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 SILVERWAREand 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.
