Page 54 of Don't Shoot Me Santa
He knew Aaron saw himself in that lurcher. Knew the ache came from a place not only of compassion, but recognition. Aaron’s empathy had been carved out of survival. Moulded by every careless hand. Every rough word. Every time someone took too much or left too little. And those sharp, rusted edges Aaron had forged from every bruise life had handed him? Kenny had taken them on. One by one. Not smoothed them. Not asked him to change. But… held them. Got cut on them more than once, too.
But he never let go.
“Bollocks.” Aaron swiped his eyes, trying for casual and landing nowhere near. He peeked sideways. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. You’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to crack open. Bleed a bit.” Kenny looked across at him. “With me, you don’t have to perform. You don’t have to be brave. You’re allowed to be angry. Messy. Quiet. Soft. You’re allowed to be anything.”
Aaron blinked hard. Swallowed harder. He dropped back into the seat, then turned to look at Kenny.
Christ, this man.
This insufferably calm, infuriatingly kind bastard somehow hadn’t fucked off yet. Two years of chaos, lashing out, running hot and cold and colder, and Kenny had stayed. No guilt trips. No ultimatums. No disappearing acts. Andsomething inside Aaron, something brittle and long-splintered, gave way. It cracked open wide enough for the truth to crawl out. Not dressed up. Not made safe. Raw and shaking and real.
“Please don’t leave me.”
The words fell out like a wound splitting.
Kenny snapped his head towards him, a flick of the eyes from road to passenger, but it was enough. He’d heard it. Felt it. The weight of that plea hung between them like a third heartbeat.
Loud. Unignorable.
“I don’t think I’ll survive if you did.” Aaron tried for a smile, but it sagged, broken at the edges. “Not to, like, guilt trip you or anything.”
Kenny took Aaron’s hand, stroking his thumb over his pulse and lifted it to his lips. “I won’t. Couldn’t.” He then kissed the underside of his wrist, lips right on that pulse point. “Not even if you told me to.”
Aaron breathed out a smile. Settled a bit. Then laced his fingers in with Kenny’s and held their joined hands on his lap. Thank fuck for automatic cars. And Kenny. A man who was one of a kind and somehow, impossibly, his.
They didn’t talk much after that.
And after twenty minutes driving out of town, past the coastal roads, inland and sloped, where the wind smelled less of sea salt and more like turned earth and woodsmoke, they arrived at the tree farm. Chaos in the boot, tongue lolling like a fool, thudded his tail against the crate thinking he was getting the long walkies tonight.
The farm was quiet. Eerily dark, too. Fairy lights strung haphazardly along the barn roof, blinking in warm, uneven strands, and the field stretched out behind it, sloped withdamp mud, rows of frost dusted pine trees, needles catching the glow like scattered tinsel.
Aaron stepped out of the car and pulled his coat tighter, breath misting in the cold. Chaos whined in the back, but they left him in the crate for now. This was a two-man mission. Especially when the crooked hand-painted sign nailed to the barn wall, its red lettering slightly chipped, made Aaron snort.
Cut Your Own. Saws Provided. Mind Your Fingers.
“Health and safety’s having a stroke.”
Kenny smirked as he came up behind him, slipping a glove-warmed hand into Aaron’s back pocket. “Adds to the charm.”
“If you saw your hand off, there’s still no excuses. You can use your mouth.”
“To cut a tree?” Kenny arched an eyebrow, then slipped his hand out of Aaron’s back pocket to grab the rusted, and suspiciously sticky, saw from the leaning rack.
He angled his head towards the field and Aaron followed him towards the trees all stood in wonky rows, some tall and pristine, others gloriously chaotic, lopsided limbs jutting out like elbows in a crowd. They walked the rows, boot soles sinking into the wet ground and Kenny kept close. As if he could feel the noise in Aaron’s head still buzzing. Blackwell’s hand on his neck, the dog’s ribs, the snap of something raw beneath his skin.
Aaron stopped.
A tree stood slightly apart. It wasn’t the prettiest. Nor even symmetrical. But it was full of character. Limbs uneven, one side too thick, a chunk missing near the bottom as if it had fought for light and lost.
Perfectly broken.
“That one.” He pointed to it.
Kenny stepped beside him, eyes scanning it the way he did a crime scene. “It’s certainly tragic.”
Aaron shrugged. “Tragic’s our brand, right?”
