Page 42 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“For me,” I said, choosing the words carefully, “what you said landed kind of like rules anyway.”

He glanced over again, brow creasing—not alarmed, just curious. “Tell me more.”

“Not rules like before,” I said. “Not things I could mess up. Or forget. Or get wrong.” I swallowed. “More like… agreed lines. Clear ones.”

His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. Not in discomfort. In focus.

“When things are vague,” I went on, “my brain fills in the blanks on its own. Usually with the worst version. I start guessing what people want from me instead of asking. And that gets exhausting.”

He nodded slowly. “I can see that.”

“But what you gave me,” I said, “had shape. Two simple things I could actually remember when my head started spinning. Use your words. One moment at a time.” I let out a quiet breath. “It made everything feel steadier.”

We drove another few seconds in silence, snow-laced woods slipping by.

“So when I think of them as rules,” I said finally, “it’s not because I want to be told what to do. It’s because knowing the shape of something lets me relax inside it.”

That did it.

I felt it in the way the tension eased out of his shoulders, the way his mouth softened like something had clicked into place.

“Chosen rules,” he said thoughtfully. “Not imposed ones.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly.”

He was quiet for a beat longer, then said, “I’m okay with that word—if we’re using it your way.”

Warmth spread through me at thewe.

He slowed a little as we came up on a bend, then added, “If it helps, we can even name them together. Keep them simple.”

My heart gave a small, hopeful thud. “I’d like that.”

“All right,” he said easily. “Let’s see.”

He held up one finger briefly before returning his hand to the wheel. “First one’s already there. You use your words when you need something. Comfort. Space. Quiet. Reassurance.”

I nodded. “Even if I don’t know the right ones yet.”

A smile touched his mouth. “Especially then.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Second,” he continued, “you don’t owe me consistency. You get to take things one moment at a time.”

That one settled deep. I felt it all the way down in my chest.

I hesitated, then asked, “Can I add one?”

“Please.”

“If I forget,” I said quietly, “you remind me. Gently.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I can do that.”

The truck rolled on, steady and sure, the world outside hushed and white.

Three rules. Simple. Clear. Chosen.