Page 74 of Daddy's Little Christmas

A small angel, hand-painted in soft cream and gold, its wings brushed with just enough shimmer to catch the light.

A reindeer wrapped in a knitted scarf no bigger than a thumb, red and green yarn wound tight and neat.

And a simple wooden star, smooth at the edges, with a tiny hole drilled for a ribbon.

For a long moment, Rudy sat still.

His eyes moved slowly—from the stitching on the onesie, to the angel, to the star. His throat worked.

“Graeme,” he breathed. Just my name. Nothing else.

“I remembered what you said when you stayed over,” I said quietly, sitting beside him. “That when you got back to Chicago, you’d buy a Christmas tree for the first time." I hesitated, then added, “These don’t have to mean anything more than you want them to.”

He picked up the angel ornament carefully, like it might bruise if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“They’re from Mrs. Patel,” I said. “She makes them every year. I told her what I wanted her to make.” A beat. “You don’t have to put them on a tree. You can keep them in the box. Or a drawer. Or leave them here.”

Rudy’s fingers closed around the star, thumb tracing its edge.

“But if you ever decide to have a tree,” I finished, “you’d have a place to start.”

His breath left him in a slow, uneven exhale.

“No one’s ever…” He stopped, tried again. “Mrs. Davis was the only one who ever bought me gifts… well, until my ex. And they were mainly suits he wanted me to wear to some event or another. You gave me something that lasts. Memories. Perfect memories.”

The words landed cleanly between us.

“That was the point,” I said.

The smile that found his mouth was small and stunned and achingly real.

“I love it,” he said, voice rough. “All of it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I murmured.

He set the box carefully on the coffee table, almost reverent. Then he inhaled, squared his shoulders a little, and reached under the tree.

“Okay,” he said. “Now it’s your turn to follow the rules.”

“Oh?” I leaned back, amused. “Do I get a list?”

“Rule one,” he said, eyeing me with mock sternness. “You’re not allowed to say it’s too much.”

“That sounds targeted.”

“Because it is.” He pulled out a flat, rectangular package, wrapped in silver paper with a sprig of pine tucked under the ribbon. “Here.”

The weight of it felt familiar—like a book, or a frame.

“Rudy—”

“Ah.” He lifted a finger. “Rule two. No apologizing before you even see it.”

I couldn’t help the smile. “You’ve been paying attention.”

“Constantly,” he said, then flashed me a bashful grin. “Open it.”

I did, careful with the ribbon because he’d taken time to tie it.