Chapter 13 #2
“It’s okay.” He gave a small, lopsided shrug.
“Mrs. Davis tried, though. When I moved in with her, she—” His mouth trembled once, then steadied.
“She gave me a stocking and stitched my name on it. She made cocoa on the stove and put marshmallows in it even though she hated marshmallows. I think that’s when I started believing… maybe I wasn’t just temporary.”
My hand tightened around my fork.
“She sounds like a good woman,” I said.
“She was.” His voice went soft around the past tense.
“I didn’t really… get the whole childhood Christmas magic thing, you know?
Not like kids who grow up writing letters to Santa and trusting someone will read them.
But with her it felt…” He searched for the word, then gave a sheepish little smile.
“Safe. Like being with you. Just… different flavors of safe.”
Warmth moved through me in a slow, deep wave.
“I’m glad you felt safe,” I said. “And here. Tonight.”
“I do,” he said. “Which is… new. And nice. And terrifying.”
I looked up sharply. “Terrifying?”
He flushed, pushing a piece of potato through the gravy with the edge of his fork.
“Not in a bad way,” he said quickly. “Just… it’s been a long time since I let myself like someone like this.
Since Nate, I mean. I thought maybe that part of me was…
I don’t know.” He made a small, helpless motion with one hand. “Frozen, I guess.”
I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine.
The contact was simple, but it carried weight—his pulse under my thumb, the way his fingers curled slowly to meet my palm.
“There’s nothing frozen about you,” I said. “You’re here. You’re feeling things. You’re telling me the truth. That’s… that’s brave, Rudy. Whether you see it or not.”
He looked at our hands, then up at me, eyes shining more than the candlelight alone could explain.
“You make it easier,” he said quietly. “To tell the truth.”
My throat went tight.
It scared me, yes—how natural this felt. How sitting at my table with his hand in mine and his laughter still echoing in the room felt less like something new and more like something I’d been missing without realizing it.
Because I’d lost people before. My parents in a single winter night. Michael to a life on the road I couldn’t follow. Those losses had carved wary spaces inside me where love was concerned. Loving meant risking. Risking meant hurting.
And yet.
Looking at Rudy, I knew I’d already stepped past the point of keeping my heart out of it.
The fear wasn’t that I was falling. The fear was how right the falling felt.
He squeezed my hand, bringing me back to the moment.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You still with me?”
“Very much so,” I said, managing a smile. “Sorry. Got lost in my head for a second.”
“Anything you want to share?” he asked. The question was gentle, an echo of the way I’d asked him so many times.
“Maybe in a minute,” I said. “I was thinking that before I turn into a complete sap, we should clear these plates. And then…”
“And then?” he prompted, eyes bright with curiosity.
“And then,” I said, letting my thumb trace one last slow arc over his knuckles, “we can go sit by the tree. You mentioned presents, if I recall.”
His smile bloomed, full and delighted, the kind of expression that made him look years younger and made something in my chest tilt.
“I did,” he said. “And I brought one for you.”
“I know,” I said, glancing toward the tree where carefully wrapped packages waited beneath the lowest branches. “And I have some for you.”
“Then we should definitely do the dishes fast,” he said, standing and gathering our plates, shoulder bumping mine as he passed. “I have it on good authority that delaying Christmas presents is a crime in at least six countries.”
“Oh, is that so?” I asked, getting up to follow him to the sink.
He looked back at me over his shoulder, eyes warm, cheeks flushed from food and candlelight and maybe something more.
“Yeah,” he said. “And I really don’t want Christmas Eve with you to involve international charges.”
I laughed, the sound easing the last of the tightness in my chest.
We moved around each other in the small kitchen—washing, drying, bumping hips, sharing little touches and smiles that felt like promises. The simple domesticity of it settled over me like the softest blanket.
By the time we turned off the kitchen light and walked back into the living room, the only illumination came from the tree and the few candles I’d left burning.
Rudy looked at the couch, then at me.
“Presents?” he asked, voice a little breathless.
“Presents,” I agreed.
And as we crossed to the tree together, I knew that whatever came next tonight—soft or heated, little or grown—I wanted to meet all of it, all of him, with both hands open.
“Sit,” I said, nodding to the couch.
He settled, tucking one foot under him, watching me like he didn’t quite know what to expect but was determined to enjoy it anyway.
I cleared my throat. “Okay, ground rules.”
His mouth curved. “There are rules for presents now?”
“There are always rules,” I said, deadpan. “One: you’re allowed to like what you get. Two: you’re allowed not to. Three: absolutely no apologizing either way.”
He huffed a little laugh that sounded surprisingly close to a breath of relief. “Yes, sir.”
That word did something low in my stomach, but I only arched a brow. “Good. In that case…”
I reached under the tree for the first box. Small, square, wrapped in deep green with neat twine and a wooden snowflake tied on top.
“This one’s yours.” I held it out.
His fingers brushed mine when he took it. Warm. A little unsteady.
“You first?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “This one’s for little you. Grown-you gets something later.”
Color flushed high in his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. He tugged the twine loose carefully, like he was untying a memory instead of string, then peeled the paper back.
The lid lifted with a soft scrape.
He stared.
Inside, nestled in tissue, lay soft red cotton—folded small. A onesie, simple but thick and cozy, with tiny white snowflakes scattered across the fabric. Across the chest, stitched in white thread in the careful letters I’d practiced more times than I’d admit:
Christmas Angel.
I got another package from under the tree and handed it to him. With hands that trembled slightly, he took it from me and unwrapped it. The faint scent of cedar rose from the tissue paper inside.
Three ornaments rested there.
A small angel, hand-painted in soft cream and gold, its wings brushed with just enough shimmer to catch the light.
A reindeer wrapped in a knitted scarf no bigger than a thumb, red and green yarn wound tight and neat.
And a simple wooden star, smooth at the edges, with a tiny hole drilled for a ribbon.
For a long moment, Rudy sat still.
His eyes moved slowly—from the stitching on the onesie, to the angel, to the star. His throat worked.
“Graeme,” he breathed. Just my name. Nothing else.
“I remembered what you said when you stayed over,” I said quietly, sitting beside him. “That when you got back to Chicago, you’d buy a Christmas tree for the first time." I hesitated, then added, “These don’t have to mean anything more than you want them to.”
He picked up the angel ornament carefully, like it might bruise if he wasn’t gentle enough.
“They’re from Mrs. Patel,” I said. “She makes them every year. I told her what I wanted her to make.” A beat. “You don’t have to put them on a tree. You can keep them in the box. Or a drawer. Or leave them here.”
Rudy’s fingers closed around the star, thumb tracing its edge.
“But if you ever decide to have a tree,” I finished, “you’d have a place to start.”
His breath left him in a slow, uneven exhale.
“No one’s ever…” He stopped, tried again. “Mrs. Davis was the only one who ever bought me gifts… well, until my ex. And they were mainly suits he wanted me to wear to some event or another. You gave me something that lasts. Memories. Perfect memories.”
The words landed cleanly between us.
“That was the point,” I said.
The smile that found his mouth was small and stunned and achingly real.
“I love it,” he said, voice rough. “All of it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I murmured.
He set the box carefully on the coffee table, almost reverent. Then he inhaled, squared his shoulders a little, and reached under the tree.
“Okay,” he said. “Now it’s your turn to follow the rules.”
“Oh?” I leaned back, amused. “Do I get a list?”
“Rule one,” he said, eyeing me with mock sternness. “You’re not allowed to say it’s too much.”
“That sounds targeted.”
“Because it is.” He pulled out a flat, rectangular package, wrapped in silver paper with a sprig of pine tucked under the ribbon. “Here.”
The weight of it felt familiar—like a book, or a frame.
“Rudy—”
“Ah.” He lifted a finger. “Rule two. No apologizing before you even see it.”
I couldn’t help the smile. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“Constantly,” he said, then flashed me a bashful grin. “Open it.”
I did, careful with the ribbon because he’d taken time to tie it.
Inside was a wooden frame.
Inside the frame… Holly & Pine.
Not as it currently stood, but drawn with rich, careful lines—an illustration done in ink and soft washes of color. The glow spilling out of the windows, the wreath on the door. Inside, through the glass, a suggestion of shelves and trees and twinkling lights.
Across the bottom, in Rudy’s neat, looping hand-lettering:
HOLLY & PINE
A Place to Belong
My throat tightened.
“You did this,” I said, because it was the only sentence that would come out.
He swallowed. “Yeah. I, um. I sketched it the night after the decorating party, then cleaned it up on my tablet and had it printed.” He hesitated, then added, “And I… may have built something around it.”
“Something?” My voice sounded strange in my own ears—too thick.
“Not live,” he said quickly. “Nothing published. I promise.” Then, softer, “I just… put together what it could be.”