Chapter 16
Rudy
I woke up to the sound of snowplows.
At first I thought it was part of a dream—metal scraping asphalt, a low rumble, the soft hiss of snow being pushed aside.
It took me a second to register where I was.
Not my Chicago apartment with the thin walls and the neighbor who played bad EDM at all hours. Graeme’s bed. Graeme’s house. Vermont.
And Graeme’s arm heavy around my waist.
I smiled into the pillow before I even opened my eyes.
His chest rose and fell against my back, slow and steady. I could feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck, the solid weight of his thigh tucked behind mine. Every sore, pleasantly used muscle in my body reminded me exactly how we’d spent Christmas Day and night.
My cheeks warmed. My heart did the weird, floaty thing it did whenever I thought the word mine too loudly.
“Good morning,” he murmured into my hair, voice rough with sleep.
I shivered. “Morning.”
He kissed the back of my neck lazily. “How do you feel?”
Like you rearranged my insides and then tucked me in afterward. “Good,” I whispered. “Sore. In… really nice ways.”
I felt him smile against my skin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.” I rolled onto my back so I could see him. His hair was rumpled, silver at the temples catching the pale winter light. There were faint creases on his cheek from the pillow and this softened him in a way that made my chest ache. “What time is it?”
“A little after eight.” He brushed a thumb under my eye like he was checking for sleep. “We don’t have to rush.”
The bed was warm. The house was quiet. Outside the window, I could see pale sky and a soft flurry of snowflakes drifting past the glass. The day-after-Christmas kind of calm.
And under it, a tight little coil of awareness:
Six days.
Six days until my return trip to Chicago.
My stomach dipped, but I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. I’d ruin this day later. For now, I had something else to think about.
“We’re still going today?” I asked. “To the… place you mentioned?”
“Mm.” His gaze softened. “The Hearth. In Maplewood.”
I repeated the name in my head. The Hearth.
“I go every year on the twenty-sixth,” he said. “They do a special holiday meal and hand out winter kits—hats, gloves, socks, that kind of thing. Some of the folks there… it’s the only time anybody looks them in the eye and asks if they’re warm enough.”
Something in my chest pulled.
“Is it mostly… unhoused people?” I asked, careful with the word. It still felt new on my tongue.
“Some. Some are just struggling. Some are kids who don’t want to be at home.” His voice gentled even more. “Some queer kids. Some just… lonely.”
Yeah. I knew that feeling.
“I’d like to go,” I said quietly. “If you still want me there.”
“Of course I do.” He leaned forward to kiss my forehead. “But only if you’re up for it. It’s a lot of people. A lot of noise. A lot of feelings in one room. It can be… intense.”
I swallowed. The warning wasn’t a turnoff. If anything, it was… respectful. “I want to try,” I said. “Just… tell me if I mess anything up?”
His mouth twitched. “I don’t expect perfection, sweetheart. Just kindness. You’ve got that handled.”
My throat wobbled. I glanced away, blinking quickly. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know,” he said simply.
We showered, dressed in warm clothes, and made a simple breakfast—leftover cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, coffee strong enough to reboot my soul.
Graeme moved around his kitchen with the easy rhythm of someone who knew where everything lived.
I watched him for a moment, leaning against the counter, my mug warm in my hands.
This was what I’d wanted, I realized. Not just sex. Not just a Daddy who soothed my soft edges. This—morning light and shared coffee and him telling me about his life like I belonged in it.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, catching me staring.
“Inflation,” I said automatically. “You’ll have to offer more.”
He snorted. “Fine. A cinnamon roll for your thoughts.”
“Sold.” I took the plate he offered and sat at the small table. “I was just thinking I like this.”
“Breakfast?”
“You,” I said, then added quickly, “and breakfast. And… this. All of it.”
His expression did something quiet and devastating, like I’d handed him a gift he hadn’t expected.
“Me too,” he said.
The drive to Maplewood took about forty minutes.
The roads had been plowed, lined with soft banks of snow.
Bare branches arched overhead like dark ink strokes against the white sky.
Christmas decorations still glowed on a few front porches—strings of colored lights, wreaths with red bows, a plastic reindeer or two half-buried in drifts.
I sat close enough that our shoulders brushed, his hand resting on my thigh when the road was straight.