Page 63 of Daddy's Little Christmas

We watched in companionable quiet for a while—long enough for the McCallisters to leave, long enough for the house to empty out and the snow to start falling onscreen. Rudy sipped his cocoa, shoulders gradually easing, his body inching closer without comment.

By the time Kevin realized he was alone, Rudy was leaning lightly into my side.

I felt him hesitate, then lift one hand to the front of his pajama top, fingers pressing briefly there like he was checking something was still where it belonged.

He didn’t pull his hand away immediately. Just rested it there for a second.

I glanced down. “You know you don’t have to hide here.”

His eyes flicked up. “Even…?”

“Especially,” I said. “Rule two.”

That did it.

He drew the pacifier out fully this time. He looked at it for a long moment, thumb rubbing the silicone, lower lip caught between his teeth. Then, very slowly, he brought the paci to his mouth and settled it between his lips. His whole body seemed to exhale. The change in him was immediate—shoulders lowering, spine softening, weight settling more fully against me.

He scooted closer until his side pressed along mine, then tucked himself carefully against me, head finding its way to my shoulder. My arm wrapped around him on instinct, hand resting on his upper arm, thumb tracing small arcs through the fabric.

Onscreen, the burglars slipped on ice for the first time.

Rudy made a small, surprised sound around the pacifier, then laughed—soft and unguarded.

“Okay,” he murmured. “I get why people love this.”

I smiled into my mug. “Told you.”

He leaned into me a little more, warmth solid and real against my side, and for the first time all night, nothing felt temporary at all.

Chapter 12

Rudy

Lunch at Mae’s Inn was quiet in the way small places got right before the holidays—low voices, the scrape of cutlery, coats slung over chair backs like everyone was halfway ready to be somewhere else. The windows fogged from the heat inside, snow pressing faintly against the glass.

In front of me sat a bowl of chicken pot pie soup—thick, creamy, heavy on the carrots and potatoes—with a slab of crusty bread balanced on the edge of the plate. Mae had insisted. “You can’t do December on an empty stomach,” she’d said, already ladling.

I took a bite. It was good. Comforting in a way that didn’t try too hard.

It didn’t stop my thoughts from drifting anyway.

Last night stayed with me in quieter ways—the warmth of Graeme’s living room, the way the couch had dipped under our combined weight, how nothing in me had been braced for correction.

I hadn’t been watching myself. I hadn’t been measuring my reactions or waiting for the moment I’d gone too far. I’d used the pacifier without apologizing. I’d just been there, comfortable in my own skin in a way that felt unfamiliar and real.

AfterHome Alone, we watched something newer—Elf, which I’d seen, and thenThe Holiday, which I hadn’t. Snuggling in Graeme’s big, strong arms was amazing. I hadn’t had to earn the comfort.

Mae stopped at my table again, smiling as she glanced at my bowl.

“Looks like it hit the spot,” she said.

“It did,” I replied. “It’s really good.”

She smiled, pleased, and nodded at my mostly empty bowl. “I’m glad. Let me know if you want seconds.”

“Thanks,” I said, meaning more than just the food.

She gave my shoulder a light, familiar pat and moved on.