Page 67 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I laced our fingers together.

His palm was warm. Big. Secure.

“In the mood for a walk?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

We ended up on a bench near the town square, our shopping bag between us. The big tree stood tall and bright, lights winking, ornaments gleaming. Kids ran circles around the base while their parents chatted.

For once, watching all that movement didn’t make my chest feel tight. It just… was. Life happening a few feet away, and me sitting in the middle of it without feeling like an impostor.

Graeme stretched his legs out, ankles crossing. His thigh brushed mine, solid and warm through our coats.

“So,” he said quietly. “Can I ask you something?”

My stomach did a small, nervous flip. “Of course.”

He smiled. “How are you feeling about… last night?”

I stared at my gloves, flexing my fingers inside the wool.

“At first I was a little embarrassed,” I admitted, “but you were so kind, the feeling went away fast.” Chuckling, I continued. “I thought I’d wake up and decide it was some kind of temporary break from reality, you know? Holiday magic. Brain glitch.” I huffed out a breath.

“What are you feeling?” His voice stayed soft, an invitation.

“Scared, maybe,” I said, honesty slipping out before I could wrap it in safer words. “Hopeful. Both at the same time. I haven’t… let myself be like that in a long time. Not really.” My throat thickened. “Nate—” I broke off, jaw tightening.

“His loss,” Graeme said quietly. “I know that doesn’t erase what he did. But it’s still true.”

The certainty in his tone did something strange to my breathing.

“Tell me more about your parents,” I said, needing to shift the focus a little before emotion fizzed over. “From what you’ve said about your parents they were two of the good ones.”

“They were.” He smiled, small and fond, eyes going somewhere I couldn’t see. “My mom was the kind of woman who’d fix a leaky roof and then sit down and paint the house because ‘if we’re up here, we might as well make it pretty.’ My dad… he was quieter. But he built things that lasted. The greenhouse. That letter box for the Santa event. The little benches half the town still uses.”

“Were they… queer?” I asked, then winced. “Sorry, that sounded—”

“Like a question,” he said mildly. “It’s okay. Yeah, they were both bi. They didn’t always have words for it, but they made sense of themselves together. I grew up knowing that ‘normal’ meant… a lot of things. Two moms, two dads, one of each, one alone doing their best. Winterhaven isn’t perfect, but it’s kinder, more tolerant than most places.”

“Must’ve been nice,” I said before I could stop it.

“It was,” he said. “I didn’t really grasp how lucky we are in this small town until I started hearing other people’s stories from different parts of the country. Kids kicked out. Families cutting ties. Men my age who never told a soul.”

I watched his breath cloud the air as he exhaled.

“When did you know?” I asked.

“That I liked men?” His mouth tipped wryly. “Middle school, probably. There was a boy in my class who always smelled like oranges. I realized one day I was more interested in kissing him than in algebra.”

I snorted. “Relatable.”

“And you?” he asked gently.

“Too young for it to make sense to anyone else,” I said. “I liked… softness. Boys, girls, whoever. But boys made me feel… something. I didn’t have words for bi or queer or anything. I just knew that when I looked at certain guys on TV, my brain melted a little—and that felt like if anyone found out, it could be dangerous for me.” I swallowed. “It was easier not to talk about it. Foster homes aren’t exactly known for being safe places to unpack your sexuality.”

His jaw tightened, just a fraction. “Did anyone ever make you feel unsafe about it?”

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” I said quickly. “No one hit me or anything. It was more…” I searched for the right words. “Being ‘too much’ of everything. Too sensitive, too quiet, too dreamy, too… not straight. You learn to tuck things away. To make yourself small enough that no one notices what might be ‘wrong’ with you.”