Page 100 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I went to him.

Not small from fear. Not small from overstimulation. Small because itfelt right. Because the safety around him made my ribs loosen and my breath soften and my mind quiet.

“Warm enough?” he murmured, stroking my hair.

I nodded, leaning closer, melting into every steady touch.

He picked up a picture book from the coffee table—a simple one, soft colors, wide illustrations. He didn’t ask if I wanted it. He just opened to the first page, voice going warm and rounded in a way that made me completely happy.

Chapter 19

Graeme

I knew before I opened my eyes what day it was.

The house felt different. Not louder, not quieter—just… thinner somehow. Like the walls were breathing a little shallower. Like the warmth had pulled in close, bracing.

Rudy had already run his last few errands—checking out of the inn, dropping off his key, stopping by Holly & Pine with me for a couple of hours so we could tidy up the front room and put the “See you in the New Year” sign in the window.

We didn’t linger.

By late morning, we were back at my house with the door locked, snow drifting lazily outside, and the entire world narrowed down to four walls, one couch, and the man who’d turned my life on its axis in under two weeks.

“We’re really not going anywhere?” he asked, barefoot in my kitchen, fingers curled around a mug.

“Not if I can help it,” I said. “World can survive without us for a day.”

He smiled, small and crooked. “Selfish.”

“Completely.”

He pretended to think about it, then shrugged. “Okay. One last selfish day.”

The words landed heavier than he meant them to. Last day. My chest tightened, but I kept my smile easy.

“Breakfast?” I asked. “Or lunch? We kind of missed the first one.”

He looked at the clock, then at the snow falling outside the window. “Brunch,” he decided. “Decadent, cozy, no rules.”

So we made brunch.

The kitchen filled with the sound of clinking bowls and the soft sizzle of butter. He whisked eggs in a too-big bowl, tongue poking out at the corner of his mouth in concentration. I sliced bread and dipped it into the mixture for French toast, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla warming the air.

“Do people do New Year’s resolutions here?” he asked, pouring orange juice into two mismatched glasses.

“Some do,” I said. “I prefer New Year’s intentions. Less pressure, more direction.”

“Like what?” He hopped up onto the counter, curls mussed, sleeves pushed up.

I flipped a slice of bread in the pan. “Oh, you know. Keep the pipes from freezing. Don’t let Tom burn down the town with fireworks. Learn to use the new card reader without swearing at it.”

He snorted. “Lofty goals, Whitlock.”

“You?”

He went quiet for a moment, looking out the kitchen window at the yard, at the faint mounds of old snowmen and the ghosts of our snow angels under the fresh powder.

“Maybe be more honest with myself,” he said slowly. “And… don't apologize so much for existing.”