Gage #2
I don’t know what she’s thinking.
I am tired—tired—of letting careful do all the driving.
I check the lock, turn off the lights, and head upstairs.
Sleep is not immediate.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the quiet press of the house around me, and my mind keeps looping through the same series of images.
Her face when she looked up at me at Rosie’s event.
Her voice in the storm when she admitted she was tired of being careful.
Her mouth on mine.
Her eyes after, wide and stunned, like she felt the consequences hit all at once.
Then the distance.
The politeness.
The careful wall.
I don’t want her to feel trapped.
I don’t want her to feel pressured.
I also don’t want to lose her.
And those truths have been fighting inside me for days.
Not anymore.
I close my eyes.
Morning comes.
The house is quiet in that soft way it always is before my mom wakes up and turns the volume of life back up.
Downstairs, the kitchen smells like coffee.
My dad is already there.
Of course he is.
He sits at the table with his mug, reading something on his phone like he’s not a man who can sense tension through walls.
He looks up when I walk in.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
I grab a mug, pour coffee, and sit across from him.
The silence isn’t awkward.
It’s just… space.
My dad takes a sip and watches me over the rim of his cup.
Not staring.
Just present.
He sets the mug down carefully.
“You slept?” he asks.
“Some.”
He nods like he expected that.
Then, casually—too casually—he says, “You and Reece okay?”
There it is.
He doesn’t dress it up.
He doesn’t tease.
He doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know.
He just asks like a father who has been watching a story unfold for decades and is tired of the main characters refusing to read the obvious chapter title.
I exhale slowly. “She’s… okay.”
My dad’s gaze stays steady. “And you?”
I don’t answer right away because the truth feels bigger when I say it out loud.
My dad waits.
I drop my eyes to the table. “I'm hesitant.”
My dad’s brows lift slightly. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to—” I stop, then start again. “Because I didn’t want to cross a line. She was… shaken. And I’m her boss.”
My dad nods once, accepting the reality of that. “Okay.”
I swallow. “But now she thinks—” I shake my head. “I don’t know what she thinks. I just know she’s building distance.”
My dad leans back in his chair slightly. “Are you two talking?”
“Yes, but we need to talk more.”
He hums. Not judgment. Just thought.
“You look like you’re trying to carry something alone,” he says, gentle.
My throat tightens at that.
Because it’s exactly what I’m doing.
I take a breath. “Dad.”
He nods. “Go ahead.”
And I do.
I tell him everything.
Not every detail—because some things belong to me and her alone—but the shape of it.
The storm.
The way she ended up here.
The way she finally let herself relax.
The kiss.
The pullback.
The aftermath.
The fear of pressuring her.
The fear of losing her if I stay careful.
And then, because it’s the truth and it’s time, I say it:
“I love her.”
The words land on the table like something solid.
My dad doesn’t react dramatically.
He doesn’t look shocked.
He doesn’t say “finally.”
He just nods once, like he’s been waiting for me to say what he already knew.
“I figured,” he says quietly.
I let out a breath that sounds like a laugh and a sigh at the same time. “Of course you did.”
My dad’s mouth twitches. “You haven’t exactly been subtle your whole life.”
I glance up. “I thought I was.”
My dad shakes his head. “Son. You used to shovel her driveway before you finished ours.”
I freeze.
He’s right.
I did.
Every time.
My dad’s expression stays warm, but his voice turns a shade more serious. “Listen to me. Be brave and be responsible.”
I nod.
“Don’t ask her to shrink her life to fit your feelings,” he continues. “She worked hard to build her career. She shouldn’t have to sacrifice that because you finally decided to stop being careful.”
My chest tightens, because he’s saying the thing I’ve been afraid to say to myself.
“I won’t,” I promise.
My dad holds my gaze. “Good. Then tell her the truth without cornering her.”
I swallow. “How?”
“Simple,” he says. “You tell her what you feel. You tell her she has a choice. And you tell her you’ll protect her—properly either way.”
I nod again, the path forming in my mind like something I can finally walk.
My dad’s voice softens. “If you want her, choose her like a man—not like a secret.”
The words hit me hard.
Because that’s what I’ve done for years—loved her quietly. Chosen her in a way that looked like friendship. Hidden behind being steady.
My dad sets his mug down. “And one more thing.”
I look up.
“Reece isn’t fragile,” he says. “But she’s been hurt. So your tone matters. Make it clear. Make it matter. Make it hers.”
My throat tightens.
I nod. “Okay.”
My dad’s eyes soften. “You’re a good man, Gage.”
I exhale. “I’m trying.”
He nods. “Then do it.”
And at that moment, the intention is clear.
I’m not going to keep letting careful be my excuse.
I’m going to be honest.
I check my phone.
Nothing from Reece yet.
My heart thumps anyway.
I stand, rinse my mug, and grab my coat.
My dad watches me, then says, calm as ever, “Go get her.”
I pause at the doorway.
Then I look back and give him a small nod.
“I’m going to talk to her this morning,” I say.
My dad’s mouth curves slightly. “Good.”
Outside, the cold hits clean.
The street is still winter-quiet, snow piled high on the edges, the world holding onto the storm a little longer.
My phone buzzes.
Reece.
My pulse spikes.
The message is short and frantic in the way only Reece can manage while still sounding like she’s trying to be reasonable.
Reece: Morning universe is against me.
Reece: I’m going to meet you on the platform. Don’t wait if I miss it. I can’t predict this morning.
My mouth twitches.
Of course her morning is chaos.
I type back with a calm I hope she can feel through the screen.
Me: I’m here. I’ll be on the platform.
Me: You still have plenty of time. Be careful on the stairs.
I almost add: I’ll catch you if you fall.
I don’t.
I tuck the phone away
My car is already warmed up by the time I pull out, because I’m me.
I drive to the station and park in our usual row.
And for the first time in days, my chest isn’t full of panic.
It’s full of certainty.
Excited, steady certainty.
Like I’m finally walking toward the thing I’ve been avoiding instead of circling it.
I step out into the cold and walk toward the platform.
People cluster in their coats, coffee cups in hand, eyes on their phones.
I stand where we always stand.
Our spot.
The place where we’ve had a thousand conversations without calling them important.
This morning, it’s important.
I look down the tracks.
The train isn’t here yet.
People shift. Someone sneezes. Someone complains about the cold.
Time moves like it always does.
But my focus is locked on one point:
The stairwell.
The entrance.
The place she’ll appear if she makes it.
The train pulls in with a rush of sound and wind.
Doors open.
Commuters surge.
And then there’s a delay—small, sudden.
The conductor steps out, says something to someone, and the announcement crackles overhead.
There’s a hold.
A pause.
A murmur through the crowd.
I step closer to the doors, half inside the opening like I’m holding the moment open by sheer will.
The conductor’s voice comes over the speaker again—something about a brief issue, now resolved.
We’ll be on our way shortly.
The doors stay open another beat longer.
And that’s when I see her.
A flash of movement at the top of the stairs.
Reece’s head pops into view, hair escaping, scarf flapping, tote bag swinging like it’s trying to throw her off balance.
She’s running.
Of course she’s running.
She hits the platform at full speed, boots skidding slightly, and my body moves before my brain can even finish the thought.
I’m already there.
Already braced.
Already ready.
Because that’s what I do.
That’s what I’ve always done.
And today?
Today I stop being careful.
Today I start being honest.
But first—
I catch her.
Again.