Chapter 5
Graeme
The bell over the door had a particular sound when the temperature dropped. Sharper somehow, as if cold tightened the metal and made it ring truer.
I heard it three times in the first ten minutes after I flipped the sign to OPEN, and by the fourth ring the shop had warmed into its familiar morning rhythm—boots stamping snow off, scarves unwinding, the evergreen scent waking up as soon as bodies moved through it.
Mrs. Kavanagh swept in like she owned the place, cheeks flushed, curls escaping her hat, with the kind of purpose only a woman on a Christmas mission could carry.
“Graeme,” she said, already halfway to the ribbon wall. “Don’t tell me you’re out of the silver again.”
“I would never tell you something that would make you look at me like that,” I replied, and her laugh came easy.
She started comparing spools, holding them up to the light with narrowed eyes. Her husband trailed behind her at a slower pace, lingering by the ornaments as if he’d wandered into a museum and didn’t want to touch anything without permission.
“That one,” he said, pointing at a glass bulb painted with a snow-covered bridge.
Mrs. Kavanagh didn’t even look. “Harold, if you buy one more glass ornament you’ll spend January sweeping up your optimism.”
He blinked, wounded. “It’s tasteful.”
I handed her a spool from the back row. “Same shade as last year.”
She took it, inspected it, then nodded like I’d passed a test. “You’re a gem. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
“I’ll add it to my resume,” I said.
Mrs. Kavanagh paid, tucked the ribbon into her bag like it was contraband, and left with her husband still looking longingly at the fragile things as he followed. The bell chimed behind them and the shop settled again.
Five minutes later it chimed twice in rapid succession, which meant only one thing.
The Fitzgerald twins.
Ed and Earl came in talking over each other, both carrying the same kind of snow-dusted energy Winterhaven produced in December. They were grown men who still dressed like they might climb a tree at any moment.
“Tell him,” Ed announced, pointing at his brother. “Tell him it was too much.”
“It wasn't too much,” Earl argued. “It was festive.”
“It was a hostage situation,” Ed said. “A wreath shouldn’t make you feel trapped.”
I folded my arms. “Good morning to you too.”
They finally noticed me.
“Graeme,” Earl said, smiling like he hadn’t just been accused of wreath crimes. “We need your help.”
“I can tell,” I said. “Your sister again?”
Ed groaned. “She said last year’s wreath was ‘aggressively cheerful.’”
Earl lifted his hands. “In my defense, I didn’t know a wreath could be aggressive.”
“She’s got opinions,” I said, steering them toward the wreath wall. “What’s the goal this year?”
“Something she can’t insult,” Ed said.
“That’s impossible,” Earl added, and Ed elbowed him.
I walked them through options—fresh pine, mixed cedar, one with dried oranges that smelled like winter itself, another with berries tucked in like little sparks. They argued in low voices, then in louder ones, then in that overlapping way brothers do when they care more than they want to admit.
When they finally agreed on a simple cedar wreath with small white lights, Ed pointed at me like I’d performed a miracle.
“You,” he said, “are the most patient man in Vermont.”
“I’ve had practice,” I replied, and Earl laughed.
They paid, left still bickering, and I watched them go with a quiet kind of affection. Winterhaven was full of people like that—loud in harmless ways, earnest under the noise.
The bell chimed again and a young woman stepped in, a toddler bundled against her hip with a mitten string dangling like a loose tail. The child’s eyes went wide at the garlands and lights, wonder on her face so pure it made my chest ache.
“She’s been asking about the ‘Christmas store’ since October,” the mother said, a little breathless. “I promised I’d bring her when it snowed.”
“It snowed,” I said solemnly. “A promise is a promise.”
The toddler stared at the glitter-dusted pinecones in the front basket. I crouched, picked one up, and offered it to her.
“Would you like to hold a piece of Winterhaven?”
Her small hand reached out carefully, then closed around it as if it might disappear.
“She’s going to sleep with that,” her mother said, smiling, and I could hear the tenderness in her voice.
“Good,” I said. “It’s good company.”
They wandered for a while, the mother choosing small gifts, the child clutching her pinecone like a treasure. When they left, the bell chimed again, and then the shop finally slowed.
Quiet arrived the way it always did—gradually, with the hum of the heater and the faint tick of the wall clock, with pine and wax and the ghost of cold air slipping in whenever the door moved.
I went back to restocking, hands moving from habit more than thought. And still, under it all, my mind kept drifting.
To last night.
Not the tree lighting itself—the speeches, the countdown, the cheer that rolled through the square when the lights snapped on. That part would fade into the general December blur the way it always did.
What didn’t fade was the moment the crowd surged and Rudy’s whole body changed.
I’d noticed him earlier—almost as soon as I arrived.
He stood near the edge of the square, alone, shoulders slightly hunched in that oversized sweater, hands tucked deep into the sleeves like he was bracing against more than the cold.
There was something familiar in the way he held himself, a careful stillness that made him stand out in a crowd full of easy movement.
I’d meant to go over. I really had.
But Winterhaven on a night like that had its own gravity.
Someone stopped me to ask about their wreath order.
Mrs. Kavanagh pressed a paper cup into my hand and scolded me for not wearing thicker gloves.
Ed and Earl argued loudly about whose turn it was to help with the extension cord, both of them insisting it definitely wasn’t theirs.
Each interruption was small, ordinary—the kind you don’t push away without seeming rude.
Every time I glanced back, Rudy was still there.
Still watching. Still holding himself together.
When the noise tipped from festive into too much, I saw it happen in real time. His hands twisted the sleeves of his coat like fabric might anchor him. His gaze flicked toward the darker street, scanning for an exit, for space, for air.
That was the moment choice left the equation.
I didn’t think about whether it would be awkward. I didn’t worry about whether I’d misread things. I just moved.
Close enough for my presence to register. Steady enough to matter. My voice low, meant only for him.
Easy. Breathe with me. I’ve got you.
The words had come from somewhere deep, rising before I’d thought to shape them, guided by instinct rather than intention.
Rudy had leaned back into me like he’d been waiting for permission to stop holding himself upright.
Whatever shaped him into the man who folded in on himself, it wasn’t weakness. It was history. And I understood history. I’d been made of mine too.
I set a box of ornaments on the counter and let out a slow breath. The shop smelled like pine and citrus, the faint sweetness of cinnamon rising from the candle display near the window.
I wasn’t a reckless man. I didn’t confuse a moment of connection with a promise. I’d learned that lesson once already—Michael’s kindness hadn’t made his leaving hurt any less.
And yet, Rudy had stayed with me since he walked out of the shop the night before. The way his voice had softened when he spoke. The care he’d taken with that reindeer plush. The look he’d given me when the cocoa warmed him—like he was trying to decide whether I was safe.
It had been a long time since anyone made me pay attention like that.
The bell chimed.
My head lifted.
Rudy stepped inside, snow clinging to the damp ends of his hair, cheeks flushed from the cold. He paused just inside the doorway, taking in the room like he wasn’t sure whether it would welcome him back.
When his eyes found mine, something in his shoulders eased—and then tightened again, relief tangling with nerves.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I answered, keeping my voice even. The same tone I used with everyone. I didn’t want him to feel examined. I wanted him to feel safe.
He drifted toward the front display instead of the counter, fingers brushing the edge of a shelf. His gaze skimmed the ornaments without pausing, like he needed something to look at that wasn’t me.
“I… didn’t know if you’d be busy,” he said, eyes still on the display.
I leaned my hip against the counter, giving him space without stepping away. “I’m open,” I said. “Busy comes and goes.”
A breath left him, almost a laugh but not quite.
His eyes flicked toward the tree in the corner—the shop tree, tall and full, lights strung but branches still bare.
“I wanted to—” He stopped, swallowed. “About last night.”
I stayed where I was. Didn’t close the distance. Didn’t retreat either. I wanted him to know he could choose how close this got.
“You don’t have to explain yourself,” I said.
His shoulders eased a fraction, then tensed again, like he didn’t quite believe me. “I wasn’t trying to… make it a thing.”
“You didn’t,” I said simply. “You got overwhelmed. It happens.”
That made him look at me. Really look this time, like he was checking for the catch.
“I’m glad you showed up anyway,” I added. “That took more effort than you’re giving yourself credit for.”
His mouth parted slightly, then closed again. He dropped his gaze to the counter, fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve. The movement was small, almost unconscious, but it told me more than words would have.
This wasn’t someone embarrassed about attention.
This was someone used to consequences.
“I don’t usually…” He stopped, exhaled through his nose. “I don’t usually lose control like that.”
“You didn’t,” I said gently. “You listened to yourself when it got too much.”
That seemed to land differently. He nodded, slow, like he was filing the thought away somewhere he’d come back to later.
Silence settled between us—not awkward, just quiet—and in it, I noticed the way his attention drifted around the shop. Not restless. Curious. Like he was testing whether this place stayed kind when you stopped bracing for it.
His gaze caught on the reindeer display near the register. Not just one, but the whole small cluster—soft shapes, mismatched scarves, each one a little different because the woman who made them refused to mass-produce comfort.
“They’re everywhere,” he said softly.
“They don’t last long,” I replied. “People keep taking them home.”
He smiled at that, just a little, and stepped closer. His hand hovered over one of the reindeer, hesitating the way people do when they’re not sure they’re allowed to want something.
“You can pick it up,” I said.
He glanced at me. “Really?”
“They’re meant for hands,” I said. “Not shelves.”
That was all the permission he needed. He lifted one carefully, thumb brushing the knit scarf like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.
Something in my chest shifted—not surprise, exactly. Recognition.
Of course he liked things that were soft.
Of course he handled it like it mattered.
“I was going to decorate the tree today,” I said, easing us forward before the moment grew too heavy. “If you want to help, you’re welcome to.”
His eyes flicked toward the tree in the corner—tall, waiting, lights already strung but bare otherwise.
“I’d like that,” he said after a beat. Then, quieter, “If you’re sure.”
“I am,” I said.
And I meant more than just the tree.
“We can just do the bottom branches if you want.”
A small laugh slipped out of him. “That’s oddly specific.”
“It’s where people start,” I said. “Low stakes.”
He looked at the tree again, then back at me. Something cautious flickered across his expression—like he was weighing the risk of wanting something simple.
“Okay,” he said finally. “I can do low stakes.”
I pulled a wooden crate of ornaments from beneath the counter—hand-painted bulbs, felt mittens, small carved stars. When I set it down, the scent of pine rose as the branches shifted, sharp and clean.
Rudy moved closer, still holding the reindeer plush. He set it carefully on the nearby shelf like it deserved a good seat for the show.
“You can tell him to supervise,” I said, and Rudy’s mouth twitched.
We started slowly. He lifted ornaments one at a time, turning them as if each one might have rules he needed to learn.
I showed him the ones my mother had designed years ago—the carved sleds and stars I still replicated every December for the shop because it kept her close in a way that didn’t hurt as much anymore.
“She made these?” he asked, holding a wooden star.
“She did,” I said. “Before the shop. Before all of this. She and my dad used to sell them at the old holiday market.”
His gaze stayed on the star. “That’s… a good memory.”
“It is,” I admitted.
Rudy’s throat worked again, and for a second he looked far away. “My foster mom used to save the biggest ornament box for me,” he said, voice soft. “Even though I was too old to pretend I cared.”
I met his eyes. “You weren’t too old.”
The words came out before I could second-guess them, and Rudy froze like I’d reached into a locked place.
I didn’t backpedal. Didn’t make it a joke. I just held the moment.
“Some things don’t have an age limit,” I added, quieter.
His eyes went glossy for a heartbeat, then he blinked fast and looked down, hanging the star with hands that suddenly seemed very careful.
We worked like that for a while—ornaments moving from crate to branch, stories drifting between us without pressure.
He asked me about Winterhaven, about the shop, about whether it was always this warm inside even when it was freezing outside.
I asked him about Chicago and got small pieces in return: that he worked remotely, that he’d needed quiet, that he hadn’t expected the town to feel like it did.
The more he spoke, the more I heard what he didn’t say.
About a life spent bracing.
He reached for a thin glass icicle ornament—delicate, pale, the kind that caught light beautifully but required a steady hand. His fingers slipped.
The ornament hit the edge of the crate and cracked with a sharp, final sound.
It wasn’t loud.
But Rudy’s whole body jerked as if someone had shouted at him.
His face went blank for half a second, then his eyes widened. Breath caught. Shoulders pulled in. The reflex was immediate and old, and it had nothing to do with the ornament.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s an ornament. It happens.”
He stared at the broken piece as if it had become evidence of something unforgivable.
I crouched and picked up the shards carefully so he wouldn’t cut himself.
“It’s not a big deal,” I repeated, still gentle. “You’re not in trouble.”
The words landed somewhere deep. I watched him try to accept them and fail—not because he didn’t believe me, but because his body remembered other outcomes.
His hands twisted the sleeves of his sweater again, knuckles whitening.
“Rudy,” I said softly, and kept my voice low the way I had last night. “Look at me.”
His gaze flicked up, panicked and bright.
“Easy,” I said. “Breathe with me. I’ve got you.”
His breath stuttered, then caught, then tried again. He held my eyes as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.
For a moment, he did breathe with me.
Then he blinked hard, like he’d realized how much he’d just revealed, and he took a step back.
“I should go,” he said too quickly. “I— I’m sorry. I really am.”
“You don’t have to—”
But he was already backing away, as if he was determined to leave before anyone could decide he was too much.
At the door, his hand paused on the handle. He didn’t look back fully, but his voice came out quieter.
“Thank you,” he said. “For… last night. And today. For being—”
He swallowed, like the rest of the sentence didn’t have words.
“You’re welcome,” I said, and let warmth live openly in my tone. “Anytime.”
The bell chimed as he stepped out into the cold.
I stayed where I was for a moment, broken ornament pieces still in my palm, listening to the shop settle again—the clock ticking, the heater humming, the faint hush of snow outside.
It was the same quiet as always, but it didn’t sit in the room the same way. It felt like something had passed through and shifted the air, leaving behind the kind of lingering impression you only noticed once it was gone.
I set the shards in the trash, washed my hands, and looked at the tree we’d half-decorated.
One small wooden star hung slightly crooked near the bottom branch.
I reached out and straightened it, then let my fingers rest on the pine needles for a beat longer than necessary because I could still feel the way Rudy had looked at me when I told him he wasn’t too old to want softness.
And I found myself thinking—quietly, plainly—that I hoped he would come back.
It had been years since someone stirred anything in me beyond simple friendliness. Years since I’d let myself linger on someone’s smile or replay a moment the way I’d replayed the brush of Rudy’s hand when he gave back the mug the first time we met.
I’d felt that warmth all the way up my arm. Caught me off guard.
I wasn’t the eighteen-year-old boy who’d lost both his parents. I wasn’t the man I’d been at twenty-five, finally walking back into the old greenhouse after years of avoiding it, turning my parents’ place into something new so it wouldn’t break me anymore.
And I wasn’t the man I’d been at twenty-nine, letting Michael’s bright, restless energy light up corners of me I hadn’t touched in years.
I wasn’t thirty either—the year I learned that loving someone didn’t mean they could stay.
Michael left with kindness, not cruelty, but loss was loss.
I’d built a quiet life—routine, steady, predictable. After everything I’d lost, predictability felt like survival.
And yet—something about Rudy had slipped under my guard like it was the easiest thing in the world.