Page 35 of Daddy's Little Christmas

Graeme seemed to notice the shift in me.

“Actually,” he said, correcting himself gently, “two things—and only if they help.”

Thatiflanded harder than I expected. Not as pressure. As permission.

He waited a beat, as if making sure I was still with him, then continued, his voice steady in a way that didn’t ask anything from me.

“First,” he said, “when you need something—comfort, space, quiet, reassurance—try telling me. Even if you don’t have the right words yet. Even if it feels awkward. We can figure the words out together.”

No warning. No consequence. Just an invitation.

He paused, watching my face, giving me time instead of filling the space.

“Second,” he continued, “you don’t have to decide anything all at once. You can take things one moment at a time—adult when you want to be, softer when you need to be—and you don’t owe me consistency.”

Something warm and disorienting spread through me at the idea that I didn’t have to perform continuity. That I could just… be, and be different tomorrow if I needed to.

I’d never had anyone say it like that before. Calm. Certain. As if he actually meant it.

His gaze held mine, warm and sure.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

The way he said it—gentle, assured, like he already trusted that I could—sent a quiet shiver through me.

“Yes,” I whispered before I could overthink it.

His smile was slow, fond, and unmistakably proud.

“That’s all,” he said. “One step at a time.” He paused for a moment. “Rudy?” he asked softly.

“Mm?” My voice was barely there.

“Would it help,” he asked, “to stop being ‘on’ for a little while?”

The question landed carefully, like he’d set it down between us and stepped back to let me decide.

I was stunned by how easy it felt to be asked instead of told.

I thought of Nate’s expectations.

Of how tired I’d been by the end.

Of how long it had been since I’d been allowed to simplystop.

“I think,” I said slowly, choosing honesty over polish, “I’d like that.”

He stood and extended his hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Just a little while. The shop’s empty.”

His palm was warm and solid around mine, guiding rather than pulling as he led me a few steps farther into the back room, toward the small loveseat tucked against the wall beneath the window.

I lay down, curling in on myself. Graeme draped a blanket over my legs with quiet care, then reached for a small pillow fromthe shelf beside the loveseat. The warmth made my eyes heavy instantly.

He handed me the pillow, shaped like a gingerbread man. It was soft, ridiculous, unapologetic.

My breath caught as it sank in that he wasn’t guessing. He understood.

“Thank you,” I said, the words simple and true.