Page 72 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“It’s okay.” He gave a small, lopsided shrug. “Mrs. Davis tried, though. When I moved in with her, she—” His mouth trembled once, then steadied. “She gave me a stocking and stitched my name on it. She made cocoa on the stove and put marshmallows in it even though she hated marshmallows. I think that’s when I started believing… maybe I wasn’t just temporary.”

My hand tightened around my fork.

“She sounds like a good woman,” I said.

“She was.” His voice went soft around the past tense. “I didn’t really… get the whole childhood Christmas magic thing, you know? Not like kids who grow up writing letters to Santa and trusting someone will read them. But with her it felt…” He searched for the word, then gave a sheepish little smile. “Safe. Like being with you. Just… different flavors of safe.”

Warmth moved through me in a slow, deep wave.

“I’m glad you felt safe,” I said. “And here. Tonight.”

“I do,” he said. “Which is… new. And nice. And terrifying.”

I looked up sharply. “Terrifying?”

He flushed, pushing a piece of potato through the gravy with the edge of his fork. “Not in a bad way,” he said quickly. “Just… it’s been a long time since I let myself like someone like this. Since Nate, I mean. I thought maybe that part of me was… I don’t know.” He made a small, helpless motion with one hand. “Frozen, I guess.”

I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine.

The contact was simple, but it carried weight—his pulse under my thumb, the way his fingers curled slowly to meet my palm.

“There’s nothing frozen about you,” I said. “You’re here. You’re feeling things. You’re telling me the truth. That’s… that’s brave, Rudy. Whether you see it or not.”

He looked at our hands, then up at me, eyes shining more than the candlelight alone could explain.

“You make it easier,” he said quietly. “To tell the truth.”

My throat went tight.

It scared me, yes—how natural this felt. How sitting at my table with his hand in mine and his laughter still echoing in the room felt less like something new and more like something I’d been missing without realizing it.

Because I’d lost people before. My parents in a single winter night. Michael to a life on the road I couldn’t follow. Those losses had carved wary spaces inside me where love was concerned. Loving meant risking. Risking meant hurting.

And yet.

Looking at Rudy, I knew I’d already stepped past the point of keeping my heart out of it.

The fear wasn’t that I was falling. The fear was how right the falling felt.

He squeezed my hand, bringing me back to the moment.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You still with me?”

“Very much so,” I said, managing a smile. “Sorry. Got lost in my head for a second.”

“Anything you want to share?” he asked. The question was gentle, an echo of the way I’d asked him so many times.

“Maybe in a minute,” I said. “I was thinking that before I turn into a complete sap, we should clear these plates. And then…”

“And then?” he prompted, eyes bright with curiosity.

“And then,” I said, letting my thumb trace one last slow arc over his knuckles, “we can go sit by the tree. You mentioned presents, if I recall.”

His smile bloomed, full and delighted, the kind of expression that made him look years younger and made something in my chest tilt.

“I did,” he said. “And I brought one for you.”

“I know,” I said, glancing toward the tree where carefully wrapped packages waited beneath the lowest branches. “And I have some for you.”