Page 34 of Daddy's Little Christmas

Graeme leaned back slightly, just enough to give me room again, but his presence stayed solid across the table. When he spoke, it wasn’t rushed.

“There are a few things I want you to hear,” he said. “And I want you to take them at your own pace. You don’t owe me a reaction.”

I nodded, a small movement. My hands were still wrapped around the bowl, fingers warm from the ceramic.

“First,” he said, “being a little isn’t a flaw. It isn’t something broken that needs fixing. It’s part of how you’re wired. The softness. The need for comfort. The way you settle when someone makes space for you.” His gaze held mine. “Those aren’t weaknesses. They’re just parts of you. No worse than the parts that get you through workdays and grocery lines and adult conversations.”

I waited for the familiar caveat—the but—and when it didn’t come, something inside me shifted.

“Second,” he continued, “no one gets to be cruel to you about that. Not because of their career or because of their image orbecause they don’t understand it. If someone loves you, they don’t get to decide which parts of you are acceptable.”

I couldn’t remember the last time someone spoke about me without trying to correct me.

“And third,” he said, gentler again, “I’m glad you had Ms. Davis. I’m glad someone gave you that safety, even for a while. You deserved it then. You still deserve it now.”

Hearing it said that plainly undid me.

My eyes blurred again. It felt like confirmation that my need for gentleness hadn’t been a weakness—just a way of surviving.

Graeme shifted in his chair, resting his forearms on the table.

“I should also tell you,” he said, “that you’re not explaining something foreign to me. I’m part of the queer community. I’ve known littles. I’ve known boys who need structure, and boys who only need softness, and boys who need both depending on the day.” A faint, wry smile touched his mouth. “You’re not shocking me, Rudy.”

He wasn’t waiting for me to justify myself, and that changed everything.

“I don’t see you as childish,” he went on. “I see you as someone who learned early that the world wasn’t gentle, and figured out a way to survive it.”

I anchored myself to the weight of the bowl, the warmth against my palms reminding me I was still here.

“For as long as you’re here,” he said, “I can be a safe place if you want one. That doesn’t come with conditions. It doesn’t come with expectations. And it’s not a transaction.” His eyes softened. “I’m not offering this because I want something from you.”

I believed him—and that scared me more than doubt ever had, because belief had always been the thing that made loss possible.

“If what helps you feel grounded is structure,” he continued, choosing the word carefully, “we can talk about that. You get to decide when you want it, and when you don’t. I’ll follow your lead.”

My chest felt too full. I nodded once, then again, the movement small but certain.

“And if you don’t want that,” he added, “that’s just as okay. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to say no. You’re allowed to use your words.”

The last part dropped lower, his voice dipping in a way that made my shoulders ease without me meaning them to.

I managed a breathy sound that might have been a laugh. “I’m… not always good at that.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said mildly, not unkind. “But you’re learning.”

I stared down at the now cold soup, then back up at him. My heart was racing, not with fear but with something warmer and heavier.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” I said quietly. “I don’t want to feel like that part of me is something I have to earn the right to have.”

“You don’t,” he said immediately. “It’s already yours.”

I nodded, throat tight, emotions stacking faster than I could sort them.

“Okay,” he said softly, grounding us again. “Then here’s the only thing I’ll ask.”

I looked at him, a familiar tension curling low in my stomach.

This was usually the part where the conditions appeared. The fine print. The moment when understanding turned into expectation.