief.
Because every time her fingers brushed mine over that book, a part of me wanted to close the distance.
Reece finishes the paragraph and looks up. “Your turn.”
I take the book carefully, like it might burst into flames if I move too fast, and read the next line.
I keep my voice even. Calm. Controlled.
Halfway through the page, I let the character’s voice slip in again.
Not on purpose.
Not fully.
Just… a shade more dramatic than necessary, like the words came with their own posture.
Reece makes a small sound—half snort, half laugh—and clamps her lips together like she can physically stop amusement from happening.
“Gage,” she says, warning in her tone.
I keep reading like I didn’t hear her.
“Gage,” she repeats, louder.
I finally look up, innocent. “What?”
Her eyes narrow. “That. You’re doing that again.”
“I’m reading,” I say, calm.
“No,” she says, pointing at the book like it’s evidence. “You’re performing.”
“That’s a harsh accusation.”
“It’s accurate,” she replies. “You just gave that sentence… eyebrows.”
I blink once. “Sentences can’t have eyebrows.”
“That one did,” Reece insists. “I felt them.”
I try to keep my face neutral. It fails. “Do you want me to stop?”
Reece opens her mouth, ready to be annoyed on principle—
Then she hesitates.
Because the corner of her mouth is already betraying her.
“...No,” she says finally, as if it pains her. “But if you make the villain sound like a fancy uncle again, I’m filing a complaint.”
I lift the book slightly. “Noted. I’ll adjust my artistic choices.”
Reece groans, but the sound is soft. “You’re impossible.”
I drop my gaze and keep reading, letting the voice roll out again—careful this time, but still just theatrical enough to make it fun.
Reece shifts on the couch, pillow hugged to her middle, and I see it happen: her shoulders loosen without her permission.
A smile tugs at her mouth—small at first, like she’s trying to keep it contained.
Then it grows, and she gives up pretending she isn’t enjoying it.
She leans in a little. “Okay,” she mutters, like she’s negotiating with herself. “This is fine. But also, if you start doing sound effects, I’m leaving.”
I glance up. “Sound effects?”
Her eyes sharpen. “Don’t you dare.”
I go back to the page, pretending I’m fully focused, but the truth is I’m watching her in the edges of my vision—watching the way her smile stays.
And I shouldn’t enjoy it this much.
I do anyway.
Outside, snow hits the windows in soft, steady bursts, the storm continuing like it has nothing better to do. The generator hums faintly. Everything is warm.
Everything is steady.
Everything is dangerous.
Reece reaches for her mug, takes a sip of cocoa, and sighs. “Okay. I can’t decide if this is cozy or if it’s a trap.”
“It’s cozy,” I say automatically.
Reece glances at me over the rim. “You said that like you run a cozy business.”
“I run a business,” I correct. “Cozy is… unrelated.”
Reece’s eyes flick to the firewood stacked by the fireplace. Then to the blankets. Then to the bowl of storm snacks that somehow keeps refilling itself like it’s enchanted.
She points at the couch. “You have blankets arranged by thickness.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
Reece lifts a brow. “It is true. I noticed.”
I exhale. “Okay. Maybe.”
She points again. “And you have a labeled bin of snacks.”
“Morale matters,” I remind her.
Reece narrows her eyes like she’s making a case. “Gage.”
“Yes,” I say cautiously.
“You are a grandpa in a twenty-eight-year-old body.”
I blink.
Then I close the book gently and set it on the coffee table like I need both hands for this conversation.
“I am not a grandpa.”
Reece nods as if she’s already decided. “You are. You have emergency supplies. You have backup supplies for your supplies. You probably own a sweater vest.”
“I do not own a sweater vest,” I say firmly.
Reece squints. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want one?” she asks, too innocent.
“No.”
She smiles like she’s proud of herself. “Grandpa.”
I lean back in the armchair, letting my head rest against the cushion. “Do you want more cocoa?”
Reece’s eyebrows lift. “Of course you would offer more cocoa.”
“It’s a beverage,” I say.
“It’s emotional support,” she corrects.
I stand. “I’ll get more.”
Reece watches me cross the living room like she’s silently counting how many cozy crimes I commit in one evening.
In the kitchen, I heat more water and stir cocoa in two mugs. Then I hesitate at the pantry, because I’m still holding on to the part of myself that wants to be normal.
But I already lost the battle for normal when I bought two different kinds of hot cocoa at the store and pretended one was for me.
I grab the marshmallows.
Then I pause.
Then I grab the fancy dark chocolate cocoa too, because if I’m going to be accused of being grandpa-coded, I might as well commit.
I return to the living room with two mugs.
Reece’s eyes widen slightly at the marshmallows. “Wow.”
I sit the mug in front of her. “Don’t start.”
Reece leans forward, peering into the mug like she’s inspecting evidence. “Marshmallows. The tiny ones.”
“Yes.”
“And chocolate shavings,” she says, stunned.
“That’s not shavings,” I say. “That’s… chocolate enhancement.”
Reece looks up at me, delighted. “You are so grandpa.”
I point at her with my mug. “If you say it again, I’m taking away the marshmallows.”
Her eyes widen. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” I say calmly. “I run a company.”
Reece laughs—quiet, genuine—and it hits me in the chest again like a warm weight.
I hand her the book again. “Read,” I say.
Reece takes it, flips to the next page, and clears her throat dramatically like she’s announcing a performance.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, voice theatrical, “welcome to tonight’s production, sponsored by emergency marshmallows.”
I set my mug down. “You’re not allowed to make a sponsor joke in my house.”
Reece’s eyes brighten mischievously. “I’m not allowed?”
“No.”
She grins. “That sounds like a challenge.”
I should be careful.
I should redirect.
Instead, I let my mouth do what it does around her.
“It’s not a challenge,” I say, and my voice comes out softer than intended.
Reece’s smile falters for half a beat.
She looks at me like she heard something underneath my words.
Then she looks back at the book and starts reading again, voice quieter now.
The air in the room shifts with it—warm and close and heavy with the kind of comfort that doesn’t feel earned.
She feels like home.
Which is the problem.
Because home is not something you mess with.
Home is not something you risk.
And Reece is… everything I’ve ever associated with home. Since we were kids. Since she climbed into my kitchen to steal cookies and then sat on the counter swinging her legs like she belonged there.
She has always belonged.
I just never let myself say it out loud.
Reece reads another page, then stops and looks up. “Do you think our parents are doing this right now in Georgia?”
I blink. “Reading aloud?”
“No,” she says. “Being cozy. Drinking cocoa. Acting like winter is a personal insult.”
I snort. “My mother is probably baking something and telling everyone she’s ‘fine’ while wearing a sweater.”
Reece smiles. “My mom is definitely texting yours and complaining about the cold.”
“They’re still in the same community down there,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s… weird.”
Reece’s eyes soften. “It’s not weird. It’s kind of sweet.”
I glance at her. “You think it’s sweet that our parents moved to Georgia and live in the same neighborhood?”
Reece shrugs. “Our moms are basically best friends. They were always going to end up near each other. And same for our dads.”
I hum, because she’s right.
Our parents have always been orbiting each other the same way we have.
Reece sets the book down for a second and wraps both hands around her mug. “Do you think they’re going to come up soon?”
“Probably,” I say. “They’ve been talking about visiting. My mom keeps asking if the house is ‘still standing.’”
Reece snorts. “My mom asked if I’m ‘eating enough vegetables’ and then sent me a recipe.”
I tilt my head. “I remember you sent it to me, too. Did you use it?”
Reece looks offended. “No.”
I lift my mug. “I did.”
Her eyes narrow. “Wait. Was that dinner… my mom’s recipe?”
I keep my face neutral. “Possibly.”
Reece stares at me like I just committed a crime. “Gage.”
“What?” I say.
“You cooked my mom’s recipe,” she repeats slowly, like she’s trying to confirm reality.
“It was a good, simple recipe,” I say.
Reece’s throat moves like she swallows something. “That is… weirdly thoughtful.”
I shrug, because I don’t know what else to do with the fact that yes, I saved her mother’s recipe and yes, I made it because it felt right.
“Food is food,” I say, aiming for casual.
Reece’s gaze lingers on me. “You’re bad at pretending you don’t care.”
My chest tightens.
I force my tone light. “You’re bad at accepting care.”
Reece huffs a laugh, but it’s quieter. “Touché.”
We sit in the warm quiet for a beat, mugs in hand, snow pressing against the windows like it wants in.