Reece
Warm sand gives under my feet as I run. The air is salty and bright, and the kind of soft warmth that feels like permission to relax.
Georgia.
Not the Georgia you see from the highway with gas stations and billboards.
The Georgia my parents moved to—the one near the coast, where mornings smell like sunscreen even when you haven’t put any on yet, and the ocean is always somewhere in the background, breathing.
I’m laughing. Out loud. Like I forgot how not to.
Gage is beside me, matching my pace without trying. He’s barefoot too, sleeves rolled up, hair a little wind-tousled. He looks… younger here. Or maybe lighter. Like the world doesn’t ask him to hold everything together.
He reaches for my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And it is.
My fingers slide into his like they’ve been waiting.
We don’t even look down. We don’t have to.
We walk closer to the shoreline where the foam keeps kissing the sand and running away again, and Gage’s thumb brushes over my knuckles once—one small, easy motion that lights up my entire nervous system.
I tilt my head up at him. “Our parents are going to find us and start asking questions.”
Gage’s mouth curves. “Let them.”
“Let them?” I echo, offended. “Susan Donovan will cry.”
“My mother cries at commercials,” he says. “She’ll survive.”
I laugh again, and the sound feels like it belongs here. Like it’s always belonged here.
We stop where the wet sand meets our toes. The wind pushes my hair into my face, and Gage reaches up to tuck it behind my ear. His fingers linger for half a second too long.
My breath catches.
He’s close. Close enough that I can see the little freckle near his jaw. Close enough to feel the heat of him even with the ocean breeze.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he says softly.
I blink. “I’m not thinking.”
He lifts an eyebrow like he knows me too well. “That’s a lie.”
I start to argue, because that’s what I do, but he steps closer again.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My whole body goes still.
Then he tips his forehead to mine—just gentle pressure, like a promise that doesn’t demand anything—and kisses my forehead.
It’s not dramatic.
It’s not rushed.
It’s… safe.
And my heart does something wild in my chest because safe has never felt like this before.
I close my eyes and lean into him without even thinking.
I’m holding his hand. I’m being held. I’m—
A wave hits my ankles.
Cold.
Sudden.
Violent.
It surges up my legs like the ocean just remembered I’m not allowed peace.
I gasp, stumbling back, soaked to my knees.
My eyes fly open.
And I’m not on a beach.
I’m in bed.
In Gage’s guest room.
In his old room.
In a Long Island winter storm.
With my feet tangled in a comforter and my heart beating like it just ran five miles.
I sit up so fast the pillow slides off the bed.
For a second, I just stare at the wall, trying to convince my nervous system that I am not currently in Georgia getting forehead-kissed by the man I have been trying not to want for my entire adult life.
My brain, unfortunately, is not cooperating.
Because the dream was so vivid I can still feel the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I can still feel his thumb brushing my knuckles.
I can still—
Okay.
New rule.
I will not think about kissing Gage.
Not forehead kissing. Not mouth kissing. Not any kind of kissing.
I will not think about kissing Gage because thinking about kissing Gage is how people end up doing reckless things like catching feelings and ruining their lives.
I nod once to myself, firmly, like I’ve just made a mature decision.
Then my brain immediately plays the dream again in slow motion and zooms in on his mouth.
I press my face into my hands.
“This is rude,” I whisper to the ceiling.
Somewhere downstairs, the house creaks softly—generator steady, heat humming. The storm outside is quieter than last night but still present, still heavy. Snow-in day. The world has narrowed to this house.
To him.
To me.
I take a deep breath, swing my legs over the edge of the bed, and immediately regret existing because the floor is cold.
I grab my thick socks from the chair, pull them on like armor, and stand.
My phone sits on the nightstand, plugged in and alive again because Gage Donovan runs his house like a small, functional country.
I grab it and, because the universe enjoys comedic timing, there’s already a message waiting.
Rosie: GOOD MORNING SNOW SURVIVOR
Rosie: Are you alive, or did Long Island finally eat you?
I snort, because Rosie never wakes up normal. Rosie wakes up like she’s launching a show.
I type back:
Me: I’m alive.
Me: I’m at Gage’s house.
Me: I’m in his guest bed. In his old room.
Me: Please splash me with water. I feel like I’m on a cozy planet.
Three dots appear instantly. Then—
Rosie: I AM SCREECHING
Rosie: REECE
Rosie: THIS IS MY ROMANTIC COMEDY AND YOU ARE IN THE THIRD ACT
I roll my eyes, smiling despite myself.
Me: It is not romantic.
Me: It is weather-related.
Me: I am here against my will and also because I like to keep my toes.
Rosie: AGAINST YOUR WILL???
Rosie: Babe, you texted me “on a cozy planet.” That is not hostage language.
I huff a laugh, then glance around the room like the walls might report me.
Me: He has a generator.
Me: He made cocoa last night.
Me: And—this is important—he has emergency marshmallows.
There’s a pause. Half a second of silence that feels like Rosie physically inhaling to expand into her final form.
Rosie: EMERGENCY MARSHMALLOWS????
Rosie: IN HIS OLD ROOM???
Rosie: In pajamas???
Me: It is survival.
Rosie: Survival. With marshmallows. Under his roof.
Rosie: I’m writing the poster right now.
I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing too loudly, because it’s early and also because laughing too loudly feels like admitting I’m happy.
And admitting I’m happy feels like tempting fate.
Me: I am not happy.
Me: I am merely… temperature-stable.
Rosie: Temperature-stable is how love starts.
Rosie: How’s the snow?
Rosie: The city is covered. I’m staying in all day. Movies and shows.
Rosie: I will be available for debriefing every hour on the hour.
Me: That sounds like a threat.
Rosie: It is.
Rosie: Also—do NOT be weird.
Rosie: Let him take care of you. Let yourself be soft.
Rosie: You deserve that, Reece.
My chest tightens around the last line.
Because Rosie jokes like she breathes, but she means things when it matters.
I swallow and type the only thing I can manage without turning into a puddle.
Me: Okay.
Me: But if I get emotionally compromised, I’m blaming you.
Rosie: BLAME ME. I’VE BEEN RIGHT SINCE HIGH SCHOOL.
I snort again and lock my phone, because Rosie will keep going until I either confess my soul or throw my phone into the snow.
I tuck it in my pocket and glance around the room again.
The guest room.
His old room.
I’d been too tired last night to really look.
This morning, in the quiet light, it hits harder.
The faint sense of him everywhere—like memory is baked into the walls.
It makes my lungs feel tight again.
I shake it off gently. Not today. I’m not spiraling at eight A.M. in Gage’s childhood bedroom.
I step into the hallway and pad downstairs.
The kitchen smells like coffee.
Real coffee. Not the sad coffee I make when I’m alone and pretending my life is fine.
I pause at the bottom step.
Gage is at the counter in a long-sleeve shirt, hair slightly mussed like he didn’t overthink it. He’s pouring coffee into two mugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He looks up when he hears me.
“Morning,” he says.
My stomach does that small, rude flip it keeps doing lately.
“Morning,” I reply, aiming for normal.
Gage’s gaze flicks over my face—quick, careful, like he’s checking whether I’m okay without making it a whole thing.
“You sleep?” he asks.
I hesitate for half a beat, because the answer is yes and no.
I slept. But my brain… did cardio.
“Yeah,” I say, choosing the simplest truth. “I slept.”
Gage nods, satisfied, like that’s enough. “Good.”
He slides a mug toward me.
Steam curls up. Warmth waits.
I wrap my hands around it, letting the heat sink into my fingers.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
Gage leans back against the counter. “Do you want breakfast?”
I blink. “Is breakfast an option?”
“Breakfast is always an option,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “This house is suspiciously functional.”
Gage’s mouth twitches. “I try not to perish.”
I take a sip of coffee. It’s perfect. Of course it is.
Then I remember I’m supposed to be strong and independent, and I should not be soothed by someone else’s coffee.
Too late.
Gage glances toward the window. “Storm’s still going. Snow’s heavy. Plows are… optimistic.”
“Optimistic,” I repeat.
“Meaning they’ll come eventually,” he says. “But we’re not going anywhere today.”
My chest tightens—half relief, half panic.
A full day with him.
In his house.
In warmth.
This is either a dream or a trap.
I take another sip of coffee like it will give me wisdom.
Gage pushes off the counter. “I’m going to make eggs.”
I blink again. “You’re making eggs?”
“Yes,” he says, like that’s a normal sentence.
“Since when do you cook breakfast?” I ask.
Gage glances at me, calm. “Since I realized cereal isn’t a personality.”
I scoff. “It can be.”
“It shouldn’t,” he replies.
He pulls out a pan, cracks eggs with practiced ease, and starts cooking like he does this every day.
Which makes no sense, because I’ve seen his kitchen before, and it always looks like a place where someone drinks coffee and occasionally eats soup out of a can.
But apparently, the storm activated his domestic settings.
And I am confused.
I sit at the table with my coffee and watch him.
Not in a creepy way.
In a what-is-happening-to-my-life way.
He moves around the kitchen with calm efficiency—toast, eggs, a little fruit like he’s trying to prove he’s not actually a grandpa in a young man’s body.
He sets a plate in front of me.
Eggs. Toast. Actual breakfast.