Graham’s hand is still in mine. His thumb strokes once across my knuckles, a small, unconscious motion that goes straight to the center of me.
“Walk with me?” I ask quietly.
He nods, and together we slip away from the thinning crowd, heading toward the quieter end of Main Street. We stop at the corner where our cars are parked. He looks at me like he’s waiting for permission to stay near, to follow, to belong. I take a breath.
“I don’t have a big Christmas dinner waiting at home,” I tell him, a little shy, a little nervous. “But, I can find ussomething good to eat. Something to drink. If you want to come over.”
His expression changes — subtle, but unmistakable. A drawn breath, a softening around the eyes, a depth in his gaze that tells me he heard everything underneath the words.
“I want that,” he says. “More than you know.”
“Okay,” I murmur. “Follow me.”
He nods, giving my hand one last squeeze before letting go so we can get into our separate vehicles. I watch him climb into his SUV, snow collecting in his dark hair, expression focused entirely on me. The drive is short and quick.
I pull into my driveway and he parks behind me. When we step out, the air feels gentler, the snowfall fine as powdered sugar drifting down from the sky.
Inside, I hang my coat and take his, placing it beside mine. For a moment, the sight of them together — his large, dark coat alongside my smaller maroon one — feels like something symbolic. Something domestic. Something that fits.
He glances around my living room with quiet appreciation, taking in the warm lamplight, the woven throw blanket on the couch, the simple garland along the window.
“It feels like you,” he says softly.
The words warm me more.
“Wine?” I ask.
“I’d love some.”
I open a bottle of red I’d been saving and pour two glasses. He stands near the counter, watching me with that attentive, grounding presence he has. It’s intense but not heavy, like he’s here with me, not over me.
We settle on the couch with our glasses, feet tucked up comfortably, the soft glow of the lamp wrapping everything in amber.
For a long, easy moment, we just sit. Sip. Breathe.
Then he says quietly, “The parade … that was something.”
I smile into my glass. “You saw their faces.”
His gaze softens. “Yeah. I did.”
“Happy,” I say. “Surprised. A little overwhelmed.”
He lets out a small, humble laugh. “I think some people around town suspect it was me.”
“Well,” I tease lightly, bumping his shoulder with mine, “that’s what happens when you sneak generosity into a small town. Someone’s going to talk.”
“I really didn’t want attention.”
“I know,” I say, meeting his eyes. “But that’s why it meant so much.”
He looks down for a moment, thumb brushing absently over the stem of his wine glass. “I just … wanted kids to have something special. To create a special moment they’d remember.”
I study him — the man everyone assumes is all business, all ambition, all strategy. But I’ve seen the man underneath.
“You realize,” I say softly, “you’ve created a new tradition.”
His head lifts. “Yeah?”
