Page 27 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“Okay,” he said finally. “I can do low stakes.”

I pulled a wooden crate of ornaments from beneath the counter—hand-painted bulbs, felt mittens, small carved stars. When I set it down, the scent of pine rose as the branches shifted, sharp and clean.

Rudy moved closer, still holding the reindeer plush. He set it carefully on the nearby shelf like it deserved a good seat for the show.

“You can tell him to supervise,” I said, and Rudy’s mouth twitched.

We started slowly. He lifted ornaments one at a time, turning them as if each one might have rules he needed to learn. I showed him the ones my mother had designed years ago—the carved sleds and stars I still replicated every December for the shop because it kept her close in a way that didn’t hurt as much anymore.

“She made these?” he asked, holding a wooden star.

“She did,” I said. “Before the shop. Before all of this. She and my dad used to sell them at the old holiday market.”

His gaze stayed on the star. “That’s… a good memory.”

“It is,” I admitted.

Rudy’s throat worked again, and for a second he looked far away. “My foster mom used to save the biggest ornament box for me,” he said, voice soft. “Even though I was too old to pretend I cared.”

I met his eyes. “You weren’t too old.”

The words came out before I could second-guess them, and Rudy froze like I’d reached into a locked place.

I didn’t backpedal. Didn’t make it a joke. I just held the moment.

“Some things don’t have an age limit,” I added, quieter.

His eyes went glossy for a heartbeat, then he blinked fast and looked down, hanging the star with hands that suddenly seemed very careful.

We worked like that for a while—ornaments moving from crate to branch, stories drifting between us without pressure. He asked me about Winterhaven, about the shop, about whether it was always this warm inside even when it was freezing outside. I asked him about Chicago and got small pieces in return: that he worked remotely, that he’d needed quiet, that he hadn’t expected the town to feel like it did.

The more he spoke, the more I heard what he didn’t say.

About a life spent bracing.

He reached for a thin glass icicle ornament—delicate, pale, the kind that caught light beautifully but required a steady hand. His fingers slipped.

The ornament hit the edge of the crate and cracked with a sharp, final sound.

It wasn’t loud.

But Rudy’s whole body jerked as if someone had shouted at him.

His face went blank for half a second, then his eyes widened. Breath caught. Shoulders pulled in. The reflex was immediate and old, and it had nothing to do with the ornament.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s an ornament. It happens.”

He stared at the broken piece as if it had become evidence of something unforgivable.

I crouched and picked up the shards carefully so he wouldn’t cut himself.

“It’s not a big deal,” I repeated, still gentle. “You’re not in trouble.”

The words landed somewhere deep. I watched him try to accept them and fail—not because he didn’t believe me, but because his body remembered other outcomes.

His hands twisted the sleeves of his sweater again, knuckles whitening.