They’d skated ahead of us—Morgan laughing too loudly, Michelle concentrating so hard her tongue peeked out at the corner of her mouth.
I slowed, letting a few feet open between us.
Creed didn’t notice right away.
He’d stopped near the railing, one hand resting casually against the edge, posture loose enough to look relaxed.But his eyes never left them.
Not the indulgent smile he wore when they were performing for him.Not the playful patience he offered when they tugged at his sleeve.
This was different.
He watched them like he was cataloging every wobble, every burst of laughter, every way they leaned into joy without hesitation.
There was no calculation in his expression.No control.
Just stillness.
And something that looked dangerously close to grief.
His jaw tightened, not in irritation—but restraint.As if he were holding back a thought too heavy to name.His fingers curled briefly against the rail, then loosened, like he’d caught himself wanting something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.
Then Morgan fell.Nothing dramatic—just a clumsy slide to the ice.She popped up laughing before I could even move.
But Creed had already stepped forward.
He stopped himself halfway there, checking her reaction first.Waiting to see if she needed him.When she didn’t, he stayed where he was.
But the look on his face lingered.Something unguarded.Unrehearsed.A man standing at the edge of a life he hadn’t planned for—and didn’t know how to step away from.
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t need to.
Because in that moment, watching him watch them, I understood the truth he hadn’t spoken yet.
This wasn’t fear of loving me.
This was fear of belonging.
And once you let yourself imagine a place you fit, walking away becomes unbearable.
That evening, after the girls had dinner, bathed, and were asleep, the house settled into a rare, fragile quiet.
Creed stood in the doorway of the living room, jacket draped over one arm, his phone dark in his hand.The lights were low, the Christmas tree blinking softly in the corner, its glow catching in the angles of his face.
He hadn’t moved toward the door yet.But he hadn’t set his jacket down either.
“You don’t have to rush off,” I said lightly, from where I was stacking mugs in the kitchen.I didn’t look at him when I said it.Didn’t want to make it feel like a test.
Silence answered me.
Not avoidance.Consideration.
“I should,” he said finally.His voice was even, measured.Too measured.“But I have an early morning.”
I nodded, rinsing the sink longer than necessary.“Of course.”
Another pause.
