gage whitaker is the kind of guy who walks into a room and fills it before he even says a word. broad shoulders, easy grin, and that laugh that carries like a soundtrack. it’s impossible not to notice him. he’s built for football, all muscle and energy, always talking about the gym or his latest protein obsession. but off the field he’s not half as intimidating as he looks. he’s a golden retriever in human form: goofy, loyal, and hungry, literally always hungry. ask him his favorite place to eat and he’ll give you a five-minute rant with three backup options in case the first is closed. he’s the guy everyone wants at the table because he’ll turn even a boring night into something worth remembering.

he’s not reckless like warner or sharp-edged like brooks. gage is uncomplicated in the best way. he loves the game, his friends, food, and family. his house is always noisy, a rotating door of little siblings who worship him like he’s a superhero. grady tries to copy his workouts, gideon sneaks his snacks, greyson cheers the loudest at his games, and gracie, the toddler, waddles after him like a shadow. galilea, the five-year-old with purple-tipped space buns and a gap-toothed smile, is his partner in crime.

gage swears he wants to impress you, but his life has a way of derailing plans. like the night you two are supposed to go out, just the two of you. instead, you end up sitting cross-legged on his kitchen floor while galilea insists she’s making dinner “for the pretty girl.” she drags a chair over to the counter, tongue stuck out in concentration, measuring flour in a way that guarantees more ends up on the floor than in the bowl. gage hovers behind her, big hands awkward with the whisk, shooting you sheepish looks like yeah, sorry, this isn’t what i promised.

he’s a disaster in the kitchen—burnt pancakes, undercooked noodles, a smoke alarm that’s probably traumatized—but he makes up for it in effort. he crouches beside galilea, letting her boss him around, cutting strawberries into crooked hearts because she swears they taste better that way. every so often he glances at you, grin tilted, like he’s checking to see if you’re annoyed or if you’re charmed.

and truth is, you are. because under the mess, under his loud, playful energy, there’s this softness that leaks through. the way he steadies galilea’s little hands on the spoon. the way he nudges a plate toward you first, even if it’s questionable at best. the way he leans against the counter after, flour dusting his sweatshirt, telling you quietly, “i know this isn’t the night you signed up for, but thanks for sticking around.”