1.
The Squirt was genuinely excited for Thanksgiving.
The holiday itself didn’t matter much to him. But it did to his dad, and that was enough. As a senior, this would be his last Thanksgiving living at home. Next year, he’d just be another holiday visitor, like his brother Trent.
His dad, Sam, who always called him Emmett, not Squirt, took the whole week to prepare the holiday meal. You wouldn’t guess it from his brawny build and scruffy jaw, but Sam was a dedicated cook. He used to joke that, before becoming a single father to three boys, steak was the only thing he could make. The Squirt, being the youngest, couldn’t remember those days. Watching his father command a Thanksgiving feast, it was hard to believe they ever existed.
Sam mastered cooking the same way he ran his carpentry business: with a craftsman’s eye and an unflagging heart.
These days, Sam didn’t have much occasion to show off in the kitchen. The boys were scattered. Trent lived in another city, engaged to a girl none of them had met. Chris drifted in and out of their lives, unpredictable as a stray cat. Sometimes Sam’s rugby buddies came over for chili or summer barbecues, but mostly it was just Sam and the Squirt in the old house on Box Hill, moving through daily routines like an old married couple with all the kids gone.
But this week wasn’t ordinary. This was the last Thanksgiving before everything changed.
Time was running out.
2.
No one was surprised when Chris didn’t confirm if he’d show for dinner. That was how it was with him. He made planning impossible—but when he did appear he was so charming that no one could remember the vexation. Then he’d disappear again, often without a word. After the spell of his company faded, those he charmed were left knowing nothing more about him than before.
With anyone else, it might have been tiresome, but grudges just didn’t stick to Chris. And as Sam always said, you had to cut him some slack, all things considered.
Somehow, Chris always managed to beat Trent home, showing up with that sixth sense of his. He wandered in as if he’d never left, slinking into Sam’s kitchen on slim hips, pouring himself coffee, and perching on the counter.
“Good morning, Christopher,” Sam said, flipping thick slices of challah French toast onto plates. “Forget something?”
Chris rolled his eyes, but slid down for the ritual hug and hair-tousle from Sam. He returned to his perch with a plate of hot, syrupy French toast in hand.
“Got some new ink?” Sam asked, nodding at Chris’s forearm as he set more French toast into a warming tray for Trent.
Chris held out his pale, veiny arm, showing off a band of Celtic knotwork. “A little Irish heritage, Sam.” He never called Sam “uncle.”
Sam studied the tattoo, made his Not-Bad face, and the Squirt felt unexpectedly warm watching them together.
The Learys were supposedly Irish, though Sam said they were really mutts—Irish, Scots, Czech, and a fair bit of mystery in some improvised stew of genetics. Trent and the Squirt barely looked related. Chris, Sam’s nephew, was the one who actually resembled him: same ash blond hair and jawline, but Chris was slim and wiry, unlike Sam or his own burly father, Hank.
Growing up surrounded by athletes—Chris with his feine build, Trent the wrestler, Sam and Uncle Hank playing rugby—the Squirt always felt like the odd one out: lanky and pale. But he’d grown into his own swimmer’s body, and he knew he was handsome in his way. Girls lined up, making heart eyes—ample evidence of his own appeal. He befriended each, but had no interest in high school romance. He had his dad to look after; the rest could wait for college.
Trent arrived in a navy suit and tie. Chris looked him up and down. “You travel like that?”
“Straight from an audit,” Trent said, putting his bag on a kitchen chair. “Airports are a shitshow. If you dress up, they treat you better.”
“Wouldn’t know,” Sam said, turning from the counter to open his arms for his firstborn.
Trent stepped in for a long bearhug. He groaned as Sam rocked him side to side, burying his face in Trent’s hair, his protests muffled by Sam’s chest. “Dad, your whiskers are scratchy.”
“Shhhh,” Sam hushed. “I haven’t seen you in almost a year. I just want to smell the top of my son's head. Put up with it for a minute."
It still seemed a shame to the Squirt that his brother, once a champion wrestler, had settled into a career as boring as a CPA. Even now, his jock body strained against the suit, the starched white collar cutting into his thick neck, the sleeves constraining his biceps. His curls rebelled, despite every effort to tame them. But Sam always said you couldn’t wish a different life on someone—just love them the best you can and hope they’re happy.
At almost ten years older, Trent was mostly a mystery to the Squirt. He was all sports, all the time when he lived at home, then gone to college on a wrestling scholarship, and from there straight to a big accounting firm in the Midwest. The memory of him still loomed large at home, trophies on every shelf, old photos in his wrestling singlet and square jaw everywhere.
“Hey, Squirt,” Trent said, grabbing a plate.
“Emmett,” the Squirt corrected.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” Trent laughed, and even Chris grinned. Nicknames were hard to shake.
Sam ignored them, pulling out the roasting pan, rack and baster. The turkey wouldn’t go in until tomorrow, but he liked to test his gear, especially the stuff he only used once a year. He ran hot water, squeezed the bulb of the baster, and watched it swell in his hand.
“When you’re done eating,” he told the boys, “take your stuff up to your rooms. I need the kitchen. Christopher, guest room’s all set for you.”
“Actually,” the Squirt said, “it’s not. I invited Roger to sleep over.”
Sam, startled, squeezed the baster, sending a warm jet of water arcing onto the counter in a wet splat. “You invited Roger to sleep over?”
“Well, yeah,” the Squirt said. “Everyone gets so full, it just seemed easier.”
“I can just go home,” Chris offered, but both Sam and the Squirt insisted he stay.
“You can sleep with Trent,” the Squirt said. Trent shrugged. The arrangement was nothing new.
“It was thoughtful of you to invite Roger,” Sam said. “But I wish you’d told me. I had breakfast planned and my numbers are off.”
“He can have mine,” the Squirt said. “I don’t care.”
“Any other surprises, Emmett?” Sam asked, blond eyebrow raised.
“No sir,” the Squirt said, hand over his heart. “No surprises.”
He hadn’t meant to work against Sam’s plans, but it was necessary to his designs to tie up the guest room.
Mentally, the Squirt checked his list. Six guests, four beds, a sofa:
-
Dad—his own room
-
The Squirt—his own room
-
Trent—attic bedroom
-
Chris—sharing with Trent
-
Roger—guest room
-
Uncle Hank, if he showed—the sofa, where he’d pass out anyway
All according to plan.
3.
Trent and Chris climbed the attic stairs, their footsteps echoing in the narrow stairwell. Trent led the way, his walk still carrying that old wrestler’s swagger, broad shoulders rolling under his crisp shirt. Chris followed, a little slower, watching the way Trent’s pants clung to his rear.
There wasn't a single date anyone could point to when Chris moved in. It must have started slowly, during his father Hank's string of sour marriages and divorces. Could Chris stay over for a few hours? Could he spend the night? Nights became weekends and then school breaks, and before long he was spending as much time in Sam's house as he did Uncle Hank’s, and then even more.
Sam would have offered to try to make it official—Chris was as much his boy as Trent and the Squirt. But it was understood by all that though the arrangement suited Uncle Hank, he'd never acknowledge it. For all of his chaotic life, it was well known that he never let a slight—real or perceived—go unmet. If it seemed Sam was taking Chris, the insult would earn a slap down, disrupting an arrangement that served everyone reasonably well. So they carried on, Chris sharing Trent's bed, as if every night were just a sleepover.
Eventually, Sam renovated the attic to make a room for Trent, leaving his old room for Chris—or as they referred to it to keep the peace, the guest room. That way each boy could have a room of his own. But on the first night, Chris trudged up the attic stairs in his hand-me-down pajamas behind Trent as if Sam hadn't gone through the trouble. They were so used to sleeping together, neither wanted to be alone. Sam relented and bought a queen-size bed for the growing boys, and it was understood by everyone but Uncle Hank that Trent's room was Chris's too.
It still looked the same: shelves crammed with wrestling trophies, a few empty spaces where Chris had briefly kept some schoolbooks and changes of clothes.
“You didn’t leave anything behind,” Trent said, voice low.
Chris’s mouth curled. “Not my room.”
Trent rolled his eyes, pulling the tie off, then yanking his shirt open, buttons scraping over skin. “Shut up. It’s as much yours as mine.”
Chris let his gaze linger over Trent’s body, watching muscles shift beneath the thin tank top that clung to him like a singlet. “Wasn’t the same without you,” he said.
Trent peeled the tank over his head, skin flushed, chest rising with every quick breath. He caught Chris staring and held his gaze, letting the shirt drop to the floor. The air between them tightened, charged.
Chris pushed off from the dresser, closing the space in a couple of steps. His fingers traced down Trent’s chest, skimming the dark hair at the center, the hard line of pecs. “I missed this.” His voice was a whisper.
Trent’s pulse kicked. He slid his hands around Chris’s hips, feeling how slim he still was, how that body seemed built to fit against his. Their mouths met—first slow, testing, then urgent, hungry. Chris’s hands tangled in Trent’s curls, dragging him closer, lips parting, tongues colliding. It was messy—long stretches of wanting packed into the space of a single gasp.
“You never called,” Trent managed, his voice rough, lips brushing Chris’s jaw.
Chris’s mouth ghosted over his ear. “Didn’t want to talk to your girlfriend.”
Trent’s laugh was a snarl. “Fuck you.”
He caught Chris’s shirt in both fists and dragged it off. Chris’s skin was pale, stretched taut over lean muscle and new ink. His fingers shook as they mapped the tattoos—script, a joker’s grin, the Celtic knots, and — there, at his wrist where the blue veins showed through his pale skin, a heart ringed by a crown. Taken from the Claddagh ring. Trent kissed it softly. Chris's first ink.
“You’re still in fighting shape,” Chris said, voice trembling. “For a CPA.”
Trent gripped Chris’s ass and lifted him up, tossing him onto the bed. “I can still take you,” he growled, climbing over him. He pressed his face into Chris’s stomach, dragging his nose along the faint line of pale hair, breathing deep. He gulped as his eyes and trembling fingers ran over Chris's lean muscle and ivory skin.
He hooked his thumbs in Chris’s waistband, dragging jeans and briefs down in one greedy motion. Chris’s cock sprang free, flushed and slick, and Trent’s mouth watered. He bent, pressing a kiss to the shaft, then licked up the length, slow and deliberate, savoring the shudder that shot through Chris’s body.
Trent tore at his own belt, wrenching his pants and boxers down, cock hard and aching, already leaking. He straddled Chris, lining them up, gripping both cocks together—his thick and ruddy, Chris’s long and pale. He stroked them together, watching Chris’s head tip back, mouth open, helpless.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” Chris whispered, voice rough, hand sliding up to grip Trent’s hip, thumb digging into the muscle.
Even in his late twenties, Trent was still every inch the college jock, broad in his chest and shoulders, bull-necked. His compact body showed muscle easily, seeming to flex with every breath. He had a natural tan, even in November, several shades darker than the rest of the family, his nipples the color of copper pennies. The mesh of hair at the center of his chest and his pubes was deep brown and downy.
Trent grinned, leaning in to kiss him, slow and deep, hips grinding, smearing precum between their bellies. He slid a hand down, spat into his palm, stroked Chris’s cock.
“Want you in me,” Trent breathed, voice a plea.
Trent rose up on his knees, straddling his cousin, flexing his ass and thighs, He reached down to tuck Chris's cock under him and then up between his solid ass cheeks, slowly rolling his hips up and then down again, against the long dripping cock. He spat into his hand and reached around to lube Chris again before pulling his cheeks apart.
“Dude, what would your girlfriend say—” Chris managed, even as his cock teased Trent’s hole.
Trent cut him off with a kiss, tongue searching, desperate. “This doesn’t count,” he groaned, rolling his hips, teasing, the friction dizzying, perfect.
Chris barked a laugh, voice breaking. "Two sets of books? Funny math there, bro."
Trent froze, the words hitting him square in the chest. He pulled off Chris with a ragged gasp, cock slipping free.
“I’ll take the couch,” he said, voice flat, not meeting Chris’s eyes. “The Squirt shouldn’t have put us together.”
He rolled away, grabbing for his sweats, yanking them on with shaking hands
"I'm going downstairs." he said, zipping the hoodie halfway up, leaving visible his chest hair and the parting of his pecs.
Trent turned on his heels and left, his round ass cheeks bouncing on every step.
"Fucker," whispered Chris under his breath, alone. "You know what you're doing to me."
4.
“Emmett,” Sam called, inspecting his three pumpkin pies and picking the best looking. “Take this over to the Phams, will you? If I go, I’ll get stuck talking, and I want to get the stuffing prepped before bed.”
"Dad, I don't know if they even like pie."
Sam looked taken aback, offended by the very idea. "Emmett," he said gravely, "everyone likes pie."
The Squirt rolled his eyes, but took the glass dish, grateful for the warmth in his hands as he slipped out the kitchen door into the chilly dusk between houses.
He’d hoped Mrs. Pham would answer, but when the door opened it was Tai, standing there in shorts, as usual, and looking at the Squirt like he’d been expecting him.
“Hey, Tai,” the Squirt said, a little too loudly. He thrust the pie forward, hoping Tai would just take it and shut the door. No such luck.
“Hi, Emmett,” Tai replied, flat as ever, stepping aside. “Come in.”
Inside, Hoa Mai, the Phams’ little barking dog, bounced between Tai’s shins. The Squirt forced a polite smile, glancing at Tai’s bare legs—calves like carved wood, slightly hairy, exposed in his unseasonal shorts.
He never knew what to say to Tai. It wasn’t just the silences, or the way Tai’s English was perfect, except for every now and then—like when he'd say inanimate objects were younger when he meant newer.
It wasn’t even the shorts he wore in November, or the way his soccer socks fit him just so. Or the way Tai walked in that flat footed way of his. It was just… everything that made him the most irritating person in the world.
“My dad made you a pie. Pumpkin. For Thanksgiving,” the Squirt said, setting it down.
Tai gave a faint smile, almost a smirk. “I know what Thanksgiving is, Emmett.”
"So..." said the Squirt, looking around for Mrs. Pham to break up the awkward exchange. "Making a turkey?"
"For what?" asked Tai.
"For Thanksgiv... oh,” said the Squirt, realizing he’d stepped into a joke.
Tai’s lips twitched. “How else would we have turkey phở for the next week?”
The Squirt snorted, unsure if he was being teased. “So. Stop over tomorrow. If you want. Around five.”
He hadn’t meant to say it, but there it was—an invitation hanging in the air, impossible to take back.
As the Squirt turned to go, he couldn’t help glancing back at Tai’s shins, still half-hidden behind the little yapping dog.
Fucking Tai Pham and his calves. The Squirt didn't have time for this.
5.
Wednesday dinner was different. Instead of Sam and the Squirt’s usual habit—bowls on laps, seated on the couch, TV on—Sam made them eat in the dining room. The table felt too big, the light a little too bright.
The Squirt watched the tension simmer between Trent and Chris, the way Trent slouched in his chair, fists balled in the front of his hoodie, pulling it down low, exposing the thatch of chest hair peeking out over the zippered V, eyes fixed anywhere but on his cousin.
The more Trent clammed up, the more animated Chris became, chatting with Sam, laughing at the dad-jokes, even the really bad puns. It only made Trent sulk deeper, his mouth set in a stubborn line. The Squirt recognized the old dynamic: when they weren’t getting along, they each dug their own trench and waited the other out.
Trying to cut the tension, the Squirt nudged Trent. “Did you see Chris’s new tattoos?”
“Yup,” Trent said, chewing a thumbnail.
The Squirt frowned, annoyed at how hard it was to get his brother to play along.
Sam either didn’t notice or pretended not to. He lived by a policy of not interfering—“Let them work it out,” he’d say. He was so annoying in that way.
He had his own priorities: prepping the stuffing for tomorrow, his favorite part of the meal. He claimed the flavors needed time to “marry,” though the Squirt suspected it was just an excuse to spend another hour in the kitchen, fussing.
Sam pulled out his Aretha Franklin playlist, filling the house with Rock Steady. As he chopped onions and celery, his big forearms flexed subtly, knife moving with practiced rhythm.
“Trent,” Sam called, pouring the diced veggies into a pan of melted butter, “come stir this.”
Trent rolled his eyes, but Sam insisted with a pointed look. “Come on. I’ve got mushrooms to cut, bread to cube—”
“I’ll help,” Chris offered, already rising from his chair.
“Good man,” Sam said, tossing him a bag of mushrooms. Chris caught it one-handed and started slicing, his movements easy and loose-limbed.
Trent shuffled over to the stove, poking at the pan. His stirring was sporadic and half-hearted, so Sam slipped behind him, guiding his hand. “Like this,” Sam said, demonstrating the motion. Trent sighed, but let himself be led. The room filled with the scent of butter and onions, and slowly, Trent’s resistance melted, just a little.
Aretha’s voice washed over them, and Sam started moving to the beat, hips swaying. By the time he poured hot broth over dried porcini—his secret to good stuffing, he said—he was moving in sync with the music.
Chris caught the rhythm too, in his loose limbed way, and even Trent bounced on the balls of his feet. He had the hint of a smile, his curls loosening in the kitchen steam.
You couldn't resist Aretha, Sam always said.
Sam moved through his kitchen on subtly grinding hips and rolling shoulders, more gracefully than anyone would expect from a man with his rugger build. He nodded his approval at Chris's cutting technique and passed near Trent, giving the boy his space as he managed his task.
The Squirt watched it all—the task-doling, the little dance, the easy way Sam worked the room—and felt a pang of nostalgia. Sam could’ve done all this himself, but it was better with everyone in the kitchen, even if no one said so.
Trying again, the Squirt asked Trent, “Ever think of moving back home?” The question landed like a brick in the middle of the room.
Everyone turned to look at Trent.
“What?” Trent asked, stiffening. “No. No.”
“Could use a set of hands at the shop,” Sam said gently, resting a fist on his aproned hip. “You could manage the books.”
Trent shot a look. “Thanks, Squirt,” he said, voice flat.
Well, that was smooth, the Squirt thought, heat prickling his cheeks.
He blamed his irritation with Tai for throwing him off his game, but still, why did Trent have to be so difficult? He had it all—good looks, a job he wanted, even if it was stupid, a girlfriend, unfortunately.
What did Chris even see in him?
6.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” Sam said, grinning as Roger walked in, arms loaded with heavy casserole dishes.
“I’m not having Thanksgiving without my Nan’s sweet potatoes,” Roger replied, flashing that easy smile. There was a relaxed confidence in the way he moved. Maybe because he was so handsome.
“Oh, you think I can’t make sweet potatoes?” Sam shot back, both of them gripping the casserole like it was a trophy. For a second, neither let go.
Roger winked. “You do okay for a white boy.” He finally relinquished the dish, and Sam set it on the counter.
They hugged—a quick, back-slapping bro hug. “Glad you could be here,” Sam said, his voice deep and warm
“The ER can live without me for a day,” Roger said, shucking off his coat.
The Squirt watched them from across the kitchen. He couldn’t remember when Roger became Sam’s favorite out of the rugby crew. It just… happened. Lately, they were always teasing each other, always in sync. You just hit it off with some people, he supposed.
And out of all Sam’s friends, Roger was the best looking—tall, sharp-jawed, with a way of dressing that made him stand out among the scruffier rugby regulars. The turtleneck he’d chosen tonight hugged his chest and shoulders, the flat of his belly, just right.
Sam peeled back the foil from the first casserole, revealing a mound of orange sweet potatoes crusted with pecans and dotted with caramelized marshmallows.
“Oh my god,” Sam groaned, leaning in for a long, appreciative sniff. “Beautiful.”
Roger laughed, clearly pleased. For a moment, the kitchen felt brighter, warmer.
The Squirt noticed how Roger’s hand lingered at the small of Sam’s back. He frowned, unsure why it bothered him. Roger was nice, and Sam deserved friends, but this was a little too familiar. And why was Sam swooning over marshmallow-topped potatoes when he always said they were “unnecessary sugar”? It was irksome.
The Squirt peeled back the foil on the second dish—golden, crusted, bubbling at the edges. “What’s this?”
“Mac and cheese,” Roger said.
“For Thanksgiving?” The Squirt’s voice came out sharper than he meant. Who eats mac and cheese on Thanksgiving?
Sam clutched his chest in mock pain. “You’re killing me, Rog.”
Roger grinned, catching the Squirt’s look. “Your dad’s been depriving you. It’s a classic.”
When Chris and Trent came down, Sam introduced them to Roger, who eyed Trent up and down. He paused, then gave him his signature grin. “So you’re Trent. You look… older than I expected.”
The Squirt sighed. Adults could be so awkward.
The kitchen filled up with laughter, voices, and the smells of food. For a moment, everything felt full, chaotic, and exactly right.
7.
The Squirt’s one job, the cranberry sauce, was a tradition. He’d insisted on helping as a kid, and Sam assigned this. He told the Squirt this was the most important part of the meal. It had to come out of the can in one perfect piece, ridges from the can intact. Thanksgiving wasn’t Thanksgiving without it. Sam also made a fresh cranberry relish with orange zest and spices, but the canned stuff was sacred. When the Squirt slid it onto the special plate with a satisfying slurp, it wobbled and shone, just right.
Uncle Hank always arrived on his own time, never confirming, always expected. He’d promised mashed potatoes this year but, true to form, showed up late with an actual bag of potatoes, unwashed, not even cut. Not a finished dish, with every other plate already on the table.
“No worries,” Sam said, giving his brother a hug. “I had some sitting around and cooked them up. Extras. Have a seat.”
The Squirt rolled his eyes. Everyone knew that was a lie. Hank never brought anything but whiskey, and the only question each year was how he’d mess up, not if.
What made it all harder was that the Squirt had always been drawn to Hank, against his better judgment.
Hank was a good-looking man, even past his prime—big-shouldered, thick-chested but slim hipped, like a cartoon bulldog. He had the kind of blue eyes that got him out of trouble as often as in. Old photos made the attraction almost understandable: golden curls, heavy lids, sculpted lips. The face of an angel, the body of a Greek scuplture.
The family told stories of his exploits, half with admiration, half disbelief. But it wasn’t Hank’s looks that troubled the Squirt—it was his character. Hank took and took, gave little, and somehow Sam always forgave him.
When Hank stripped off his bomber jacket, his T-shirt rode up, belly and fur on display. The Squirt felt a familiar, shameful spark. He tried to ignore it. He’d had enough dirty thoughts about Hank to last a lifetime.
Dinner was early—Sam’s tradition, so there’d be time for a late snack before bed. The food was, as usual, incredible. The turkey skin was crisp, the meat somehow still juicy. Each dish was rich, comforting, and just a little addictive. Everyone agreed Sam had outdone himself.
Sam went back for seconds and thirds of Roger’s sweet potatoes and mac and cheese, declaring both “the new tradition.” The Squirt nibbled at the cheesy crust, still unsure, though he had to admit it was good.
“That was the best,” Sam said, giving Roger’s shoulder a friendly tap. “I gained twenty pounds.”
“You can manage it,” Roger shot back, elbowing Sam.
Sam leaned back, grinning, and lifted his shirt to show off his rounded, post-dinner belly, a seam of blond hair running down to his snug waistband. “I’m dying here.”
Hank snorted. “You call that a belly?” He hiked his shirt up, flashing his own solid gut, fur silvering. “This is a belly.”
He coaxed Roger to join in, and—laughing—Roger lifted his turtleneck, showing abs even dinner couldn’t blunt.
“Fuck that,” Hank said, settling back with a satisfied sigh.
Everyone laughed, except the Squirt, who watched Hank work the room and felt a familiar irritation. Why couldn’t anyone else see through him?
As the Squirt started clearing plates. Sam tugged at his shirt. “Emmett, do me a favor? Put the pies in to warm up in a bit?” He looked a little sheepish. “I would, but I’m stuffed.”
“Sure, Dad. I’ve got it.”
“Low and slow,” Sam said. “Two-fifty—”
“I know,” the Squirt cut in. He was almost an adult; he could handle this.
Hank opened the whiskey, pouring tumblers all around. Very generous, the Squirt thought with an eye roll, but took a sip, letting the burn settle in his chest. He didn’t usually drink, but at family gatherings Sam let the boys have a taste, always saying it was better to learn at home than chase the forbidden.
The Squirt sipped again between kitchen runs, trying to keep up, though he could never match the older men.
“So how long are you in town?” the Squirt heard Roger ask.
“My flight’s at 10:15 tomorrow,” Trent said. He glanced at Sam. “If you can drive me.”
“Tomorrow?” Sam looked hurt. “Not even the weekend?”
The Squirt bristled at the oven. This wasn’t where he needed to be. He slid the pies in at five hundred. If “low and slow” worked, “high and fast” would do the job in half the time, right?
He rushed back, more agitated than he meant to be. “Why are you leaving so soon?”
Trent raised an eyebrow. “What’s it to you, Squirt?”
“What about Dad?” the Squirt pressed.
Sam shot him a warning look—Leave it, Emmett.
Trent scowled. “Dad’s fine.”
The table moved on—jokes, stories, Chris and Trent both looking away from each other. The Squirt’s mouth twitched from side to side.
He tried one more time, voice smaller. “What about Chris?”
The table fell silent. Chris shifted, uncomfortable.
“What about him?” Trent’s square jaw rolled.
“He hasn’t seen you in so long. And he…” the Squirt hesitated, then pushed through. He was running out of time. “Everybody knows, Trent. Everybody.”
“Knows what?” Uncle Hank asked, wiping whiskey lips on his hairy forearm.
“Nothing,” Trent said, flat and final.
Sam and Roger exchanged glances, their eyes darting between Trent’s flushed face and Chris’s lowered gaze.
“Everyone knows what?” Hank repeated, louder.
“There’s nothing to know!” Trent nearly barked.
The Squirt looked at him, square in the face. “You love him,” he mouthed, almost silent but somehow carrying across the table. “You do. Trent. You do.”
Trent looked away, biting his thumbnail. Then he shoved his chair back, fists in his hoodie, and left.
Hank broke the silence, voice mock-grand: “Oh, what tangled webs we weave. Weave and weave and weave.” He swigged his whiskey. “You lot have been at my boy since he was—”
“Oh, go have another drink,” the Squirt snapped. “Like you ever cared—”
“Emmett,” Sam said, warning in his voice.
“No, Dad, it’s true. He was never a father—”
“That’s enough,” Sam said, low and cold as ice.
The Squirt opened his mouth again, but before he could speak, Sam slammed his hand down hard on the table, making everyone jump. “I said that’s enough, God damn it.”
Hank laughed. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless child.” He shook his head, then turned to Chris. “Anything to add, my boy?”
Chris just sniffed, brow furrowed. “Is something burning?”
8.
The family crowded into the kitchen as Sam pulled the blackened pies from the oven.
“Jesus, Emmett. Five hundred?” Sam asked, waving away smoke.
“It was just for a minute,” the Squirt protested. Or was supposed to be.
Sam frowned at the ruined pies. “Maybe we can scrape off the tops. There’s still whipped cream.”
Before anyone could answer, a knock came at the kitchen door.
“Who drops by on Thanksgiving?” Hank chuckled, a slight slur to his words.
“Oh, shit,” the Squirt muttered. “I told Tai to come for pie.”
“You did?” Sam’s voice was sharp with surprise.
The Squirt swung the door open mid-apology. “Sorry, Tai, I screwed up—there’s no p—”
Tai stood there, grinning slyly, holding a perfect, golden brown lattice-topped pie.
“What’s this?” Sam asked, peering over the Squirt’s shoulder.
“My mom sent it,” Tai said, his voice lighter than usual. “Apple.”
Sam’s face lit up. “Well,” he licked his lips. “Come in!”
Within minutes, Sam was slicing Tai’s pie, salvaging a bit of the charred pumpkin, and piling on whipped cream. Even Trent wandered back in for dessert.
Sam took a bite, eyes narrowing in concentration. “There’s something… what is that? Pepper?”
“Cinnamon,” Tai said, deadpan. “Saigon cinnamon.”
“Is that it?” Sam dabbed his finger in the filling and licked it off. “I’ll be damned.”
Tai just nodded, satisfied.
“You saved the day, Tai,” Sam said, clapping him on the back.
“No thanks to the Squirt,” Trent chimed in, seizing a chance to rib his brother.
He launched into the story of the year the Squirt ate so much pie he threw up on Sam’s shoulder while he carried the boy to bed. Chris followed with the one about him running away and camping under the backyard shrub, only to be coaxed by Sam’s pleas for his invaluable help with the stuffing. They were well-worn stories, but Tai and Roger made an appreciative audience.
“Why do you call him Squirt?” Tai asked.
“Because I was so little,” the Squirt said, shrugging.
A beat. Then Chris and Trent glanced down, trying not to laugh, but snorted anyway.
"What?" asked the Squirt. "Isn't that it?"
“When we heard he was coming,” Chris mumbled, “Trent said it looked like Sam had one more squirt left in him after all.”
Trent cracked up first, then Chris, then Hank, then even Sam and Roger.
The Squirt’s cheeks burned, but as he caught Tai’s eye, he realized it felt good to laugh with everyone—and have Tai beside him.
9.
The dishes sat unwashed. Sam insisted he’d handle it, Roger promising to help. There were more drinks, more stories, a final raid on the leftovers. Tai said his goodbyes as the house started winding down for the night. Hank wandered out to the porch when cleaning began, another drink in hand, cigarette glowing.
“I’ll go home,” Chris said, but Sam and the Squirt both protested. Even Roger offered to give up the guest room.
Trent finally stood. “Just come to bed.”
Chris hesitated.
“Come on,” Trent said, nodding at the stairs. “Don’t be stupid.”
The Squirt couldn’t read the private language of the looks that passed between them, but he felt the air shift. Chris rose to his feet finally. "Night, Sam," he called to the kitchen. "Night, Roger." He gave a nod to his cousin. "Squirt."
He followed Trent up the stairs wordlessly, as he had thousands of times before.
A big, satisfied smile crept onto the Squirt’s face. “I’m going to bed too.”
“A word, Emmett,” Sam said. “Roger, will you give us a minute?”
The Squirt squirmed in his chair as Roger left. He knew what was coming.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I know you worked on the pies, and—”
“Not the pies, Emmett. Not really. I mean, yes, but—about your behavior at the table.”
“Oh.”
“That was uncalled for. You embarrassed your brothers, made it awkward as hell for Roger—who, I’ll remind you, you invited—and humiliated your uncle.”
“Oh, like he cares,” the Squirt snapped.
“He does, Emmett. He doesn’t say it, but he does.”
“Someone had to say it. He’s the worst.”
Sam shook his head. “If things were different, maybe… but Emmett… he’s divorced again. His son barely speaks to him. You didn’t know him when he was young. He was just… beautiful. Now he’s past his prime, and every year takes him farther from it. To have you—you, with everything ahead of you—humble him in front of his family. In front of his son…”
“Dad—” the Squirt pleaded, desperate for Sam to stop.
"This isn’t fun for me either," Sam persisted. “But I have to tell you when I think you’re wrong, Emmett. Or I’ll fail you.” He looked somber. “I’m truly disappointed.”
In the kitchen in the home on Box Hill, the words landed heavy. The Squirt felt the hot swell of emotion in his throat, the pressure behind his eyes. He had no defense against Sam’s disappointment. If he weren’t so determined to not reveal the depth of his hurt, he’d have sobbed. Instead, he stood up and left the kitchen.
Roger was waiting in the hallway, arms folded, leaning against the doorframe. “You folks know how to do a holiday.”
Sam tossed his towel on his shoulder and let out a long, weary sigh.
10.
Chris and Trent tore up the attic stairs, hands on each other’s clothes, mouths already seeking each other. By the time they hit the center of the room, where the ceiling peaked, they were naked, clothes flung across the floor, breathless and grinning like thieves.
Trent pressed Chris against the sloping wall, mouths crashing together, tongues fighting for dominance, teeth scraping, hands everywhere—gripping ass, squeezing pecs, fisting in hair.
Their cocks pressed together, hard and insistent in the narrow space between their hips and flat bellies. They kissed—hungry, biting, each gasp feeding the other. Chris’s fingers dug into Trent’s ass, Trent’s hands tangled in Chris’s hair, both of them pulling, wanting more.
Trent broke the kiss, lips red and wet. “Pin me,” he breathed, voice rough and breathy.
He’d always loved it, being taken—but only by Chris. Only his cousin had ever seen him like this, let him give up control, trusted enough to be rough and gentle at once. Trent’s body shook as Chris’s hands mapped his chest, his sides, squeezing muscle, grounding him.
Chris’s eyes flicked to the nightstand.
Trent fumbled the drawer open, handed over the tube. Chris took him by the wrist, spun him, bent him over the bed. He kissed his way down Trent’s back, slow and reverent, teeth grazing the tight muscle of his ass.
When Chris bit into the curve of flesh, Trent gasped, knees buckling. He reached back, spreading himself open, shameless. Chris’s tongue slid down, hot and searching, licking into the cleft, teasing the tight ring until Trent moaned, hips begging for more.
Chris knew every spot—what kind of touch made Trent shudder, which pressure made him curse. He took his time, but not too long; the air was thick with urgency, the time apart winding them tight as wire.
From below, Aretha’s voice floated up, rough and aching. Chris slicked his cock, long and flushed, with a generous line of lube, then worked his fingers into Trent, stretching him, watching him arch and grind back, greedy for it.
“Don’t tease,” Trent growled, voice breaking.
Chris lined up, pressed the head against Trent’s hole, and let Trent push back, swallowing him inch by inch. Trent hissed, biting the sheet, taking every bit, with his wrestler’s control over his body.
Chris gripped his cousin’s hips, thrusting slow and deep at first, savoring the feel of that tight, perfect heat. Trent fucked back, grinding, making Chris curse, making him lose rhythm, lose control.
Trent grasped at the bed sheets as Chris pulled his cock back and then slid forward again, touching that spot deep in his cousin that only he'd ever felt. Chris pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in, hard, making Trent clutch at the sheets, knuckles white.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Chris groaned, hips snapping, the slap of skin echoing off the low ceiling.
He built up with slow steady thrusts, feeling his rigidity in Trent's tender yielding insides, losing his own self control as the outer muscles squeezed him like a vice. He hadn't been celibate between Trent's visits—far from it—but no one knew his cock like Trent. The thick wrestler could milk a load out of him just slow-twitching his ass.
"Fuck," Chris groaned, his cum building in him faster than he could hold back.
"Yeah," Trent murmured, slamming his ass back against Chris's thrusting pelvis. "Nut in me, bro."
It would've been better for Trent to not talk, the sound of his voice, his desire, making it harder for Chris to hold back. "Not yet," he groaned.
He reached underneath, fisting Trent’s cock, jerking him in time. Trent fucked back, ass milking Chris’s cock, sweat slick between them, his voice a harsh whisper: “Yeah, fuck me. Make me feel it tomorrow.”
At the word ‘tomorrow,’ Chris lost his rhythm, lost everything but the feel of Trent, the heat and the squeeze.
“I’m close,” Chris choked out, biting down on Trent’s shoulder, hips stuttering.
“Do it. Cum in me. I wanna feel you dripping out of me all night.”
Chris made an involuntary animal sound, Unghhh as his fuck pace accelerated and his cock swelled, shooting his load inside Trent in gush after gush, driving the head of his erection home into his cousin's core, filling him.
"Yeah," Trent moaned, his hole flexing and contracting on the root of Chris's cock, as he reached a hand down to milk himself. "Stay there."
Trent's head rolled on his thick neck as he ground against Chris, spreading his rear to draw the erection in, ever so slightly deeper, stroking his prostate, nudging his pleasure spot, coaxing out his own load.
He gasped out loud as the hot cum boiled up in him and then forced itself through his fat cock, spewing onto their bed. His body heaved with every gush, Chris on his back, roughly grabbing his solid pecs, drilling the last of his own nut deep inside Trent.
Trent collapsed onto their bed, Chris dropping his slight weight on top of him. Not technically a pin, but Trent was down for the count, in a way he hadn't been for so long. He laughed, deeply satisfied, pulling his cousin's long arms around his chest, feeling Chris's lips on the nape of his neck.
After a while, when the sweat cooled and the world slipped back in, Chris whispered.
"You're never going to come home to stay, are you?" Chris asked in that voice he only used with his cousin, and only there, in their room.
“You’re my home.” Trent reached back, threading their fingers together. “You are.”
They drifted off, whole for now, the sound of Aretha and the clatter of pots rising in the heat ducts mixing with their slow, steady breathing.
11.
The Squirt lay awake, arguing with Sam in his head. He’d been so sure he was right—even if Sam didn’t see it. Every point he made met that look of disapproval on his father’s face. The one blow he couldn’t deflect. Why couldn’t Sam see the purity behind his intentions? The truth in his words?
He decided he had to convince Sam—had to make him understand why calling out Hank was necessary.
Quietly, he pulled on his pajama bottoms, slipped into his wool slippers, and crept through the dark house. He tiptoed past the empty dining room, catching the soft glow of light spilling from the kitchen. Aretha was still playing—Dr. Feelgood, live and low.
He stepped into the hall, ready to speak. “Dad—” The word caught in his throat.
He froze. Turned. Pressed against the wall, sliding down to the floor, heart pounding in his ears as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Sam leaned over the butcher block, elbows planted, fingers tight. His back bare in the dim light, arched just so. Behind him, Roger moved with purpose, gasping low.
For a moment, the Squirt thought his dad was hurt or crying, and Roger was helping him. But no. That wasn’t it.
He heard Sam groan, the sound foreign and raw. “Fuuuck me…”
Roger’s hands gripped Sam’s body—one clutching the thick chest beneath his shirt, the other wrapped tightly around Sam’s cock. Their bodies moved in sync, muscles bunching and rolling with each thrust, hips slamming despite their desperate effort to stay quiet.
“You like that?” Roger whispered, breath hot against Sam’s neck.
“Shhhhhh,” Sam warned, voice trembling. “Yes… fuck yes…”
The Squirt stayed hidden, knowing he’d stumbled into a deeply private moment. Yet he couldn’t leave it.
Roger ground into Sam’s bare ass, one hand slipping beneath the shirt, clutching his flesh. Sam’s cock hung heavy against the butcher block, bouncing with every thrust.
Roger’s fist wrapped around Sam’s thick cock, the other pressing him down, forcing his chest to the wood. The Squirt swallowed hard, watching Sam’s legs spread, the slick slide of his cock in Roger’s hand.
The Squirt’s body responded—soaking his pajamas with more precum than ever before.
Sam pushed back hard, urging Roger on. “Unfff, hurry,” he gasped, eyes darting toward the hallway.
“I’m gonna fuck it out of you,” Roger growled.
Sam grunted, breath heavy and rough like a bull.
The Squirt fought to stay silent, breath shallow, fingers clenched tight.
Sam drove into Roger with urgent need, grunting and gasping, muscles rippling. Roger matched him blow for blow, hips pistoning, every thrust bursting with strength.
Roger’s hand moved to Sam’s shoulder, pulling him back to meet every slam. Sam’s groans deepened—animalistic, raw. His whole body shuddered, grasping at the sides of the butcher block, hands sliding on the smooth wood.
A sharp gasp escaped him as thick spurts of cum shot into Roger’s hand, then another, and another, splattering wetly onto the floor.
Sam bit into his forearm, muffling his groans as Roger ground into him one last time.
“Fuck, fuck… oh fuck,” Roger breathed, cumming hard himself, muscles tightening as he released right there inside Sam.
The Squirt’s own body betrayed him—his breath hitched, heart pounding, cock rock hard and desperate. The sound of their climax pressed against his nerves, and he nearly came, teeth clenched tight to hold back the flood.
Roger pulled Sam up, their lips crashing together in a hard, bruising kiss. Sam hurried to pull on his pants, cheeks flushed, eyes bleary.
“No need to push our luck,” he said, voice husky.
Roger zipped up, grabbed a kitchen towel, wiped the mess from the floor.
“Heh. Looks like you did have one more squirt in you after all.”
“Shut up, asshole,” Sam laughed, brushing back sweat-soaked hair. “You make me do crazy things.”
“Mmm,” Roger murmured, wadding the towel. “When are you gonna tell them about us?”
Sam shrugged. “Eventually. Emmett’ll be gone to school soon. Maybe then.” He glanced at the speaker still playing Aretha. “Love is a serious business.”
They kissed again, bodies pressed close.
The Squirt’s heart thundered in his chest. He slid out on hands and knees, swallowed the lump in his throat, and disappeared down the hall.
12.
The Squirt opened the front door and stepped into the night. The chill hit him like a sharp slap. He didn’t know where to go—only that he had to get out of Sam’s house, away from everything he’d just seen.
He folded his hands under his armpits, trying to anchor himself against the cold, but inside, a chain of realization rattled. How long had Sam and Roger been like this? This wasn’t new. The weight of it pressed down on him, heavier with each heartbeat. All those dinners, just Sam and him, like nothing else existed. And what had Sam been thinking behind that steady gaze? The question twisted somewhere deep inside him, a raw nerve he dared not name.
He’d been so sure of their bond—practically married to Sam in his mind—his perfect partner, the one who loved him and let him love back. They shared quiet dinners, laughter, chores, and silences only they understood. He’d shut out every other feeling, every crush, waiting for college to come and bring a new life.
But now he saw a side of his father he’d never glimpsed, a closeness Sam shared that wasn’t his to touch. The finality scorched him. No charm, no cleverness could change it. He’d never know Sam fully—not like Roger did. Even this glimpse was a tawdry theft.
He gasped into the cold night air, lungs burning.
“So it’s us, then?” came a low, warm voice.
Fuck. Uncle Hank sat on the porch swing, cigarette glowing faintly in the moonlight that caught the silver in his curls and the rough shadow of his whiskers. The tumbler of whiskey in his hand looked like a small ember against the chill.
“I guess so,” the Squirt whispered, voice tight.
Hank rose slowly and settled again, beside him, close enough that the Squirt could feel the heat radiating from his broad frame—his presence both grounding and unsettling.
“It’s a snake pit of secrets, this family,” Hank said with a sigh, eyes drifting over the empty street.
He handed the Squirt the tumbler. The first sip was fire, but it steadied something inside him. He drank again, letting the burn fill the empty spaces he felt.
Hank’s big hand slid under the Squirt’s shirt, warm and rough, and his breath caught. The firmness against his skin was steadying, almost comforting.
“Looks like everyone’s paired up but us, huh?” Hank murmured, voice softer than usual, a side of him the Squirt rarely saw.
The hand moved higher, tracing under his armpit, brushing over his chest. Rough fingers grazed a nipple, sending a shudder rippling through him. His cock stirred, tenting damp pajamas—reminders of what he’d just witnessed, and the ache of loneliness.
“There you go,” Hank said, voice smoky, sensing the tension tightening and loosening beneath his touch.
The Squirt caught a glimpse of how Hank had charmed so many—still striking despite the years, with a voice and touch that were tools wielded expertly. The thought sent a shiver through him.
Their faces drew close, breath mingling, noses brushing, lips barely touching in a teasing, fragile brush.
“Uncle Hank,” the Squirt whispered, voice trembling. The hand didn’t stop—working him with slow, knowing strokes, unraveling years of longing and confusion.
“Nuh-uh,” Hank breathed near his ear. “Not really.”
“What?” the Squirt asked, tilting his head, feeling the hand slide down into his waistband. Desire and fear tangled inside him, pulling him closer to a line he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross but couldn’t stop.
“You’re nothing to me,” Hank murmured, voice a strange mix of comfort and mockery. “You’re not his. Neither of you is.”
The unspoken name hung heavy—Not his. Not Sam’s.
“She was a whore,” Hank hissed, fist tightening around the Squirt’s cock, jerking him slowly. “You like that? Is that what you want?”
The Squirt didn’t know if Hank meant the touch or the words, the truth at last, but he whispered, “I do.”
Hungry for connection, starved for something real, he gave himself to the moment. Hank wasn’t Sam, but he was the closest thing the Squirt had.
“A good lay, though,” Hank sneered. “She got that one in a three-way.” That one—Trent. “Not even white. Black Irish my ass. Black more like it.” He chuckled, then turned serious. “Sam was a soft touch—said he’d marry her. Be a dad. What the fuck ever.”
His hand stroked the Squirt’s cock, slick with precum. Everything clicked—the lack of family resemblance, the tension between them. Even Roger saw it when he met Trent.
“Uncle Hank,” the Squirt moaned, eyes closed, hips thrusting into the rough fist, heart pounding with the forbidden thrill of truth and touch.
“You were the last straw,” Hank rasped. “He was done with her, but kept you.”
Something deep inside stirred—a flicker of affirmation. He’d known, in a way, without knowing. Maybe that’s why he clung so tightly to Sam—understanding in his core that their bond was tenuous, a choice, not a given.
“So we’re nothing to each other,” Hank whispered, tongue flicking at the Squirt’s ear.
The hand around him felt too good to resist. He might regret it forever, but right now, surrender was all he wanted.
“Hi Emmett,” a flat voice broke through, rustling leaves on the walkway.
The Squirt’s world tipped.
He opened his eyes to see Tai, coat on, still in those ridiculous shorts, Hoa Mai growling beside him.
13.
Hank slowly withdrew his hand from the Squirt’s pajamas, finished but defiantly unhurried.
“I’ll go in,” Hank said, smirking at Tai as he knocked back the last of his whiskey. He looked oddly satisfied for someone interrupted. Tai met his gaze with that inscrutable calm as Hank rose and turned back into the house.
When the porch door clicked shut, Tai slid closer to the Squirt on the steps. Hoa Mai stood on her hind legs, paws resting lightly on the Squirt’s knee.
“How are you doing?” Tai asked.
“Cold,” the Squirt sniffed, the warmth Hank left behind already gone, replaced by a sharp awareness of what had just happened. Uncle Hank got his. Paid him back for the dinner scene. Maybe he deserved it.
“I ruined Thanksgiving. I ruined everything.”
Tai’s voice was soft but steady. “It’s just pie, Emmett.”
The Squirt laughed, a snort escaping. “Not that. I tried to get my brother to move back. So Dad wouldn’t be alone when I go to school.” His gaze drifted down the dark, empty street. “But he already…” His face twisted. “He couldn’t wait for me to be gone.”
“I don’t think so,” Tai said gently, Hoa Mai’s warm breath fogging in the cold air like question marks that disappeared quickly.
“It’s true,” the Squirt said, voice low. “He has… someone. And Trent and Chris… they have each other. Everyone does but me.”
Tai shifted closer, too close.
“You’re so dumb, Emmett.”
Before the Squirt could react, Tai’s lips pressed soft and sure against his. The surprise in his sharp inhale melted as he kissed back, more eagerly, more hungry than he expected. Tai’s mouth was warm, playful—his tongue flicking teasingly.
“Tai…” the Squirt gasped between kisses, glancing over his shoulder at the door, the glowing lamp inside. “Do you want… to come in?”
Tai’s eyes flicked to the light. “For a little bit.” He glanced down at Hoa Mai, panting gently. “I have to bring her.”
The Squirt considered the oddness of it—Tai, Hoa Mai, his bedroom. Not the romantic scene he’d imagined, but it was real. And it felt good.
“Bring her,” he said, smiling.
They slipped into the house, footsteps light in the dark. Hank was sprawled on the couch, breath heavy with sleep. The glow from the kitchen spilled into the hallway where Sam and Roger murmured over the last dishes. The attic door stood closed, muffling the quiet closeness of Chris and Trent sleeping side by side.
Finally, they reached the Squirt’s room. Tai closed the door softly behind them.
14.
On Friday morning, the Squirt padded into the kitchen, November daylight spilling through the windows.
“You’re up late,” Sam mumbled, eyes on his newspaper.
“Yeah,” the Squirt said, his mind still tangled in last night’s memories. He could almost feel Tai’s lips, the warmth of his hands, the quiet thrill they’d shared. “I, uh… overslept.”
Sam slowly folded back a page of his newspaper, eyes scanning the print without lifting them. He sounded casual, but there was something in his tone—the quiet weight of knowing more than he said. “So. Tai was here earlier.”
The Squirt blinked, caught off guard. Tai had left in the middle of the night—how did Sam know?
“Mmm. Found him right at the door, a while ago. Odd time to stop by.” Sam’s gaze stayed fixed on the paper, giving the Squirt room to process. Relief washed over the Squirt. A Thanksgiving miracle. “Said you should come over for dinner. Something about turkey phở.”
The Squirt’s cheeks warmed. Turkey phở sounded perfect.
Suddenly, he glanced at the clock. “Did I miss Trent? I didn’t say goodbye.”
“Oh, about that,” Sam said, turning to face him. “Looks like he’s staying a while.”
“What?” The Squirt’s eyes widened.
“Yeah,” Sam scratched his scruffy jaw. “He went with Chris to grab some things so he can stay over too.”
“Really? You think…?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Sam said. “Just a few days. We’ll see.”
The Squirt took in his father’s broad frame, perched on a stool—so steady, so quietly knowing. He weaved closer and rested his head against Sam’s shoulder, feeling the solid weight of him, the roughness of his skin beneath his cheek.
After a long silence, Sam wrapped an arm around him, pulling him in close. The warmth of his body pressed against the Squirt was a quiet comfort, fierce and protective. Sam’s lips found his cheek in a quick, rough kiss.
“About last night… I hated calling you out like that. You’re almost grown… almost a man.” He held him tighter. “But I have to tell you when I think you’re making a mistake. Emmett, all your choices—they add up. They define you. I just want you to be careful about the kind of man you’re becoming.”
The Squirt swallowed hard. It wasn’t easy to hear. But it wasn’t the hardest thing that Thanksgiving. He could be a man. He could bear it.
“I know,” he whispered. “Happy Thanksgiving, Dad. If it’s not too late.”
“Not at all,” Sam said, voice rough but warm as he planted another kiss—this one softer, lingering a moment longer—on the boy’s head.
“You and Tai getting serious?”
The Squirt didn’t answer. He just stayed there, savoring the warmth and presence of his father. There’d be time to talk later.
END
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