Page 79 of Cold Comeback
Suddenly, his expression changed.
He was reading something on his phone, and the warmth drained from his face. His shoulders tensed.
He shoved the device back into his pocket without responding to whatever he'd received, but the damage was done. He excusedhimself from the kids; fifteen minutes later, I found him in the hallway near the coat check, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed while he tried to control his breathing.
"Bad news?"
He opened his eyes and pulled out his phone, showing me the message without comment:
Dad:Saw the cameras. Remember, this is about redemption. Don't screw it up.
No holiday greetings. No acknowledgment that his son was volunteering at a community event, bringing joy to children who would remember the day for years.
Minutes ago, kids surrounded him and hung on his every word. They valued his freely offered attention.
Now, he stared at a message from the person whose approval he'd spent his life chasing—approval that came with terms and conditions, expiration dates, and the constant threat of withdrawal.
"Didn't even say Merry Christmas," Thatcher muttered, his voice flat.
His father's timing was particularly cruel. Thatcher had spent the morning experiencing genuine appreciation for who he was. It was the unconditional acceptance he'd been looking for his entire life.
And then came the reminder that the person who mattered most still saw him as a project that needed managing.
"Come here."
I pulled him into an empty supply closet, away from the celebration and prying eyes. The cramped space smelled like industrial cleaner and construction paper. We heard the muffled sounds of people choosing to spend their Christmas with us through the thin walls.
In the small space, I saw the exhaustion in Thatcher's eyes. It was the bone-deep weariness of someone who'd spent decades trying to earn something that was never truly available.
"I need to say something." I touched his cheek with my fingertips. "I've been questioning your authenticity when the problem was my own fear."
"Gideon—"
"No, let me finish. I watched you with those kids today. You weren't performing for anyone. You weren't calculating how your interactions would look or what they might accomplish. You were present. That's it, completely there with them."
His eyes searched mine.
"That's who you are when you're not trying to be someone else," I continued. "Patient. Funny. Interested in people because they're people, not because they can give you something. When you made a terrible paper snowflake, it made a child smile. You invented hockey stories about reindeer because a little girl asked a question and deserved an answer."
Thatcher leaned against the closet wall, closing his eyes.
"I've been so afraid of not deserving this," I admitted. "I made you prove you were worth the risk, but you've been worth it from the beginning. The problem was never whether you were real enough. The problem was whether I was brave enough to believe I could have something this good."
When he opened his eyes, tears glistened at the corners. "What if being real isn't about having all the answers?" he whispered. "What if it's about choosing each other even when we're scared? Even when we don't know what comes next?"
"I think that is what it's about." My words felt like a vow I'd never expected to make.
Our kiss was tender and unhurried. We chose to express intimacy despite the possibility that cameras could find us at any moment.
Thatcher's hands settled on my hips. When we broke apart, he was smiling—a real smile that started in his eyes and made him look years younger.
"Merry Christmas, Gideon."
"Merry Christmas."
From the main hall, Blake's voice echoed. "Can we get a reset on the community interaction footage? The lighting changed."
We both laughed.
