Page 108 of Daddy's Little Christmas

When I started the engine, the sound felt obscene. Too loud. Too final.

I didn’t look back at the house.

I knew if I did, I wouldn’t leave.

The road out of Winterhaven was quiet, snow-dusted and pale under the headlights. Trees loomed on either side, their branches heavy and dark, like they were watching me go.

I drove for a long time before I realized my hands were shaking.

An hour passed. Maybe two.

The sky lightened slowly, gray bleeding into blue, dawn creeping in like it didn’t want to disturb anything. My thoughts circled, restless and relentless.

I kept seeing him asleep.

The way his arm had rested over me like it belonged there. The way he’d held me the night before, not like he was afraid of losing me but like he trusted I was real.

I swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind my eyes.

Why am I leaving?

The question surfaced unbidden, sharp and persistent.

I didn’t have a job pulling me back. My work lived in my laptop. My apartment waited, yes—but it wasn’t home. It was just a place where I slept and paid rent and tried not to feel lonely inside.

I had nothing in Chicago that couldn’t be packed into boxes or canceled with a phone call.

Nothing except habit.

Nothing except fear.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening.

I’d come to Winterhaven because of a story. Because two queer men had fallen in love and built something lasting out of it. I’d told myself I was just passing through. Just visiting. Just taking a break.

I hadn’t planned on finding something that felt like home.

I hadn’t planned on finding him.

The road stretched out ahead of me, empty and endless, lines blurring under the tires. Snow started falling again, light but steady, like the world was trying to soften the edges of everything.

My chest hurt.

Not because I’d left.

But because I’d never wanted to stay anywhere this badly before.

I let the car keep moving, the miles ticking by, my heart hammering with a question I wasn’t ready to answer yet.

But it was there now.

Loud.

Persistent.

Why am I driving away from the only place that ever felt like home?

The road didn’t answer.