Page 37 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“It became a tradition after that,” I said. “Second Saturday of December. We close at nine, people wander in around then. They add their own ornaments, fix what needs fixing, make the place feel like Christmas again.” I shrugged lightly. “It’s not a fancy event. Just… community.”

He didn’t answer right away, and in that pause, I could see it—the contrast. My life: rooted, held, surrounded by people who showed up without being asked. His life: foster homes, empty spaces, loss stitched into every chapter.

“That sounds… incredible.” His voice was quiet and careful, like he was afraid to disturb something delicate.

“Yeah,” I said, meeting his eyes. For some reason, the air between us felt warmer. “It is.”

I let my hand brush his sleeve—light, grounding. “You don’t need an invitation to be part of it tonight, Rudy. If you’re here… you’re part of it.”

I watched his throat work around a swallow, watched the way his fingers brushed the hem of his sweater—soft, absent, almost childlike.

Belonging meant something different to him. I was starting to understand just how much.

Before I could say anything else, the bell over the door chimed.

Holly & Pine filled in the way it always did on decorating night—gradually, warmly, like the building itself was waking up. The old greenhouse windows caught the light and scattered it across the wooden floor. Snow tapped softly against the glass while voices layered over one another, familiar and easy.

I was used to this rhythm. The town showed up. Boxes appeared. Chaos followed. Then, somehow, it always turned into something beautiful.

What I wasn’t used to was how aware I was of Rudy.

He stood near the front counter at first, unspooling a length of silver ribbon that had knotted itself into a stubborn mess. Mae paused on her way past, gave him a smile, and said, “You’re good with your hands. Want help, or are you winning?”

“I think I’m winning,” Rudy said, and there was a hint of pride in it.

She laughed and moved on.

That mattered more than he probably realized.

People didn’t orbit him like he was breakable. They spoke to him the way they spoke to anyone else—quick comments, light jokes, passing warmth. Rosa brushed past with a tray of gingerbread and nudged one toward him without ceremony. The Fitzgerald twins argued loudly over where the wreath should go andrecruited Rudy as the tie-breaker. He listened, actually listened, then pointed and said, “There. It balances the window.”

They accepted the verdict like it was law.

He smiled at that.

I kept my distance at first, watching the way he moved through the room—quiet, attentive, clearly taking more in than he let on, but not folding in on himself. This wasn’t the square, with its noise and sudden press. This was contained. Predictable. People came in, did their part, and drifted back out again.

Still, I saw the moment the evening caught up with him.

It wasn’t panic or fear that slowed him. It was accumulation.

Rudy had been useful all night—sorting boxes as they came in, carrying garlands from the back, holding ladders steady while other people climbed. He moved with quiet efficiency, checking labels, asking once where things went and remembering the answer. It wasn’t small work. It was the kind of background labor that kept the night running.

At some point, he leaned his hip against the counter and paused, eyes tracking the room like he was taking inventory instead of resting.

I stepped closer. “You okay?”

He looked at me, then nodded, a reflex more than an answer. A second later, he corrected it. “Yeah. Just… slowing down.”

That mattered.

“You can call it,” I said. “We’re about done.”

He glanced around—at the wreaths hung straight, the bins stacked empty, Mae laughing near the door as she tugged on her gloves. Then he nodded again, this one more deliberate.

“Okay.”

The volunteers filtered out in pairs, leaving behind warmth. When the door finally shut and the shop settled into quiet, Rudy let out a breath that sounded like relief more than exhaustion.