Page 26 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“You didn’t,” I said simply. “You got overwhelmed. It happens.”

That made him look at me. Really look this time, like he was checking for the catch.

“I’m glad you showed up anyway,” I added. “That took more effort than you’re giving yourself credit for.”

His mouth parted slightly, then closed again. He dropped his gaze to the counter, fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve. The movement was small, almost unconscious, but it told me more than words would have.

This wasn’t someone embarrassed about attention.

This was someone used to consequences.

“I don’t usually…” He stopped, exhaled through his nose. “I don’t usually lose control like that.”

“You didn’t,” I said gently. “You listened to yourself when it got too much.”

That seemed to land differently. He nodded, slow, like he was filing the thought away somewhere he’d come back to later.

Silence settled between us—not awkward, just quiet—and in it, I noticed the way his attention drifted around the shop. Not restless. Curious. Like he was testing whether this place stayed kind when you stopped bracing for it.

His gaze caught on the reindeer display near the register. Not just one, but the whole small cluster—soft shapes, mismatched scarves, each one a little different because the woman who made them refused to mass-produce comfort.

“They’re everywhere,” he said softly.

“They don’t last long,” I replied. “People keep taking them home.”

He smiled at that, just a little, and stepped closer. His hand hovered over one of the reindeer, hesitating the way people do when they’re not sure they’re allowed to want something.

“You can pick it up,” I said.

He glanced at me. “Really?”

“They’re meant for hands,” I said. “Not shelves.”

That was all the permission he needed. He lifted one carefully, thumb brushing the knit scarf like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Something in my chest shifted—not surprise, exactly. Recognition.

Of course he liked things that were soft.

Of course he handled it like it mattered.

“I was going to decorate the tree today,” I said, easing us forward before the moment grew too heavy. “If you want to help, you’re welcome to.”

His eyes flicked toward the tree in the corner—tall, waiting, lights already strung but bare otherwise.

“I’d like that,” he said after a beat. Then, quieter, “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” I said.

And I meant more than just the tree.

“We can just do the bottom branches if you want.”

A small laugh slipped out of him. “That’s oddly specific.”

“It’s where people start,” I said. “Low stakes.”

He looked at the tree again, then back at me. Something cautious flickered across his expression—like he was weighing the risk of wanting something simple.