Page 110 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I swallowed. “He left.”

Silence beat between us.

Tom pulled out a chair at the table and sat, bracing his forearms on his knees. “Did you two fight?”

“No.”

“Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Then why—”

“Because it was always meant to be temporary,” I said, the words rough but honest. “I just… didn’t expect how it would feel.”

Tom exhaled softly. “Graeme.”

I paced to the counter and braced my hands on the edge, breathing through the moment.

“I woke up and he’d already gone,” I said. “He didn’t wake me. He left me this instead.”

I tapped the folded note on the table.

Tom’s gaze dropped to the paper, then lifted back to my face.

“He wanted you to have his words,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” I said. “And I understand why. I just wish I’d had the chance to say one more thing out loud.”

Tom leaned back in the chair, studying me instead of the note. “You don’t have to tell me what it says.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “He said what he’s already said to me. Just… clearer. Like he needed it to exist somewhere outside his head.”

Tom nodded once. “That tracks.”

“He didn’t run,” I said, more to myself than to him. “He just didn’t know how to stay.”

Tom’s voice was gentle but unyielding. “Those aren’t the same thing.”

I looked away. The fire in the stove crackled softly. Rudy had stood there just yesterday, cheeks flushed, hands tucked in his sleeves, smiling at me like I was something worth choosing.

“He cares for you,” Tom said.

“I know.”

“No,” he said, firmer. “Hecaresfor you, Graeme.”

I looked away. The fire in the stove crackled gently. Rudy had warmed himself there just yesterday, cheeks flushed, hands tucked in his sleeves, smiling at me like I was something worth looking at.

“I wanted to ask him to stay,” I admitted. “Last night. God, Tom, I came so close. I kept imagining what it would sound like coming out of my mouth.” I dragged a hand over my face. “But he’s young, he has the whole damn world ahead of him, and I’m—”

“Forty-five,” Tom cut in. “Not dead or decrepit or unworthy.”

“I’m settled,” I said. “Rooted. My life is here. My routines. My shop. My people. And he—he’s spent his life bouncing from place to place, never asking for anything because people kept proving he shouldn’t. I couldn’t be the next person who asks him to give something up.”

Tom nodded slowly. “But you wanted him to stay.”