Page 107 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I didn’t trust that I could ask for more and survive it if the answer ever changed.

So I lay there, memorizing him instead.

The weight of his arm.

The faint scent of soap and woodsmoke.

The way the room felt warmer where our bodies met.

I slid out from under his arm slowly, carefully, like I was trying not to wake something fragile. My feet hit the floor, cold biting sharp enough to ground me.

I dressed quietly.

Each movement felt too loud. The zipper of my jacket. The soft scrape of my boots. My breath sounded wrong in my own ears.

I paused at the edge of the bed one last time.

He shifted slightly, murmured something unintelligible, and turned his face into the pillow.

My chest caved.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, even though he couldn’t hear me. “I don’t know how to do this any other way.”

The note took longer than it should have.

Not because I didn’t know what to say—but because I knew too well.

I sat at the small table by the door, the house still wrapped in pre-dawn blue, and stared at the blank page like it might judge me. My hand shook when I finally picked up the pen.

Graeme,

I didn’t trust myself to wake you. If I did, I might not leave—and I don’t know yet if I’m brave enough to ask for what that would mean.

Some of this I’ve already told you, in pieces, in moments when the words came easier. But I needed to put it somewhere solid. Somewhere it wouldn’t fade just because I was afraid to say it again.

Please know this: what you gave me mattered. You mattered.

This place. These two weeks. The way you let me be all of myself, without asking me to explain or justify it, I will carry that with me for the rest of my life.

You didn’t just give me a Christmas. You gave me proof that I can belong.

Thank you for holding me. For seeing me. For giving me a version of care I didn’t know I was allowed to want. I know I’ve said pieces of that before—but not like this. Not all at once.

I don’t know what comes next. But I know I’m better for having known you.

I hope you keep the fire going. I hope Holly & Pine stays bright. I hope you remember that you changed someone’s life just by being who you are.

—Rudy

I folded the note carefully, like it was something breakable, and set it where he’d see it first. By the keys. By the door. Impossible to miss.

The house felt different once I was standing there with my coat on.

Still warm. Still safe. Still his.

Just no longer mine.

Outside, the cold hit me hard and clean. Snow crunched under my boots as I crossed the yard, breath puffing white in the dark. I loaded the last of my things into the car with hands that barely felt like they belonged to me anymore.