Page 56 of Daddy's Little Christmas

My cheeks burned so hot I was pretty sure they could have melted the snow outside.

“This is…” I muttered, not sure which word I was reaching for. “A lot.”

“I know,” he said softly.

His hands settled at my hips, fingers gentle, giving me plenty of space to move away if I wanted to. I didn’t. The opposite, actually. I scooted just a little closer until my chest brushed his and my forehead tucked under his chin.

His heartbeat was a solid thump against my cheek.

Slow. Reliable.

His scent wrapped around me—pine, wool, a hint of something warm and spicy I couldn’t name. It went straight to the tightest, most knotted-up parts of me.

Everything inside me loosened by degrees.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, one hand sliding up to rest between my shoulder blades. His palm was broad and warm, the weight of it making me feel… anchored. “You’re safe, sweet boy. I’ve got you.”

A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the cold outside.

“I like…” My voice came out muffled against his shirt. I forced myself to tilt my head back just enough to look up at him. “I like when you talk like that. With your deep voice. It feels… safe.”

His eyes softened in a way I didn’t have a word for.

“I’ll remember that,” he said quietly. The pad of his thumb brushed a slow line over the back of my neck. “You deserve to feel safe.”

My gaze dropped to the basket again.

The pacifier lay where I’d left it, its simple shape almost unbearably loud in the small space.

I swallowed.

“I haven’t…” My throat tightened. “I haven’t used one in years. I told myself it was time to grow up. That it was… pathetic.”

His fingers tightened just a fraction against my back.

“It isn’t pathetic,” he said, voice low and certain. “It’s a comfort object. That’s all. Like a blanket. Or a favourite mug. Or—the reindeer.”

A small, wobbly smile tugged at my mouth at the mention of the reindeer.

“I missed this,” I admitted. “More than I should’ve.”

“You can miss anything that made you feel loved,” he said. “There’s no ‘should’ there.”

Carefully, like it might vanish if I moved too fast, I leaned sideways and reached for the pacifier. My fingers closed around it.

It was lighter than I remembered. Maybe they always were and I’d just forgotten.

A strange, thick sound escaped my throat. I turned it over in my hand, tracing the curve with my thumb, feeling the subtle give of the silicone.

My vision blurred.

“I don’t know if I can…” I whispered.

“You don’t have to,” he replied immediately. “You can hold it. Keep it in your pocket. Hide it under your pillow. Whatever feels right. Using it isn’t a requirement. It’s an option.”

The pressure in my chest eased a fraction.

I nodded, a small, jerky movement.