Chapter 20
Rudy
Two hours earlier…
I was already awake when the sky was still thinking about becoming morning.
The house was quiet in that deep, held-breath way that only exists right before dawn. The kind of quiet that felt like a promise and a warning all at once. Snow fell softly outside the window, a gentle, persistent drift, like it was trying to remind me the world still existed outside this room.
It surprised me that I was awake at all. After the night we’d had, I should’ve slept straight through to daylight.
Graeme slept beside me, warm and solid, his breath slow and even. One arm was flung across my waist like he’d put it there in his sleep and decided I wasn’t going anywhere.
We’d made beautiful love last night. And then again later. And once more after that, until I’d finally laughed breathlessly into his shoulder and told him that for a man his age, he had a truly unfair amount of stamina.
He’d grinned, smug and pleased, and pulled me closer.
We’d stumbled out of bed sometime after, steam fogging the bathroom mirror as we stood under the hot spray together—hands gentle, unhurried, rinsing away sweat and sleep and the last edges of the night. Then back to bed. Warm. Clean. Spent in the best way.
Now I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my heart lodged so high in my throat it felt like if I swallowed wrong, I’d choke on it. My chest ached. It was full. Too full. Like something beautiful had been poured into me without asking if I had room to hold it.
I turned my head slowly and looked at him.
The faint line between his brows that never quite went away, even in sleep. The silver at his temples, softer up close in this light than it ever looked in the daylight. The rise and fall of his chest, steady and sure, like it had always known how to be this calm.
I wanted to wake him.
God, I wanted to wake him.
I wanted to press my mouth to his shoulder and whisper his name until he stirred. I wanted one more kiss. One more moment where his eyes opened and found me there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
But another part of me—the older part, the one that learned early how to leave quietly—was already pulling back.
If I woke him, I’d have to say goodbye.
And if I said goodbye, I might ask to stay.
And if I asked to stay, I didn’t know what he’d say.
And that terrified me more than leaving ever could.
I’d spent my whole life learning not to want things I couldn’t be sure I’d get. Learning that wanting was dangerous. That hope was something that showed up dressed like love and left like loss.
Mrs. Davis had taught me what it felt like to belong.
And then she was gone.
Nate had taught me what it felt like to almost be chosen.
And then he’d asked me to erase myself.
Graeme… Graeme had given me something I didn’t even know how to name yet. Space. Safety. A version of myself that wasn’t too much or not enough. Just… me.
I didn’t trust that I could ask for more and survive it if the answer ever changed.
So I lay there, memorizing him instead.
The weight of his arm.
The faint scent of soap and woodsmoke.
The way the room felt warmer where our bodies met.
I slid out from under his arm slowly, carefully, like I was trying not to wake something fragile. My feet hit the floor, cold biting sharp enough to ground me.
I dressed quietly.
Each movement felt too loud. The zipper of my jacket. The soft scrape of my boots. My breath sounded wrong in my own ears.
I paused at the edge of the bed one last time.
He shifted slightly, murmured something unintelligible, and turned his face into the pillow.
My chest caved.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, even though he couldn’t hear me. “I don’t know how to do this any other way.”
The note took longer than it should have.
Not because I didn’t know what to say—but because I knew too well.
I sat at the small table by the door, the house still wrapped in pre-dawn blue, and stared at the blank page like it might judge me. My hand shook when I finally picked up the pen.
Graeme,
I didn’t trust myself to wake you. If I did, I might not leave—and I don’t know yet if I’m brave enough to ask for what that would mean.
Some of this I’ve already told you, in pieces, in moments when the words came easier. But I needed to put it somewhere solid. Somewhere it wouldn’t fade just because I was afraid to say it again.
Please know this: what you gave me mattered. You mattered.
This place. These two weeks. The way you let me be all of myself, without asking me to explain or justify it, I will carry that with me for the rest of my life.
You didn’t just give me a Christmas. You gave me proof that I can belong.
Thank you for holding me. For seeing me. For giving me a version of care I didn’t know I was allowed to want. I know I’ve said pieces of that before—but not like this. Not all at once.
I don’t know what comes next. But I know I’m better for having known you.
I hope you keep the fire going. I hope Holly & Pine stays bright. I hope you remember that you changed someone’s life just by being who you are.
—Rudy
I folded the note carefully, like it was something breakable, and set it where he’d see it first. By the keys. By the door. Impossible to miss.
The house felt different once I was standing there with my coat on.
Still warm. Still safe. Still his.
Just no longer mine.
Outside, the cold hit me hard and clean. Snow crunched under my boots as I crossed the yard, breath puffing white in the dark. I loaded the last of my things into the car with hands that barely felt like they belonged to me anymore.
When I started the engine, the sound felt obscene. Too loud. Too final.
I didn’t look back at the house.
I knew if I did, I wouldn’t leave.
The road out of Winterhaven was quiet, snow-dusted and pale under the headlights. Trees loomed on either side, their branches heavy and dark, like they were watching me go.
I drove for a long time before I realized my hands were shaking.
An hour passed. Maybe two.
The sky lightened slowly, gray bleeding into blue, dawn creeping in like it didn’t want to disturb anything. My thoughts circled, restless and relentless.
I kept seeing him asleep.
The way his arm had rested over me like it belonged there. The way he’d held me the night before, not like he was afraid of losing me but like he trusted I was real.
I swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind my eyes.
Why am I leaving?
The question surfaced unbidden, sharp and persistent.
I didn’t have a job pulling me back. My work lived in my laptop. My apartment waited, yes—but it wasn’t home. It was just a place where I slept and paid rent and tried not to feel lonely inside.
I had nothing in Chicago that couldn’t be packed into boxes or canceled with a phone call.
Nothing except habit.
Nothing except fear.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening.
I’d come to Winterhaven because of a story. Because two queer men had fallen in love and built something lasting out of it. I’d told myself I was just passing through. Just visiting. Just taking a break.
I hadn’t planned on finding something that felt like home.
I hadn’t planned on finding him.
The road stretched out ahead of me, empty and endless, lines blurring under the tires. Snow started falling again, light but steady, like the world was trying to soften the edges of everything.
My chest hurt.
Not because I’d left.
But because I’d never wanted to stay anywhere this badly before.
I let the car keep moving, the miles ticking by, my heart hammering with a question I wasn’t ready to answer yet.
But it was there now.
Loud.
Persistent.
Why am I driving away from the only place that ever felt like home?
The road didn’t answer.
It just kept going.
And so did I.