Page 117 of Daddy's Little Christmas

Rudy stepped into Holly & Pine wrapped in his puffer coat, curls tucked beneath a knit hat, cheeks flushed from the cold. But beneath the coat, just barely visible at the hem, I caught the familiar flash of reindeer pajama pants.

He grinned when he saw me.

“G’night, Daddy.”

A year ago he’d walked in shaking, apologizing for existing, sure he was an inconvenience to the world. Today he walked in like he belonged. Like he knew he was wanted. Like coming to me was coming home.

“Goodnight, little one,” I said, feeling something warm and impossible expand in my chest.

He tiptoed to kiss my cheek because the counter was between us. “Happy anniversary.”

God.

That word.

Anniversary.

It wasn’t our romantic anniversary—though it felt like one—it was the anniversary of the day a boy with red hair and shy blue eyes walked into my shop looking for a story about queer founders and foundmeinstead.

And I found him.

“Happy anniversary,” I murmured, brushing a thumb over the corner of his mouth, just to feel him smile against my skin.

I flipped the sign to Back in Two Hours and locked the door, Rudy was already bouncing on his toes, excitement sparking off him like static. I glanced toward the back room, then back to Rudy. “Yeah?”

His eyes lit up instantly. “Yes. Please.”

Rudy was the sweetest boy I knew.

“Can I… can I go now, Daddy?” he whispered, voice small for no reason but joy.

“Yes, angel,” I said. “Go ahead.”

He scampered through the doorway to the Little Room—the one I’d set up last year, after I’d realized he needed a safe space anywhere I was.

I followed him in.

My Christmas angel was already on the rug, knees tucked under him, coat shrugged off, revealing the full ridiculous glory of his pajama set—brown fleece with tiny embroidered antlers on the hood. One of the reindeer plushies was tucked under his arm, its scarf trailing across the rug like it had been dragged along for the ride.

My heart actually hurt—in a good way—looking at him.

He sucked in a breath, pupils blown wide in that unmistakable drop into little space.

“Daddy?”

I knelt. “Yes, sweetheart.”

“Can you read to me? The Rudolph one?”

“Of course.”

I reached for the worn picture book—the same one as last year, corners softened, cover faded. He shifted closer on the rug, patting the space between his knees without looking up.

I settled there, drew him gently into my lap, and felt his body relax the moment he fit. He tucked his face against my chest, pacifier already between his lips, one small hand fisted in my shirt.

I wrapped an arm around him, opened the book, and began to read.

His small sounds—the hums, the tiny breaths, the soft pleased noise when Rudolph’s nose finally glowed—were better than any Christmas song. Every so often he pressed closer, like his body was checking that I was still there, still solid.