Chapter 4
Rudy
By the time I zipped my coat and pulled my beanie down over my ears, the sky had already deepened into that early winter blue that made everything feel a little unreal. Like the world was holding its breath.
I stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary, tugging the hem of my sweater down over my hips. It was too big. Intentionally so. Soft, stretched out at the cuffs, worn thin at the elbows. It made me feel… contained. Like I could tuck myself inside it if I needed to.
Two people had told me about the tree lighting now. Mae, with her gentle certainty. Rosa, with that knowing look like she already understood the argument happening in my head.
You came here to experience the town, I reminded myself.
Not to hide.
So I went.
Main Street was already glowing when I arrived. Strings of lights looped from lamppost to lamppost, the bulbs warm and golden against the snow. Someone had dragged out old speakers, and carols drifted through the air—not polished or professional, but familiar. A little off-key. Human.
I hovered near the edge of the square at first, hands shoved deep into my pockets, boots planted like I might need to bolt.
People gathered in loose clusters—families, couples, friends leaning into each other against the cold.
There was laughter, the thunk of paper cups, the low hum of voices overlapping.
Not bad, I told myself.
I spotted Rosa near the café cart she’d clearly commandeered, ladling something steaming into cups like she’d been born doing it. When she saw me, her face lit up.
“You made it,” she called, lifting her chin in greeting.
“I did,” I said, surprised to realize it was true.
She pressed a cup into my hands, steam curling up into the cold air.
“Cider,” she said. “You look like you could use something warm.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I wrapped my fingers around the paper cup and took a cautious sip. Sweet. Spiced. Heat spreading through my chest in a way that felt grounding instead of overwhelming.
“Thanks,” I said.
She gave me a look that said you’re welcome, and also I see you, then turned back to her cart as another local sidled up.
I lingered near the edge of the square, cider warming my palms, watching.
Kids darted through the snowbanks, shrieking with laughter. An older couple stood shoulder to shoulder, sharing a knit blanket like it was second nature.
It was… nice.
Unexpectedly so.
The tree loomed at the center of it all, tall and heavy with snow, lights still dark. People kept glancing toward it, anticipation buzzing under the surface like static.
I realized I was smiling.
That surprised me.
For a few minutes, I let myself just stand there. Let the sound wash over me instead of fighting it. Let the warmth of the cider and the cold air coexist.
I spotted faces I recognized now—Rosa laughing with a man in a thick scarf, Mae bundled up and chatting with a woman who kept touching her elbow when she laughed. The gentleman who managed the museum waved at me from across the square. I lifted my cup in an awkward little salute.
Belonging, I thought distantly.
This must be what it looks like.
The mayor climbed onto the small platform near the tree, tapping the microphone. A soft cheer rippled through the crowd. People shifted closer, tightening the loose circle around the square.
I adjusted my stance as the space around me narrowed.
Still okay, I told myself.
The microphone squealed briefly—sharp, sudden—and my shoulders jumped before I could stop them. The sound echoed off the storefronts, overlapping with laughter and chatter and the shuffle of boots on snow.
I took another sip of cider.
People pressed in closer now, not aggressively, just naturally—bodies seeking warmth, sightlines, proximity. Someone brushed past my arm. Another person stepped back without looking, their elbow bumping my ribs.
The edges of things started to blur.
I shifted my weight. Then again.
It wasn’t panic yet. Just… noise stacking on noise. Too many conversations happening at once. Too many directions my attention could be pulled.
I focused on the tree. On the dark bulbs waiting to be lit.
Count it down. Just get through the countdown.
“Ten!”
The crowd shouted it together.
“Nine!”
My grip tightened on the cup.
“Eight!”
A child shrieked somewhere behind me, high and sharp with excitement.
“Seven!”
Someone laughed too loudly, right at my shoulder.
“Six!”
My chest felt tight. Not painful. Just compressed.
“Five!”
I tugged the sleeves of my sweater down over my hands, fingers twisting the fabric without me telling them to.
“Four!”
The smell of cider, pine, wool, perfume—all layered, all too close.
“Three!”
My breath started coming faster.
“Two!”
I looked for space. For an exit.
“One!”
The lights blazed on all at once.
The crowd erupted.
Cheering. Clapping. Movement surging forward.
And that was when it tipped.
The sound hit first—too loud, too sudden. A wall of noise that didn’t just surround me but pressed into me, like it was trying to take up space inside my chest. The lights blurred into streaks of gold and white as people surged forward, boots crunching, shoulders brushing, bodies closing ranks.
I tried to breathe.
Air felt thin. Slippery.
Someone bumped my elbow hard enough that cider sloshed over the rim of the cup, splashing my wrist. The heat startled me, sharp and immediate, and my hand jerked reflexively. The cup tipped. A few drops hit the snow.
Too much.
My heart was racing now, fast and uneven, like it couldn’t quite remember what rhythm it was supposed to keep. My thoughts scattered—no clear line out, no quiet place to land. Just sound and light and bodies and the sudden, terrifying sense that I’d misjudged myself.
That I’d asked too much.
“Hey—sorry,” someone said as they squeezed past, not really waiting for my response.
My shoulders curled inward without me telling them to. My chin dipped. I tugged my sweater sleeves farther down, fabric twisting tight around my fingers like I could anchor myself there.
Too loud. Too close. Too—
My breath hitched.
I turned, trying to find the edge of the square again, but the crowd had shifted. Closed the gaps. Everywhere I looked was another wall of coats and hats and movement.
The noise pressed harder.
“Okay,” I whispered to no one. “Okay, okay—”
The word didn’t help.
My breaths started coming short, shallow, each one stacking on the last without fully letting go. My chest felt locked, like it wouldn’t expand all the way no matter how much I told it to.
That was when I felt it.
Not a hand grabbing me, or someone crowding closer.
A presence.
Solid. Grounded.
It settled behind me like an anchor dropping—close enough that I could feel warmth through layers of wool and winter coats. A careful distance, but unmistakably there.
Then a voice, low and steady, near my ear.
“Easy.”
My breath caught.
“Breathe with me,” he said, slow and calm, like he wasn’t in a rush. Like he had all the time in the world. “I’ve got you.”
Something in me broke open at the sound of it.
I didn’t think. Didn’t weigh the risks. My body made the decision before my brain could interfere. I leaned back, just a fraction—enough to feel the truth of him there. Enough to feel safe.
His arm came around my middle, not tight or possessive. Just firm. A boundary between me and the crowd. His other hand lifted, palm open in my line of sight.
“Look at me,” he murmured. Not a command. An invitation.
I did.
I realized then who it was holding me.
Graeme.
The man from Holly & Pine. The warmth. The voice that had wrapped around words like stay as long as you like and made them feel real.
Of course it was him.
“Good,” he said quietly. “That’s it. In through your nose. Slow.”
He breathed with me. Deep. Deliberate.
I followed.
Once.
Twice.
The noise didn’t disappear, but it softened. Receded to the edges. My heart slowed from a gallop to something closer to a jog.
“That’s it,” he said again, approval warm and unmistakable. “You’re doing great.”
The words hit somewhere low and deep, loosening something I hadn’t realized was clenched.
His hand stayed at my waist, solid and sure, like it belonged there. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.
I swallowed, voice unsteady when I found it. “I—sorry.”
His arm tightened just a touch. Not restraining. Reassuring.
“Don’t,” he said gently. “You don’t apologize for needing air.”
The lights were still blazing behind us. The crowd still cheering. But it all felt… distant now. Like I was standing in the quiet eye of a storm.
“Can you walk?” he asked softly.
I nodded.
“Good. Let’s get you somewhere quieter.”
He guided me back, slow and steady, turning his body just enough to shield me as we moved through the thinning edge of the crowd. People barely registered us—just another pair slipping away from the noise.
The farther we got, the easier it was to breathe.
By the time we reached the edge of the square, my hands had stopped shaking.
“I ruined it,” I said quietly. “The lighting.”
He let out a low, almost amused breath. “You didn’t miss anything important. Lights turn on. People cheer. Tree stays a tree.”
That earned a weak huff of laughter from me.
We stopped near the darkened storefronts, the noise behind us muted now. He didn’t let go right away. Didn’t rush me.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said honestly. “Thanks to you.”
His arm finally loosened, but he stayed close. Grounding. Steady.
“Anytime,” he said. Then, after a beat, quieter, “You did the brave thing. You came.”
Something in my chest warmed at that. Spread.
I looked up at him, really looked this time. The lines at the corners of his eyes. The gray threaded through his hair. The calm certainty in the way he held himself.
“Why do I feel like that mattered?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His mouth curved, soft and knowing. “Because it did.”
He studied me for a moment, like he was deciding something.
“Where are you staying?” he asked gently.
“The Hearthstone Inn,” I said. “Mae’s place.”
“Good,” he said without hesitation. “I’ll walk you back.”
It wasn’t phrased like a question.
And somehow, that didn’t make me bristle. It made my shoulders loosen.
We started down the street together, the noise from the square fading behind us. Snow drifted lazily through the glow of the streetlamps, settling on his coat, on my scarf, on the quiet between us.
I realized my steps had slowed to match his.
“You okay now?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, and meant it. “I don’t usually… bounce back that fast.”
A corner of his mouth tipped up. “You didn’t bounce. You grounded.”
I glanced at him. “That’s a thing?”
“It is if you let it be.”
The Hearthstone came into view, its windows warm and lit, looking suddenly like the safest place in the world.
We stopped at the foot of the steps.
Graeme turned to face me, hands easy at his sides, not crowding, not retreating either.
“Get some rest,” he said. “You did a brave thing tonight.”
Something in my chest tightened—not panic this time. Something softer.
“Thank you,” I said. “For… everything.”
He held my gaze, steady and unflinching. “Anytime, Rudy.”
I hesitated, then climbed the steps. At the door, I looked back.
He was still there.
Watching. Making sure.
Only when I went inside did he finally turn and head back down the street.
I leaned my forehead briefly against the cool glass of the door, heart still beating a little too fast.
Not from fear.
From the quiet, unsettling realization that someone had seen me unravel—and stayed.