Page 82 of Daddy's Little Christmas

His eyebrows shot up. “There’s more?”

“Come on.”

I took his hand and guided him onto the narrow path leading through the trees. Snow muffled our steps. The world was quiet except for the soft whisper of branches overhead and the occasional rustle of a squirrel darting across a branch.

The deeper we walked, the more the air smelled like cedar and frost.

Then the trees thinned, opening into a small clearing.

Rudy stopped beside me, breath catching.

The clearing was modest but beautiful—tall pines curving around it like a protective wall, their branches heavy with snow. A frozen ribbon of a stream cut across one side, glimmering faintly. And in the center stood an old wooden bench, half-buried beneath snow but still sturdy, facing the woods like it was waiting.

“My parents used to sit here,” I said quietly. “Every winter morning. Cocoa, blankets, arguing about who could spot deer first.”

Rudy looked at the bench with soft eyes. “It feels… peaceful. Like it remembers them.”

The words hit me with a warmth I wasn’t prepared for. I swallowed around it and cleared my throat. “Yeah. I think it does.”

He slipped his hand into mine. No words. Just warmth.

We didn’t stay long—the cold began to creep into our boots—but something about standing there with him, in the quiet space my parents loved, made the world feel briefly, painfully right.

On the walk back, Rudy stayed close, shoulder brushing mine like he was absorbing every second. Snowflakes clung to his eyelashes. He looked unreal.

Back at the house, we stomped the snow from our boots and peeled off gloves. Rudy’s nose was red and he rubbed his hands together.

“Hot cocoa?” I asked.

He brightened instantly. “Always.”

I set a saucepan on the stove, whisking cocoa powder, cream, and sugar until it thickened into something rich and velvety. Rudy hovered at my elbow, stealing marshmallows from the jar when he thought I wasn’t looking.

“I see you,” I said.

“No, you don’t,” he answered, popping another into his mouth.

When the cocoa was ready, we carried our mugs to the porch and settled together on the swing. I pulled a thick wool blanket over us. Rudy curled into my side.

Snow fell in slow spirals across the yard. The woods looked like a painting from here—white, quiet, endless.

“This,” Rudy whispered, “feels like the world stopped just long enough for us to catch up.”

His head rested on my shoulder. My heart twisted—quiet, sharp.

“Yeah,” I said, brushing my thumb along the back of his hand. “Feels a bit like that.”

Because I knew what was coming.

In a week, he was heading back to Chicago.

His life. His apartment. His routines.

His world without me.

Rudy spun toward me, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “You look thoughtful.”

“Just enjoying the view,” I said, managing a smile.