Page 103 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“Especially then,” I said. “The world needs more of your weird.”

He gave a little choked laugh that turned into a breath, then into something like a sigh of relief. He tipped forward, resting his forehead against my collarbone, and I wrapped my arms around him, tucking him in like I could shield him from all the sharp edges waiting outside this town.

We stayed like that for a long time.

At some point he shifted, softer against me, his voice losing its adult edges.

“Daddy?” he murmured.

My chest went warm. “Yeah, sweetheart.”

“Can we just… sit? Like this? For a bit?”

“As long as you want.”

He didn’t go all the way under. No paci or coloring books. Just that in-between space—looser, quieter, the part of him that let his shoulders drop and his thoughts drift because he trusted me to hold the weight for a while.

I was happy to carry it.

As the afternoon slid toward evening, we roused enough to make something simple for dinner—reheated leftovers from Tom and Cynthia, a salad, bread. We ate on the couch, plates balanced on our knees, movie playing low in the background more for company than attention.

The sky outside darkened, blue fading to indigo, then to soft black with snow catching the porch light. The house felt wrapped, cocooned.

Later, when the plates were in the sink and the fire had been fed, Rudy stood at the living room window, arms wrapped around himself, watching the snow fall.

His reflection in the glass looked a little ghostly—hair haloed by the lamp behind him, face soft, eyes distant.

I came up behind him and slid my arms around his waist, pulling him back against my chest.

“Tell me what’s in your head,” I said quietly.

He exhaled. “Too many things.”

“Pick one.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “I keep trying to focus on how lucky I am,” he said. “To have had this. To have met you. Tohave had a Christmas that didn’t hurt.” He swallowed. “And then another part of me keeps whispering, ‘You only get this once.’”

I pressed my lips to the side of his neck. “That part of you doesn’t know the future any more than I do,” I said.

“It’s very loud, though,” he said with a weak laugh.

“I know.” I turned him gently so he was facing me instead of the snow. His eyes shone, reflecting the firelight. “How about this,” I said. “Tonight, we don’t make promises we’re not ready to keep. We don’t pretend we know exactly what comes next. We just… make this night count. You and me. Here. Now.”

He searched my face, checking for any hint of doubt. Whatever he saw must’ve satisfied him because his shoulders eased, just a little.

“Okay,” he whispered. “One night at a time.”

“One night at a time,” I echoed.

He lifted his hands to my face, fingertips tracing my jaw like he was learning it by heart. There was no rush in his touch. No urgency. Just a quiet, determined kind of reverence.

I kissed him like goodbye wasn’t hanging in the air. Like we had all the time in the world.

Slow.

Lingering.

Every slide of lips, every brush of tongue, every small sound he made mapped itself into me like something I’d need later when the house was quiet and the snow fell and the couch felt too big.