Page 31 of Daddy's Little Christmas

Graeme nodded like that made perfect sense.

“Yeah,” he said. “That happens. Especially when you don’t stop to check in with yourself.”

Something in his tone—matter-of-fact, not corrective—made my shoulders ease.

He glanced at the half-finished box of ornaments, then back at me. “You want to sit for a bit? Take a break?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got soup on in the back. Nothing fancy, but it's warm.”

I followed him past the counter and through the narrow doorway. The sounds of the shop dulled behind us, replaced by a quieter hum. The back room was small but inviting—a compact kitchenette tucked along one wall, a little table with two chairs, shelves lined with jars and tins that looked well-used rather thandecorative. A pot sat warming on the stove, the air rich with the scent of tomatoes and basil.

Graeme grabbed bowls from a cabinet, movements unhurried. “Sit,” he said, nodding to the chair. “I’ll bring it over.”

I did, folding myself into the chair and resting my hands in my lap. My breathing evened out without me having to force it.

He set a bowl in front of me, steam curling upward, then placed a napkin beside it before taking the chair across from me.

“I always make too much,” he said lightly. “Figure it’s better shared.”

“Thank you,” I said, voice quieter than I meant it to be.

I picked up the spoon, stirred once, then took a careful sip. Warmth spread through me—slow, grounding, unmistakably so.

Graeme didn’t rush the silence. He just sat there, present.

After a moment, he said, “You know, you don’t have to wait until you’re worn out to ask for a pause.”

I glanced up. He wasn’t smiling, exactly. But there was something gentle in his eyes.

“I’m… working on that,” I admitted.

“Good,” he said. “You’re allowed to.”

The words settled somewhere deep, heavier than they should’ve been.

I exhaled, realizing I’d been holding my breath again.

“I always do this,” I admitted quietly. “I get close to saying what I need, and then I convince myself it’s easier not to.”

“Maybe next time,” he said, calm and certain, “you try saying it anyway.”

My throat tightened stupidly.

I traced the rim of the bowl with my spoon, watching the steam rise and disappear. The soup was good—simple, comforting in a way that didn’t demand commentary. Graeme didn’t fill the silence. He just let it exist.

I hadn’t planned to say anything today. I’d come back to the shop because I felt bad. Because I didn’t want my last memory of this place to be me breaking something and running.

But sitting there—warm, fed, unhurried—something inside me kept nudging forward, like it had been waiting for this exact stillness.

“I’m not very good at… needing things,” I said finally. The words slipped out before I could polish them. “I learned early that it was better to handle stuff on my own.”

Graeme nodded, not interrupting.

“So when you noticed,” I continued, eyes still on the bowl, “and when you said I could take a break… that wasn’t nothing to me.”

He didn’t brush it off. Didn’t minimize it.