Reece
The porch light makes the snow glow like it’s trying to be romantic about the fact that I’m seconds away from emotional ruin.
I stand at Gage’s front steps.
My hands hover in front of me like they’re waiting for instructions I never received—pockets, purse strap, doorbell, prayer position… all wrong.
I swear the second I get nervous, my arms forget we’ve known gravity our whole lives and start freelancing.
From inside, I hear laughter—big, warm, overlapping laughter. The kind that belongs to people who have known each other long enough to skip the awkward parts of conversation and go straight to remember when you were twelve and dramatic.
Which is… not ideal for me right now, considering I have recently been twelve and dramatic in my heart.
I inhale. Exhale.
This is dinner. With parents. In a house I’ve been walking into since I was a kid. With a man I kissed in the middle of a snowstorm like my brain temporarily forgot consequences existed.
And the most offensive part?
Everyone in there is going to act like this is normal.
My stomach flips so hard I’m pretty sure it tries to relocate to my throat.
The door swings open before I can regret my entire life.
Susan Donovan is there with a dish towel on her shoulder like she’s starring in a cooking show, and I’m the guest star who’s late to set.
“There she is!” she sings, eyes bright.
Behind her, the house is full—warm lights, voices, movement, the smell of something cinnamon-y and comforting.
And then my mom appears over Susan’s shoulder, already smiling like she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment.
“Baby!” she calls, and her arms are open before her feet even move.
I barely get one foot inside before she’s hugging me—tight, full-body—the kind of hug that says I missed you even though she just hugged me on my own front stoop hours ago and then immediately tried to replace my windows.
“I’m still here,” I mumble into her shoulder.
“And I’m still hugging you,” she replies, like it’s a policy.
My dad is right behind her, grinning, warm and steady. Patrick Callahan: tall, calm, eyes that miss nothing and pretend they miss everything.
“Look at you,” he says, like I’m a miracle he personally requested.
“I look… cold,” I manage, because I’m trying very hard to be normal.
My mom pulls back and cups my cheek like I’m still five. “You still look tired. But beautifully tired.”
“Mom,” I warn, half embarrassed, half grateful.
She hums, satisfied—mother-language for I will now pretend I’m not reading every emotion on your face like subtitles.
And then my eyes do the thing they do when I walk into Gage’s house now—
they search.
Not for snacks.
Not for the bathroom.
Not for the thermostat I swear his parents installed to keep humans humble.
For him.
I spot him immediately, because of course I do.
He’s just inside the living room, rosy cheeks, half turned toward the kitchen, wearing that calm, steady expression like it’s a second skin.
And the second his gaze finds mine—
my chest tightens.
Not in the panicked way.
In the oh way.
Like my body recognizes him as the safest thing in the room and is annoyed about it.
His eyes soften, just slightly.
Not obvious. Not loud.
But enough that I feel my shoulders drop half an inch without permission.
Then the room floods back in.
Because the house is full.
Full of the people who raised us.
Full of voices and movement and memories that live in the floorboards.
And I realize, with a startling clarity, that walking into this dinner is like walking into a courtroom where everyone already knows the verdict.
They’re just waiting to see if the defendants realize they’re on trial.
Susan steps aside and gestures me in like I’m royalty. “Shoes off if they’re wet, coats on hooks, and—”
She points at Gage without even looking at him. “—you. Fix your hair.”
Gage’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes flick to me for half a second as if to say, I tried.
I almost smile.
I do not. I am a grown woman. I am composed. I am—
My mother nudges me with her elbow like she’s still allowed to physically steer my life. “Go sit. Let your nervous system unclench.”
“I’m not—”
Linda Callahan smiles sweetly. “Oh, honey.”
My dad pats my back. “You hungry?”
I shrug because words feel like too much right now.
I turn toward the living room like a woman walking into her own trial.
I take a seat on the couch—too carefully—my hands folding in my lap like I’m trying to look innocent.
Across the room, the dads have somehow already ended up in a corner talking like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Robert Donovan—Gage’s dad—has that calm, grounded presence that makes you feel like your life could be fixed with a reasonable plan and a good screwdriver.
My dad is laughing at something Robert says, shaking his head like he’s known this man forever.
Because he has.
The moms are bustling in the kitchen—two women who have been feeding this street for decades, now reunited and operating like a well-oiled machine fueled by nostalgia and affection.
And me?
I’m sitting in the middle of it, trying not to think about the fact that Gage kissed me like I mattered right on this very couch.
And now he’s in the same room as me, and I have no idea what to do with my face.
My dad leans over the back of the couch. “How’d the client meetings go?”
“Fine,” I say.
Dad chuckles. “Fine is Reece for ‘I did it perfectly and suffered quietly.’”
“That’s accurate,” I mutter.
Susan laughs from the kitchen. “She always did.”
My mom points at me. “And she probably ate a salad in a parking lot like it was a balanced lifestyle.”
“Mom,” I hiss.
Mom smiles like she’s proud anyway. “At least she ate.”
The conversation should be harmless.
It is not.
Because it’s normal.
And normal is what makes my throat tighten.
Because normal is what we are pretending we still are.
Because normal is what I can’t stop wanting back with Gage—except I don’t want it back as just normal.
I want it back as something else.
And that thought makes my chest ache.
Gage appears beside the couch with two drinks in his hands like he’s been summoned by my internal distress.
One is water. One is—also water.
Because of course he’d bring water. Calm. Safe. Hydrating.
He sets one in front of me without making a big deal.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
His gaze holds mine for half a beat longer than normal.
Then he says, in the most neutral voice imaginable, “You made it.”
My heart does that stupid little stumble again.
“Yes,” I say. “I made it.”
As if this is an achievement.
As if walking into a house full of witnesses counts as bravery.
His mouth twitches like he might smile.
Then Susan calls from the kitchen, “Gage! Stop hovering and set the table!”
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops because arguing with Susan is like arguing with gravity.
He glances at me again—quick, steady.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, like it’s nothing.
And then he steps away.
The space he leaves behind feels… louder.
My mom sits beside me like she’s always done, shoulder brushing mine, warm and familiar.
“This is cozy,” I say faintly, because I’m being smothered by love.
Susan reappears holding a dish, and she stops mid-step, looking between Gage and me like she’s watching a story unfold in real time.
“Oh,” she says softly.
I freeze.
Gage freezes in the kitchen doorway, forks and knives in his hand.
Susan blinks once, then snaps back into hostess mode. “Dinner in five!”
My mother watches Susan with a knowing smile.
My dad and Robert exchange a look like two men who have seen their wives do this before and know there is no stopping it.
I press my fingers to my temple.
Okay.
Dinner.
We can do dinner.
I can be normal for dinner.
I can talk about weather and windows and childhood stories and—
Childhood stories.
Oh no.
The table is set in the dining room—the one that still feels like it belongs to a house full of kids even though it’s mostly been Gage alone here.
We all filter in.
The parents take seats like they’re sliding into their old roles naturally—Susan at the head like she’s running operations, mom beside her, dad and Robert trading jokes, and settling in with a content sigh.
And then there’s me.
And Gage.
And the seating arrangement that nobody calls a seating arrangement but definitely is.
Because somehow I end up… next to him.
Not across the table.
Not safely away.
Next to Gage.
I can see his perfect hands when he reaches for his glass.
I can smell his soap—clean, warm, ridiculously comforting.
He’s close enough that every time he shifts, my brain notices.
I focus on my plate.
“Okay!” Susan announces. “We’re all together again. Under one roof. Celebrating life.”
My mom raises her glass. “To being back where it all started.”
My dad grins. “To the street that raised our kids.”
Robert chuckles. “And survived them.”
Everyone laughs.
I laugh too, but it comes out a little too high.
Gage’s gaze flicks to me.
Soft. Checking.
I look away first.
Because that’s what I do when something feels too close to my heart.
We start eating.
The food is good—of course it is, because Susan and my mom have joined forces and they don’t make mediocre food.
Conversation flows like it always does when families reunite—airlines, snowstorms, neighbors, who has gotten more ridiculous in the last decade.
And then—because the universe hates my peace—my dad says, “Remember when you two used to do those dramatic readings?”
I choke on my water.
My dad pats my back, laughing.
Susan brightens like she’s been waiting for this topic. “Oh, yes. The living room performances!”
My mom claps her hands. “The books!” pointing her fork at me. “You made everyone sit in the living room like it was a theater.”
“I was eight,” I protest.
“And a director,” my dad says proudly.
Gage clears his throat and says, low, “She used to assign roles.”
Susan gasps. “She did?”
Gage’s eyes flick to mine—warm with memory. “She did.”
My cheeks burn.