Reece
“Are you kidding me?” I gasp, half laughing, half wheezing, as my boots hit the platform and immediately try to betray me for sport. “How did you catch me again?”
Because yes—his hands are on my elbows, steady and sure, stopping me from turning into a commuter cautionary tale part two: The Revenge of the Salt.
“You’re welcome,” he says, voice calm in a way that should be illegal.
“I didn’t say thank you,” I shoot back automatically, because my mouth is a defense mechanism and my lungs are currently optional.
His eyes flick over me—quick, checking. “You good?”
I clutch my tote bag to my chest like it’s a flotation device. My hair has declared independence, and my boots are officially going up for sale by the end of the day. Lightly used. Emotionally unreliable.
“Define good,” I manage.
The conductor calls, “All aboard,” and the doors start their smug little slide.
Gage’s hand shifts—firm at my elbow, not yanking, not hovering, just there—and he steers me forward like he’s politely guiding a shopping cart with a wobbly wheel.
I stumble into the standing area with the grace of a newborn deer in business casual.
The doors hiss shut behind us.
Made it.
Barely.
I lean my shoulder against the pole, trying to reassemble my dignity like it didn’t just scatter across the platform. My tote bag thumps against my hip. My coffee sloshes dangerously. My phone is in my hand like it might testify against me in court.
Gage stands close—close enough to block the crowd from shoving me, not close enough to make it obvious. Calm. Annoyingly calm. Like he doesn’t have adrenaline and chaos pinging through his bloodstream.
I blow out a breath. Then another.
And because my brain is in full emergency mode, I panic.
“I WASN’T DODGING YOU,” I blurt.
Gage blinks.
I blink back, like we’re in a staring contest and the prize is whoever gets to pretend this isn’t terrifying.
The crowd around us shifts like a living organism made of coats, impatience, and commuter-grade sighing. Someone brushes past my tote bag and mutters an apology that sounds like a threat.
Gage’s eyes sharpen—not angry. Just… attentive. Like he’s tracking my pulse with his own.
“I didn’t think you were,” he says, low enough that only I can hear.
I exhale too fast. “Okay—good.”
Then my brain does that thing where it cannot accept good without adding three pages of evidence.
“I just—” I start, and my voice trips over itself. “This morning was… a chain reaction.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his posture does—subtle, protective—angling so the sway of the train won’t knock me into a stranger’s elbow. I hate that it works.
I also hate that I notice it working.
“Tell me,” he says softly.
And that’s the problem.
His voice is gentle enough that it makes everything else in me go loud.
So I talk. Fast. Like speed can outrun feelings.
“This morning,” I announce, “was sabotage. I didn’t stand a chance.”
His mouth twitches. “By whom?”
“My house,” I say, offended. “My mother. Time. Gravity. Probably my boots.”
That gets me the smallest exhale from him—almost a laugh.
I cling to it like a life raft and keep going.
“It started with my mom in the only shower,” I say. “Like she pays rent in steam.”
Gage nods like he’s been personally victimized by Linda Callahan’s bathroom schedule before. “Your mom showers like it’s an event.”
“Exactly. And then—hot water betrayal.”
“Betrayal,” he repeats, amused.
“Yes,” I insist. “It went cold like the pipes had an opinion about my commute.”
I gesture at my hair. “Then my hair refused to cooperate.”
His eyes flick to it—quick, respectful—then back to my face. “Looks fine.”
“It’s lying,” I whisper. “Just like this sweater.”
He lifts a brow. “Your sweater lied.”
I pinch the fabric at my shoulder like it committed a felony. “It looked trustworthy in the drawer. It promised calm. It delivered chaos.”
He hums like he’s filing that away under Reece vs. Clothing: ongoing war.
“And then,” I add, “I considered going to the gym to shower.”
His eyebrows lift. “The gym.”
“Like a raccoon with a membership,” I say. “Just me, skulking into Planet Fitness with a tote bag and a dream.”
“You would’ve done it,” he says, no judgment. Just fact.
“I was close,” I admit.
The train sways slightly and his hand lifts instinctively, hovering closer to my elbow for half a second—then drops again like he caught himself caring out loud.
I pretend I didn’t see it.
My heart does not.
“I planned to ride with you,” I say quickly. “I really did. I was going to be normal. I was going to sit in your passenger seat, complain about your radio, steal your heat vent—”
His eyes flicker warm at the familiarity.
And I barrel right over it because warmth is dangerous.
“But I texted you because I couldn’t predict this morning,” I say. “Not because of you. Because everything was actively trying to humble me.”
Gage’s gaze holds mine. Not skeptical. Not annoyed.
Just… there.
“So I did what I could,” I finish, a little breathless. “I ran.”
He nods once. “I know.”
Two words.
No edge.
No punishment.
And the fact that he believes me without making me prove it hits me right in the ribs.
Which makes me want to cry.
So instead I do what I always do.
I talk more.
The train settles into its rhythm—click-clack, sway, hum—and I realize my body is still buzzing like it hasn’t caught up to the fact that I made it.
My voice stays too bright anyway. Bright is safer than quiet.
“I’m not trying to make this weird,” I say, hands tightening on my tote strap. “I just… everything felt loud after dinner.”
Gage’s face stays calm, but his eyes shift—tiny, careful—like he heard the real sentence underneath the sentence.
I rush in before he can ask.
“And we didn’t get a moment last night,” I say. “Not a real one. Because it was parents and stories and your mom practically glowing, and I swear your kitchen was basically a courtroom.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah.”
“There were opinions,” I whisper.
“My mom was vibrating,” he says, deadpan.
I snort. “She was practically luminous. I thought she might take off like a weather balloon.”
His mouth twitches—almost-smile, quickly contained.
Then he says, quieter, “I’m sorry we didn’t get a moment.”
The simplicity of it makes my throat burn.
I swallow hard. “When my mom said ‘forever,’ I…”
The word sticks.
Because forever is the word that used to feel safe.
Until it didn’t.
Until someone said it lightly and left anyway.
My vision blurs for half a second and I blink hard like I can blink it away.
“I couldn’t breathe,” I admit.
Gage’s gaze changes like he understands exactly why without me having to hand him the whole Jesse file again.
“I pulled away,” I say too fast. “I went all professional. I made it weird. Because hope—” I let out a laugh that isn’t funny. “Hope scares me, okay?”
He doesn’t interrupt.
Doesn’t rush me.
He just listens.
So the truth keeps spilling, because once it starts, it doesn’t stop.
“I don’t want to lose my job,” I say, gripping my tote strap. “Or my friendship. Or our… normal. I don’t want to lose the neighborhood peace. I don’t want to lose—”
My voice catches.
You.
I don’t say it.
But the silence says it for me.
The train sways again. Someone bumps past. My boots consider treason.
My body does that awful little tilt—
And Gage’s hand lands at my elbow like a reflex, steadying me without fanfare.
Not dramatic. Not a scene.
Just… him.
I stare at his hand like it personally offended me. “This is humiliating.”
“It’s becoming a theme,” he says, deadpan.
“My boots are going up for sale,” I mutter. “They’ve failed me twice.”
“I’ll write a review,” he murmurs.
“Make sure you mention the betrayal.”
That quiet laugh slips out of him again—short and real.
And the sound makes my chest ache in the dumbest way.
I hate how much I want more of it.
I hate how safe it feels.
And then my voice breaks into something softer before I can stop it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Gage’s head turns sharply. “For what?”
“For… everything,” I say, and it comes out rough. “For being weird. For pulling away. For—”
He steps in closer, just enough that the crowd noise dulls around us. Not trapping me. Just shielding me.
“Reece,” he says, and it’s gentle enough to make my eyes sting, “look at me.”
Gage reaches for my hands
Not fast. Not dramatic.
Just steady.
He takes them in his like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And my entire body goes still.
Like someone turned the volume down.
Warm. Solid. Safe.
My chest loosens so suddenly I almost cry, which is unacceptable behavior on commuter rail at this hour, in this economy.
I stare at our hands, then up at him.
And I realize with sick clarity:
This is the part that terrifies me.
Not the kiss.
Not the witnesses.
This.
The way he can quiet my nervous system with one simple touch.
Like my body recognizes him as home.
His voice drops low enough that it feels like it belongs only to me—like the rest of the car doesn’t exist, like the train noise is cover.
“I didn’t pull back because I regretted it,” he says plainly.
My breath catches.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften it into something easier.
He just tells the truth like he’s done hiding behind careful.
“I pulled back because I was afraid of crossing a line,” he continues. “I was afraid you’d feel cornered. I was afraid you’d think I was taking something you didn’t mean to give.”
My throat tightens so fast it’s almost painful.
“Last night,” he says, “we didn’t get a moment. Not a real one. But I need you to hear this.”
His thumbs rub lightly over my knuckles, grounding me as the train sways.
“It’s always been you,” he says.
The words land so softly and so completely that my vision blurs for half a second.
I blink hard. “Gage—”
He shakes his head once. “No, please, let me finish.”
I go still.
He breathes in like he’s choosing the brave version of himself on purpose.
“I’m not asking you to jump,” he says. “I’m not asking you to risk your peace or your career. I will protect both. If we do this—if you want to do this—then we do it together, the way we want to do it.”
My heart is pounding in my throat.
“You don’t lose anything because of me. Not your job. Not your reputation. Not your future.”
The train rocks again. His grip steadies automatically, like he’s holding me through the motion and the moment at the same time.
His gaze doesn’t flinch. “We go slow. Or we go fast. Whatever you need. But I’m done pretending this is nothing.”
My voice shakes. “What if I’m… scared?”
His mouth curves, small and tender. “Then I’ll be steady.”
My throat burns.
He squeezes my hands gently—just pressure, not possession. A promise without a trap.
“And if you can’t,” he adds, quieter, “if it’s too much—I’ll still be right next to you. Your friend. Your neighbor. I’ll still show up.”
Something sharp and sweet twists in my chest.
“Because I don’t want you only if it’s easy,” he says. “I want you. Full stop.”
My breath shudders out.
And the simplest, most terrifying thought slides through me:
He means it.
Not in a “he’s being nice” way.
In a “he’s choosing me” way.
Out loud.
The train sways.
My hands are still in his.
My heart is still trying to climb out of my ribs and into his chest.
And I don’t think.
I just move.
I lean closer—slow, deliberate—like my body made the decision before my fear could object.
Gage doesn’t rush.
He doesn’t pull me.
He stays still, giving me space to change my mind.
I don’t.
I close the distance and kiss him.
Not panicked.
Not desperate.
Certain.
It’s warm and steady, like a promise you can rest your weight on.
His hand slides to my cheek—light, careful—like he’s holding something precious without gripping too tight.
And the kiss says everything he just said in words:
No doubt.
No regret.
No half measures.
When we pull back, my forehead hovers close to his for one second, and I just… breathe.
And my brain, traitor that it is, whispers:
Oh.
He meant it.
My hands stay linked with his as the train gathers speed.
The city is coming.
Work is coming.
Reality is coming like a freight train.
And the soft, horrifying thought arrives like an email subject line I can’t unread:
Now we have to go to work… and act like we didn’t just rewrite our whole world.