Page 116 of Daddy's Little Christmas

When he finally moved inside me, it wasn’t frantic. It was slow and deep, his forehead pressed to mine, our breaths mingling. Every thrust felt like a vow he wasn’t saying out loud yet. Every soft sound that escaped me felt like a piece of armor clattering to the floor.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice shaken.

“Yes,” I gasped. “God, yes. Don’t stop.”

His hand found mine, fingers intertwining, grip tight and grounding.

At the edge, when everything in me went hot and bright and desperate, he kissed me—harder, deeper—and I let go. Pleasure crashed through me, sharp and overwhelming and nothing like the polished, careful sex we’d had before. This was messy and emotional and so naked it almost hurt.

He followed, trembling above me, my name on his lips like it was the only word he remembered.

Later—when the world came back into focus and my breathing slowed, when the room smelled like sweat and winter air and something that felt like us—he eased out of me and settled at my side, pulling me into his chest.

I went willingly, tucking my head under his chin, my hand spreading over his heartbeat.

We lay there in the quiet, the kind that isn’t empty at all, but full—of breaths and skin and the soft, disbelieving little after-sounds of two people who’ve just stepped over a line they never wanted to uncross.

“Rudy?” he murmured after a while.

“Mm?”

“Thank you for turning around,” he said.

A smile curved against his skin. “Thank you for opening the door.”

He huffed a soft laugh that shook both of us. His arms tightened around me.

My eyes drifted shut, not with the weight of despair this time, but with something gentler. Something that felt like peace.

I thought about Chicago. About my apartment and my plants and my carefully curated solitude. About the boy I’d been who believed Christmas was a party other people got invited to.

And then I thought about this bed, this man, this town founded by two queer men who refused to believe they didn’t deserve a place of their own.

Maybe I could, too.

“This isn’t the end, you know,” I said softly, more to myself than to him.

“No,” he agreed, lips brushing my hair. “It’s not.”

I exhaled, long and slow, letting the last jagged edge of fear seep out on the breath.

“It’s the beginning,” I whispered.

His arms closed around me.

And for the first time in my life, I believed in new beginnings.

Epilogue

Graeme

One Year Later…

The bell over the door chimed.

Same sound as last year.

Different boy entirely.