Gage
The generator rumbles loud enough to remind me it’s here, it’s working, and if I forget to top off the gas, it will absolutely ruin my life out of spite.
“Yeah,” I mutter, tugging my hat down as the wind gusts sideways. “I hear you.”
The cold hits my face like a wake-up call. The storm has calmed, but the world is still buried—white piled high, sidewalks swallowed, the neighborhood turned into a quiet, snow-glazed version of itself.
I trudge toward the generator, boots crunching through snow that has no right to be this deep.
I lift the cover, check the fuel, inspect the connections like I’m performing surgery on a very expensive patient with a grudge.
I add gas. Oil looks fine. Everything is steady.
My shoulders loosen a fraction.
Then, like my brain is determined to sabotage the entire “logistics” theme, it supplies a second thought:
She’s warm. She’s safe. She’s in my house.
And the word that keeps floating up, uninvited and persistent, is one I’ve been avoiding like it’s a line I’m not allowed to cross.
She is loved.
I exhale into the wind, watching my breath turn to fog.
Love. What a strong word.
It’s also… accurate.
That’s the problem.
I shut the generator cover and turn back toward the house.
The snow is subsiding. The wind is quieter. If I run the snow blower now, I can clear both driveways and most of the walkways before it gets packed into ice.
Before she tries to do it herself, because Reece will attempt to shovel out of pride alone.
I’m halfway to the porch when the front window catches my eye.
A shadow moves behind the glass.
I glance up.
Reece is standing there, hands tucked into the sleeves of her pajama top, hair a little messy. She’s watching me like I’m a TV show, and she’s not sure whether she’s amused or impressed.
My chest does something stupid.
I lift a hand and give her a small wave.
She hesitates—then raises her hand back, slow and soft, like she’s shy about it. Then she mouths something through the glass.
Thank you.
The words don’t make sound, but they hit anyway.
I dip my chin in a small nod—something between acknowledgement and a promise—and for a split second I feel like a man from another era, tipping a hat at a woman on the porch.
Reece’s mouth curves just slightly.
Then she disappears from the window.
The cold doesn’t feel quite as sharp after that.
I step back inside, stomping snow from my boots on the mat. Warm air wraps around me immediately. The house smells faintly like coffee, cocoa, and burnt grilled cheese. Still leaving a brave little aroma in the kitchen.
Reece is in the living room, curled on the couch with a blanket and her laptop open.
She looks up when I walk in.
“How’s it out there?” she asks.
“Quieter,” I say, pulling off my gloves. “Snow’s letting up.”
Reece’s shoulders ease like she didn’t realize she was braced.
I keep my tone casual. “I’m going back out there to finish both properties. It’ll be mostly done.”
Reece blinks. “Mostly done?”
“Mostly,” I confirm.
She studies me for a second like she’s deciding whether to argue.
Then she nods once, grudging gratitude in her eyes. “Okay.”
I gesture at the TV. “Pick whatever you want on TV. I’ll be out for a bit.”
Reece’s mouth twitches. “Whatever I want?”
“Yes.”
She narrows her eyes. “Are you sure you want to give me that power?”
I keep my face neutral. “I’m a CEO. I face bigger threats.”
Reece snorts. “You say that now. Wait until I choose something educational.”
“That is a threat,” I say, and her smile flashes quick and real before she tries to hide it.
I grab my snow gear again—jacket, gloves—and head back outside.
The snow blower roars to life like it’s eager to cause problems.
It’s carving through the drifts, pushing walls of snow aside with steady passes. It’s physical work, the kind that clears your head whether you want it to or not. My arms burn. My shoulders tighten. Heat builds under my layers even though the air is freezing.
This is good.
This is something I can control.
Because my thoughts have been getting too close to things I can’t.
Like the way Reece’s laugh sounded this morning.
Like the way she looked at me in that moment before the timer went off—eyes wide, breath caught, like she was standing at the edge of something too.
Like the way her fingers brushed mine over a card, and neither of us moved away quickly enough.
I blow snow across the curb and try to file the memories where they belong:
Not now. Not here. Not safe.
But they keep slipping back in.
Reece is in my house.
In my space.
It’s harder to keep calling what I feel “protective” like it’s a reasonable excuse.
It’s harder to keep acting like this is just friendship.
Because my body knows the difference.
My heart knows the difference.
And my heart has been lying to itself for a long time.
I move onto her driveway, pushing snow aside in clean rows.
This is the part I always do without thinking, because she’s next door and it’s what neighbors do, and it’s not complicated.
Except everything is complicated now.
I look up again, unable to help it.
Reece is back at the window.
Watching.
Not hiding it this time.
She lifts her hand and gives a small wave again, and I wave back, the snow blower still roaring.
She presses her palm to the glass for a second—just a casual touch, like she’s anchoring herself.
Then she leaves again, and I’m left with the strange sensation that I’m not the only one who feels the shift.
When I finish, I shut down the snow blower and lean on the handle, catching my breath.
Snow clings to my gloves. My hair is damp under my hat. My back aches in that satisfying way that says I did something useful.
I head inside again.
The warmth hits me like I’m stepping into a different world.
I peel off my jacket and gloves, and only then do I realize I’m a sweaty mess.
Snow work is a workout. A rude one.
Reece turns on the couch as I enter.
Her eyes flick over me. She must be taking in the damp hair, the flushed face, the way my shirt clings slightly under my sweatshirt.
Something quiet passes over her expression—surprise, maybe.
Or noticing.
I ignore the dangerous thought that follows.
“Finished,” I say, voice a little rough.
Reece blinks. “You finished both?”
“Mostly,” I correct automatically.
She smiles—small, appreciative. “Thank you.”
I nod, suddenly aware of my own body in a way I don’t enjoy. “I’m going to shower.”
Reece lifts a brow. “Good plan.”
I head upstairs, taking two steps at a time like a teenager, because the faster I get away from her eyes, the better.
In the bathroom, I strip off my snow gear, step into the shower, and let hot water pound my shoulders until the cold is gone.
I rest my forehead against the tile for a second, breathing.
Get it together.
This is not a romance. This is logistics.
Except my heart laughs at that line now, because my heart watched her mouth “thank you” through a window and almost fell apart like it was a love confession.
I dry off, pull on clean clothes—sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt, because I’m not putting a suit on in my own house during a snowstorm—and run a towel through my hair.
When I go back downstairs, the living room is quieter.
The TV is still on, but muted now.
And Reece is… different.
She’s changed out of her pajamas.
Not into anything dramatic.
Leggings. An oversized sweatshirt that hangs off one shoulder slightly, soft and casual. Hair loosely pulled back. Socks again.
But somehow, it hits me harder than her dress did at Rosie’s event, because it looks like something she would wear when she’s truly comfortable.
When she’s not bracing for the world.
When she’s… safe.
She looks up when I enter and catches me staring.
I force my face neutral. “You changed.”
Reece glances down like she forgot she has a body. “I—yeah. I felt gross.”
“I understand,” I say, because I do.
She gestures vaguely toward me. “You… also changed.”
“I showered,” I reply.
Reece squints like she’s about to make it weird on purpose. “Wow.”
I lift a brow. “Wow?”
“I didn’t know you were capable of being casual twice in one week,” she says.
I exhale a laugh. “It’s a snowstorm. Standards are lower.”
Reece’s mouth curves. “Speak for yourself.”
I head to the kitchen and start making fresh cocoa because apparently, I’m a domestic menace now, and this is who I am.
Reece follows me, leaning in the doorway like she belongs there—which she does.
I set mugs on the counter and glance at her.
“Hungry?” I ask.
Reece’s eyes widen. “Again?”
“Food keeps morale up,” I say.
Reece points at me. “Ok, grandpa.”
I point back. “Don’t start.”
She grins like she’s proud of herself.
The day settles into a rhythm—warm house, storm outside, small tasks, small jokes.
Reece drifts between the couch and the kitchen, sometimes half-watching TV, sometimes answering a few emails from her phone, sometimes wandering around like she’s remembering what it feels like to exist without pressure.
I do the same in my own way—checking messages between loading the dishwasher, answering a call near the window, opening my laptop for ten minutes at the coffee table before shutting it again when she distracts me.
By late afternoon, the house is dim and golden against all that white outside. Reece is curled into one corner of the couch when I open my laptop again.
She glances over. “You still need to do work?”
“Just… a couple things,” I say.
She snorts. “That phrase has never once meant a couple things.”
I ignore her and log in anyway, because if I don’t keep the company moving, it becomes chaos.
Except tomorrow might not exist the way it normally does, because the roads will be bad and people will be digging out.
I open my email and start typing.
Subject: Office Closed Tuesday — Weather & Safety
Team,
Due to the storm and expected cleanup, the office will be closed tomorrow. Please stay safe and use the day to focus on snow removal and working from home if needed.
Short. Clear. Practical.
I hit send.