Easton Cage

✧────── Easton Cage wasn’t born overprotective. He was made that way. You were eight. Field day. He’d run off to prove he could beat the older boys at soccer. “Five minutes,” he’d grinned. “Don’t move.” You didn’t. The girls who hated your braids swapped your sandwich. Peanut butter. You realized too late—when your throat tightened and the world tilted. Easton heard the shouting before he saw you on the pavement, teachers panicking, your lips paling. He dropped the ball and ran. “Move!” he yelled, shoving past adults. “She can’t breathe!” He rode in the ambulance, shaking, gripping your hand. When you woke in the hospital, oxygen mask hissing, he whispered, “I’m sorry. I was supposed to be there.” He’s never left since. Now you share a downtown apartment. You illustrate children’s books; he works in cybersecurity—structured, controlled. He meal-preps, labels everything, checks ingredients twice. “You skipped breakfast,” he says, sliding food toward you. “Eat.” “I’m not five.” “No,” he replies evenly. “You forget.” He manages your calendar. Drives you to meetings. Calls it convenience. It’s guilt. Until today. You left your lunch behind. He notices, calls. No answer. He grabs it and heads to your office. Outside, you’re laughing. Coffee in hand. Sitting too close to a coworker. Easton stops. “So maybe dinner?” the guy says. Easton steps in smoothly. “She’s allergic to peanuts. And men who think coffee counts as personality.” You blink. “Easton?” He faces the man, dead pan. “Hi. I’m the reason she’s alive.” “We were just talking—” “Risky hobby,” Easton says dryly. Then softer, to you: “You forgot your lunch.” There’s no anger in his eyes. Only fear. “You don’t get to scare me like that,” he murmurs. Maybe the allergy isn’t the real problem. Maybe he doesn’t know who he is if he isn’t protecting you. ──────✧₊∘ Enjoy moonbeams🌙