Reece
We kissed.
We kissed.
We kissed.
And all of a sudden, I feel a powerful need to excuse myself, brush my teeth like that might somehow erase the evidence, scream silently into a pillow like a functioning adult, and then lie awake staring at the ceiling for the next six to eight hours because I just kissed Gage.
So naturally, I mumble something incoherent, make my escape, and head for bed like sleep is a real possibility and not a laughable fantasy. I somehow manage to sleep.
My eyes fly open like someone just shouted my name in a quiet room.
For half a second, I don’t know where I am—just warmth, dim light, the soft weight of blankets—and then the memory hits with the precision of a tax audit.
Gage’s mouth.
My mouth.
His hand at my waist, careful like I was something valuable.
My heart, doing cartwheels like it forgot gravity exists.
I sit up so fast the comforter slides down to my lap and cold air slaps my arms, which is rude because I am already suffering emotionally.
I stare straight ahead at the guest room wall.
At the door.
At the chair.
At the faintly familiar corners of Gage’s old room that feel even more illegal to be in now, like the house itself is whispering, Oh, so we’re doing this now?
We kissed.
Which means I am now a woman who has kissed her boss.
And her neighbor.
And her best friend.
And the person who has been quietly holding my life together in small ways for years.
I press my palm to my mouth like the kiss is still there. Like if I hold it in place, I can stop it from becoming real.
Spoiler: I cannot.
My brain immediately spins up a list, because my brain is an accountant and lists are its love language.
Problem #1: Workplace boundaries.
Problem #2: Power imbalance.
Problem #3: Office gossip would eat this alive.
Problem #4: Our friendship. Our routine. Our street. Our porches. Our whole lives.
Problem #5: I liked it.
That last one lands like a meteor.
I drop my hand and whisper to the ceiling, “No.”
The ceiling does not respond. The ceiling is unhelpful.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand like it’s also unhelpful.
I grab it too fast and immediately regret it, because I am not ready for messages from anyone in the world, especially not Rosie Palmer, Patron Saint of I Told You So.
But it isn’t Rosie.
It’s the weather alert.
Power Restoration Update: Crews working. Many areas expected to restore service this morning.
My heart does a weird little leap that has nothing to do with electricity and everything to do with escape.
Power coming back means I can go home.
Home. Next door. My house. My walls. My rules. My ability to spiral privately without Gage Donovan standing three rooms away being calm at me.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, shove my feet into socks, and stand like I’m starting a fire drill.
Then I freeze.
Because I can hear him downstairs.
A cabinet closing softly. The low hum of the generator. Footsteps.
Normal house noises.
And now my brain keeps replaying the exact moment he pulled back after the kiss—gentle, careful, like he was afraid of crossing a line.
At the time, I thought it was sweet.
This morning, my anxiety interprets it as: regret.
Which is ridiculous. Maybe. Possibly. Probably.
But my brain is not here for logic today.
My brain is here for self-preservation.
I stare at my clothes folded on the chair—Gage had brought my bag up last night with the kind of quiet attentiveness that should be illegal.
I grab the leggings and sweatshirt I wore yesterday and pull them on, fingers fumbling like I forgot how sleeves work.
Then I pause, because I realize I’m rushing.
Running.
Again.
Which is my signature move when anything feels too big.
I take one breath. Then another.
Be normal.
Be normal.
Be normal.
I open the bedroom door and step into the hallway like I didn’t just have a life-altering kiss in this house with my lifelong best friend, boss and neighbor.
The stairs creak once under my feet.
Of course he woke up calm and functional and probably made eggs again like a man who doesn’t have emotions.
I descend the stairs and walk into the kitchen.
Gage is there, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly damp like he already showered because he is a responsible adult who probably flosses without being reminded.
He looks up when I enter.
His eyes meet mine.
And my stomach flips so hard I almost check to see if I’m suddenly on a boat.
“Morning,” he says.
His voice is normal.
Warm. Neutral. Steady.
Not awkward.
Not weird.
Not regretful.
My brain hears: He’s being polite because he’s trying to pretend it didn’t happen.
I immediately decide the only safe option is to overcompensate with brightness.
“Good morning!” I chirp, like I’m a customer service representative and not a woman whose soul left her body last night and hasn’t returned.
Gage’s brows lift slightly.
Not in a suspicious way.
In a you’re acting weird way.
He says gently, “How did you sleep?”
“Great,” I say too fast. “Like a baby. No dreams. No thoughts. Just… sleep.”
Gage’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile.
Or maybe that’s pity.
Or maybe—
Stop.
He turns the kettle off and slides a mug toward me.
Coffee. Perfect, as always.
I wrap my hands around it, because warmth is grounding, and my nervous system needs to be held like a small, frightened animal.
“Thanks,” I say, and it comes out less bright. More real.
Gage nods once. “Power might come back today. I checked the updates.”
My heart leaps again. “Right. Yes. Good.”
He watches me for a beat. “If you want to go home as soon as it’s back, I understand.”
I blink.
My brain: He wants you gone.
My heart: He’s being respectful.
My anxiety: He regrets it. He regrets it. He regrets it.
I tighten my grip on the mug. “I’m sure it’ll be soon.”
Gage nods, calm. “No rush.”
No rush.
That should reassure me.
Instead, it makes my chest ache because it sounds like he’s creating space.
Because he’s giving me the option to step away.
Because he’s not… claiming what happened.
And my brain hates that.
I take a sip of coffee and force my voice back into bright mode, because bright mode is safer than vulnerable mode.
“So!” I say, too loud. “Any updates on the apocalypse?”
Gage’s eyes warm. “Snow’s stopped. Roads are still bad.”
“Fun,” I say. “Love that for us.”
Gage reaches for a dish towel, wiping his hands like he’s already been doing things. “Do you want breakfast?”
My stomach makes a sound that answers before my mouth can.
I clear my throat. “Sure.”
Gage nods like it’s simple and starts moving around the kitchen.
He makes eggs again.
I sit at the table, coffee in hand, trying not to stare at him.
Trying not to think about last night.
Trying not to remember how safe his kiss felt.
Trying not to want it again.
He sets a plate in front of me like he’s done it a thousand times.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
Gage cuts me off gently. “Eat.”
I blink at him.
His tone isn’t bossy.
It’s… steady.
The same tone he used when I was thirteen and insisted I could climb the tree between our houses, even though I absolutely could not.
The same tone he used when I was seventeen and tried to walk home in clunky boots through slush like it was a personal challenge.
The same tone he used now when I told him I was fine after a breakup, and he didn’t argue—he just showed up.
I pick up my fork. “Okay.”
We eat in a kind of careful quiet.
Not awkward. Not heavy.
Just… cautious.
Like both of us are trying to step around the same fragile thing in the middle of the room.
My phone buzzes on the table.
I glance down.
A notification.
Power restoration: Service has resumed in your area.
My breath catches.
Finally.
Freedom.
I should feel relieved.
I do feel relieved.
I also feel a sharp, unexpected pang, like my body didn’t realize leaving means ending this pocket of safety.
I set my phone down slowly.
Gage sees my face shift. “Power?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “It’s back.”
He nods, calm. “Good.”
He doesn’t look disappointed. He doesn’t look relieved. He looks… supportive.
And somehow that makes it worse, because it leaves too much room for my brain to invent meaning.
I stand too fast. “I should go. I should—um—get home and—check everything.”
Gage rises too, but slower. “Of course. If you need any help with anything, let me know.”
He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t trap me in the doorway with a big emotional speech.
He gives me space.
Which is kind.
Which is respectful.
Which my anxiety translates as: He’s relieved you’re leaving.
I want to hate my brain.
I do hate my brain.
I go upstairs and pack like I’m evacuating.
Bag zipped. Phone charger. Toiletries. Socks. My dignity, which is somewhere on the floor behind the bed probably.
I carry my bag downstairs, trying to be normal.
Gage is by the front door, holding my coat.
He hands it to me without making it a thing.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Anytime,” he replies.
There’s a pause.
The kind that could become a moment if either of us lets it.
My chest tightens because I don’t know what I want him to do.
Part of me wants him to say something—anything—that claims the kiss was real.
Part of me wants him to pretend it never happened so I don’t have to face the consequences.
Part of me wants to run.
Part of me wants to stay.
It’s exhausting.
Gage clears his throat softly. “You okay to get settled next door?”
I blink. “Yes.”
He nods. “Okay.”
He’s careful. So careful.
And the carefulness feels like a wall.
I force a laugh that sounds too high. “I’ll—uh—see you later.”
Gage’s eyes hold mine for a beat. “Yeah. See you tomorrow for work.”
His voice is gentle.
Not regret.
Not rejection.
Just… steady.
I should take it as kindness.
Instead, my chest aches like I’m being quietly let down.
I step outside.
Cold air hits my face. Snow glittering. The world bright and still.
My house sits right there and somehow is in a different universe.
I walk across the plowed path like it’s a bridge.