Page 33 of Daddy's Little Christmas

Graeme shifted slightly in his chair, one forearm resting on the table now, not crowding me, just closer—close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. His gaze stayed on my face, steadyand patient, like he wasn’t going anywhere no matter how long this took.

“She gave me structure without making it feel like punishment. Bedtimes. Warm milk. Coloring books. Stuffed animals. Space to be small without calling it a problem.” I shook my head slightly. “She never used the wordlittle. She didn’t need to. She just let me be.”

A stupid tear slid down my cheek and I swiped it away with the back of my hand.

“That was the first time in my life I felt safe,” I said. “Not tolerated. Safe.”

Graeme’s eyes softened. Deep, warm, full of understanding.

I hesitated, then forced myself to say it plainly. “The rest of it—the stuff I figured out later—that was me. Not her.”

I took a deep breath and then expelled it slowly.

“Pacifiers,” I said, the word feeling surreal out loud. “And sometimes bottles.”

My face burned anyway. Habit. Old wiring.

“I read something once about grounding—about how your body remembers being soothed, even if your life didn’t come with much soothing.” I gave a rough little laugh. “Turns out my brain quiets down when my mouth has something to do.”

I rushed the next part before I could chicken out. “I found it as an adult. In private. I bought them myself. I didn’t tell her. She never knew about that part.”

Nothing in his expression changed.

“But,” I added, softer, “she’s the reason I knew what comfort was like.”

The words settled between us. Not heavy. Just true.

“When she died,” I continued, voice rough, “I convinced myself that part of me had to go with her. That side of me only existed because she let it. I threw most of my things away. I kept one thing—a reindeer plushie. It’s in my bag at the inn. I couldn’t let that go.”

His jaw tightened—just a flicker—before easing again. One hand slid flat against the table, palm down, like he was grounding himself while I spoke.

“My ex had rules,” I said quietly. “He never called them that. But there were parts of me he didn’t want to see. Things he said were embarrassing. Inappropriate. Not who he needed to be with.”

My fingers curled against the bowl.

“So I hid that part of myself. I told myself that even if I wanted to leave, who else would put up with someone like me? Someone needy. Someone complicated. Someone… little.”

The word settled between us.

Graeme exhaled slowly through his nose. Not impatience. Not anger. Something controlled and protective, carefully leashed. His eyes stayed on mine, dark and intent, like he was taking every word seriously.

“I got very good at pretending,” I said. “At being just enough.”

“Rudy,” he said quietly.

Just my name. Nothing else. But the way he said it made my shoulders ease.

“God, Graeme.” I whispered. “I didn’t come here to tell you all of that.” My voice shook. “But sitting here with you… it feels like I can speak my truth without being told to fix myself.”

Another tear slipped free. I didn’t wipe it away.

Graeme moved then—slow, deliberate. He reached across the table but stopped halfway, his hand hovering just long enough to make it clear the choice was mine.

I didn’t pull back.

His thumb brushed the tear from my cheek, warm and steady, the touch careful without being tentative.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, and the word settled deep in my chest, “thank you for trusting me with that.”