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.
