Page 3 of Daddy's Little Christmas

He’d stayed, but he hadn’t touched me. Not really. His hands stayed tucked into his pockets. His voice went careful, distant. The next day, he’d brought it up.

“What I saw yesterday can’t happen again,” he’d said. “Not if you want people to take us seriously.”

It hadn’t happened again. Not once in the years since.

And still, here we were.

With a ring box between us and that single night sitting in judgment like something huge and unforgivable.

“Nate,” I said slowly, my voice rough, “that was one time. I was grieving.”

He inclined his head slightly. “I understand you were under emotional strain. But it revealed something… fundamental. And I need to know it won’t be a recurring issue.”

He took a sip of wine like we were just going over a bullet point in a meeting.

“I can’t expect voters, colleagues, or donors to respect me if there’s even a hint of…” He searched for a word and settled on, “instability.”

Instability.

I let my hands stay where they were, fingers resting on either side of my plate, because the urge to pull them into my lap and fold in on myself was so strong it scared me.

He went on, calm and relentless. “I need a partner who’s strong when things get difficult. Who doesn’t retreat into that space. Who doesn’t need to be soothed like—”

He cut himself off, but the unfinished word hung there anyway.

Like a child.

The room tilted just a little. I focused on a smear of sauce on my plate, on the cool weight of the fork under my fingers, on the low buzz of conversation around us.

“You’re asking me to cut off a piece of myself,” I managed.

“I’m asking you to grow up,” he corrected softly. “To be the man I know you can be. The man the world will take seriously.”

My chest hurt. I wasn’t even sure I was breathing right.

“What if that part of me is… how I cope?” I asked, the words tripping over each other. “What if it’s not something I can just… turn off?”

Nate’s expression didn’t change. “Then we have a problem.”

For a heartbeat, everything went silent.

I saw it so clearly then: the version of our future he wanted. The one where I smoothed out every soft, strange, inconvenient part of myself so I’d fit neatly beside him at every fundraiser, every town hall, every victory party.

A life built on me pretending.

If I agreed tonight, he’d open the box.

If I promised to be what he wanted—always strong, always composed, never needing too much—he’d probably slide the ring onto my finger and kiss me in this carefully lit restaurant, and people would clap, and maybe someone would take a picture, and everyone would think we were perfect.

The thought made my stomach twist.

“I can’t do that,” I whispered.

“You won’t,” he said instantly.

I shook my head. “No. Ican’t.”

He watched me for a long moment, then nodded once, like he’d ended a negotiation that hadn’t gone in his favor. He picked up the box and slipped it back into his jacket.