Chapter 9
The house smelled likehome—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.
