Chapter 9
The house smelled like home—a rich medley of cinnamon, roasted turkey, and the faint sweetness of a chocolate cake cooling on the counter. Laughter echoed through the kitchen, wrapping around the walls, making the air feel lighter, warmer.
Morgan and Michelle flitted around like whirlwinds, their hands reaching for anything they could stir, mash, or sneak a taste of. Their energy was infectious, a beautiful kind of chaos that filled every inch of the house.
Aunt Ruth stood at the helm, her apron dusted with flour, cheeks flushed from the oven’s heat, her movements practiced and steady. She was the center of it all, the quiet authority that kept Thanksgiving from spiraling into absolute madness.
It was perfect.
The kind of day I needed after weeks of drowning in doubt, in the silence stretching between Creed and me.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I was present. Not waiting.
“Mommy, are we putting marshmallows on the sweet potatoes?” Michelle’s bright eyes were wide with excitement.
“Of course,” I said, handing her the bag of mini marshmallows. “What’s Thanksgiving without marshmallows?”
Morgan wrinkled her nose. “Marshmallows on vegetables are gross.”
“You’re gross,” Michelle shot back, sticking out her tongue.
“Enough, you two,” Aunt Ruth said, her voice stern but warm. “It’s Thanksgiving, not WrestleMania.”
I laughed, the sound unexpected, almost foreign in my own ears. When was the last time I had laughed like this? So light and easy.
By three o’clock, the table was a masterpiece of holiday perfection. A centerpiece of autumn leaves and glowing candles flickered softly in the sunlight. The twins had insisted on writing place cards for everyone, their messy scrawl charming in a way no elegant calligraphy ever could.
For the first time in weeks, everything felt right.
There was a knock at the door. The sound sent a ripple through the fragile peace I had wrapped around myself.
Aunt Ruth glanced toward the entryway, wiping her hands on her apron. “Now, who could that be?”
A neighbor, maybe. A last-minute guest. But in the pit of my stomach, something tightened. I knew.
“I’ll get it,” I murmured, forcing my feet forward, my pulse a steady drumbeat in my ears.
I reached for the doorknob and pulled it open—
And there was Creed.
Standing on the porch, backlit by the late afternoon sun, his silhouette haunting and breathtaking.
His long hair, usually tied back in precise control, hung loose, catching the light in golden strands. It softened the hard edges of him, made him look almost ethereal—almost untouchable. But I knew better.
He wasn’t dressed for the comfort of the home I had just stepped out of. The tailored overcoat, crisp black slacks, and the gleam of polished shoes—all of it was a stark contrast to the cozy disarray inside.
And in his hands was a gourmet pie, wrapped in a bright crimson ribbon. A holiday gesture. But nothing about this moment felt simple.
I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the doorframe. “Creed.”
His name was a whisper. A question. A plea.
His gray eyes locked onto mine, unreadable, dark. For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The tension between us was thick, stretched tight like a wire about to snap.
I should have asked him why he was here. I should have told him to leave.
But I couldn’t.
Because in his eyes, beneath the storm of control, buried under the weight of everything unspoken, there was something raw. Something that made my chest ache.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your holiday,” he said finally, his voice low, almost hesitant—a crack in his usual restraint. “I just... I thought this might be a nice gesture.”
He held up the pie—pecan, from a Michelin-starred restaurant I could never afford, the red ribbon a bright, festive contrast to the heavy silence hanging between us.
A peace offering.
Before I could respond, Aunt Ruth appeared at my side, her face lighting up in a way that sent a sharp twist through my stomach.
“Creed! Happy Thanksgiving. What a pleasant surprise.” Her warm voice filled the air, her gaze flicking between us, seeing too much. She always had. “You’re just in time for dinner.”
“Oh, he probably doesn’t—”
“Nonsense,” Aunt Ruth interrupted, already pulling the door open wider. “He’s staying for dinner.”
Creed’s jaw tensed, his gray eyes flickering with something unreadable—reluctance, gratitude, maybe both. He hesitated for only a second, then stepped inside.
And just like that, the room felt smaller. The air heavier.
As if his presence alone shifted the gravity of the space.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he murmured, softer now, handing Aunt Ruth the pie. “And I’d love to join you.”
The twins burst into the room, their giggles and rapid-fire questions colliding in a frenzy of energy that shattered the strained quiet.
“Mister! Are you staying for dinner?”
“Do you like mashed potatoes?”
Creed crouched slightly, his rare, small smile tugging at his lips. “One question at a time,” he said, his voice taking on a warmth I hadn’t heard in weeks.
The sound of it—the way his guard slipped so easily with them, the way his presence always settled them—was too much.
Too familiar. Too painful.
“Peyton, help me get another place setting,” Aunt Ruth said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I nodded numbly, following her into the kitchen. My hands moved on autopilot—plates, silverware, napkins—while my mind raced.
What was he doing here? Why now?
Aunt Ruth didn’t ask questions. But the way she glanced at me as she poured another glass of eggnog told me she was thinking the same thing.
When we returned to the dining room, Creed was already seated, the twins flanking him, their animated chatter filling the space between the things we weren’t saying.
He looked impossibly at ease, as if he hadn’t been the one ignoring me for weeks. As if he hadn’t walked away from me repeatedly.
Aunt Ruth placed the pecan pie in the center of the table with ceremonial reverence, declaring it the perfect addition to our meal.
I slid into my chair, my pulse thudding painfully in my ears.
Creed’s gaze flicked to mine. A brief connection. And yet, it felt like a wire pulled taut, humming between us, waiting to snap.
The turkey sat untouched in the center of the table, the carving knife gleaming under the candlelight.
The weight of his presence, of everything unspoken between us, hung thick in the air.
The silence stretched—long enough for the twins to squirm in their seats, for my chest to grow tight with expectation.
Creed didn’t look away. And I couldn’t.
Because no matter what had happened between us—no matter how far apart we had drifted, how deep the wounds had cut—I still felt the pull of him. The undeniable, unbearable truth.
He was still mine.
And I was still his.
Aunt Ruth’s voice broke through the tension, grounding the moment in something simpler.
“Shall we?” she asked, lifting the carving knife.
And just like that, Thanksgiving began with Creed Kirkland seated at our table.
* * *
THE CLINK OF SILVERWARE and the soft scrape of chairs filled the room as everyone settled. Aunt Ruth began carving the turkey with ceremonial care, her movements calm, deliberate, like she’d done this a hundred times before and knew exactly how to keep the moment from tipping into chaos.
Creed sat straight-backed, composed, but I noticed the details he probably didn’t realize he was revealing.
The way his shoulders stayed squared, as if bracing.
The way his gaze tracked the twins’ movements automatically, protective without intention.
The way his hands rested flat on the table, palms down—control, always control.
“Mister,” Morgan said suddenly, peering up at him with solemn curiosity. “Do you have kids?”
The room stilled.
Not dramatically. But I felt it—the subtle hitch in the air, the way Creed’s presence tightened by a degree.
“No,” he said after a beat. His voice was even. Neutral. “I don’t.”
“Why not?” Michelle asked, undeterred. “My mommy says kids make life messy but fun.”
Aunt Ruth shot them a look. “That’s enough questions.”
But Creed surprised all of us.
“They do,” he said quietly. His gaze stayed on his plate, but the words carried weight. “They make everything... louder.”
The twins giggled, taking that as approval.
I watched him instead.
There was something almost reverent in the way he observed them—like he was studying a language he’d never been taught. Chaos without punishment. Noise without consequence. Love that didn’t need to be earned.
Aunt Ruth slid a plate in front of him, generous portions of everything. “Eat,” she said gently. “No one thinks clearly when they’re hungry.”
Creed hesitated. Just for a second. Then he picked up his fork. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.
Conversation resumed, lighter now. Stories about past Thanksgivings. The twins arguing over who got the bigger roll. Aunt Ruth scolding them and sneaking them extra gravy anyway. I found myself smiling without forcing it, my shoulders loosening as the warmth seeped back in.
Across the table, Creed ate slowly. Thoughtfully. Like he was tasting more than food. Every so often, his gaze lifted—to the twins, to Aunt Ruth, to the center of the table—and once, briefly, to me.
No heat.
No challenge.
Just... awareness.
It was somehow more intimate than anything we’d shared lately.
At one point, Michelle climbed into his lap without warning, declaring him “the best chair in the house.” I nearly stood, apology already on my lips—but Creed stilled her gently, one hand steady at her back.
“It’s fine,” he said quietly.
And it was.
He held her there, patient, solid, as she whispered something in his ear that made his mouth curve. It wasn’t a smile exactly, but something close. Something unguarded.
My chest tightened. This was what terrified him.
Not intimacy.
But this—connection without control. Love that didn’t demand obedience or fear.
When dessert was served, Aunt Ruth cut the pecan pie with exaggerated ceremony. “A gift deserves respect,” she said pointedly, shooting Creed a knowing look.
He inclined his head. “Of course.”
As plates were passed, his fingers brushed mine.
Just briefly. Accidentally. But neither of us moved away. The contact wasn’t possessive. It was... tentative.
Testing.
His thumb pressed lightly, once, against my knuckle—like he was checking to see if I was still real.
I didn’t pull back. And he didn’t linger.
After dinner, as the twins were corralled toward the living room and Aunt Ruth began clearing plates, Creed rose.
“I should go,” he said quietly.
Not an escape.
A boundary.
Aunt Ruth looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Drive safe.”
“Thank you,” he said to her. “For... letting me stay.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” she replied simply before retreating toward the kitchen.
His gaze flicked to me. This time, he didn’t look away.
“I didn’t come to disrupt,” he said low. “I needed to see... something.”
I searched his face. “And did you see what you needed to see?”
A beat.
“Yes.”
He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.
“Walk me out.” His voice wasn’t a command this time. It was quieter. Deliberate.
I hesitated, searching his expression for some clue, some sign of what he was thinking. But as always, his face was unreadable, his gray eyes distant, withholding.
Not closed. Just... guarded.
I nodded and retrieved my coat while he turned back to Aunt Ruth, offering another thank-you for dinner and a polite farewell to the girls. I barely heard their responses.
I followed Creed toward the door with uneasiness. Not because I was afraid of him—but because I didn’t know which version of him would walk away.
Outside, the night was silent, thick with the kind of stillness that comes with the first snowfall. Tiny flakes floated down from the dark sky, catching in my hair and dissolving on my cheek as we stepped onto the porch.
Creed didn’t speak as we walked toward his car, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat. His broad shoulders seemed even more imposing under the soft glow of the streetlights.
When we reached the driver’s side door, he stopped, turning to face me. The snow dusted his hair, catching in the strands like frost, making him look almost unreal.
But his eyes told a different story. They weren’t cold. They were conflicted.
“Creed—”
He lifted a hand, asking for space rather than silence.
“You’re not forgiven,” he said plainly.
The ache spread through my chest, sharp but honest.
“Not yet,” he added. “And I won’t pretend otherwise.”
The words weren’t punishment. They were truth.
“But I didn’t come to punish you,” he continued.
“Then why did you come?” I asked.
He exhaled, a visible loosening of restraint. “Because staying away felt worse than leaving.”
The admission landed heavy.
He stepped closer, the space between us shrinking without threat.
“I needed to see you in a place that wasn’t about power,” he said quietly. “I needed to remember what you look like when you’re... grounded.”
My throat tightened.
“I don’t know what to do with what I feel,” he admitted, his voice rough. “Because everything I was taught says control keeps you safe.”
His jaw flexed. “And tonight proved that control can also starve you.”
I didn’t reach for him. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t plead.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” I said steadily. “And I’m not asking you to choose me.”
His gaze snapped to mine.
“I’m asking you to stop pretending you don’t feel this.”
Snow fell heavier now, the world narrowing to the space between us.
Creed’s hand lifted—hesitated—then settled against my cheek. Not ownership. A question.
“I don’t know how to let myself feel this,” he murmured. “Because once I do, I don’t get to decide where it stops.”
I leaned into his touch. “You don’t have to control the ending,” I said softly. “You just have to stay.”
Something in his expression fractured. Not weakness. Recognition.
“I don’t stay where I can’t trust myself,” he said quietly.
“Neither do I,” I replied. “That’s why this has to be a choice. Not a test.”
That did it. The shift was instant. Magnetic.
Creed’s mouth found mine, claiming through restraint.
The kiss was slow, controlled, deliberate, like he was tasting the choice instead of taking it.
Heat bloomed anyway, dangerous, and undeniable.
His hand slid into my hair, grounding. Mine fisted in his coat, not to pull him closer—but to stay.
The kiss deepened. Not desperate. Mutual. Earned.
When I pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, breath unsteady.
“Go inside,” he said quietly. It wasn’t dismissal. Protection.
I hesitated.
His thumb brushed my cheek once more. “This doesn’t fix anything,” he added. “But it means I’m still here.”
I stepped back before I could reach for him again.
The cold rushed where his warmth had been.
“I’ll call you,” he said. Not as control.
A promise.