Page 84 of Daddy's Little Christmas

The bed was warm. The house was quiet. Outside the window, I could see pale sky and a soft flurry of snowflakes drifting past the glass. The day-after-Christmas kind of calm.

And under it, a tight little coil of awareness:

Six days.

Six days until my return trip to Chicago.

My stomach dipped, but I pushed the thought to the back of my mind. I’d ruin this day later. For now, I had something else to think about.

“We’re still going today?” I asked. “To the… place you mentioned?”

“Mm.” His gaze softened. “The Hearth. In Maplewood.”

I repeated the name in my head. The Hearth.

“I go every year on the twenty-sixth,” he said. “They do a special holiday meal and hand out winter kits—hats, gloves, socks, that kind of thing. Some of the folks there… it’s the only time anybody looks them in the eye and asks if they’re warm enough.”

Something in my chest pulled.

“Is it mostly… unhoused people?” I asked, careful with the word. It still felt new on my tongue.

“Some. Some are just struggling. Some are kids who don’t want to be at home.” His voice gentled even more. “Some queer kids. Some just… lonely.”

Yeah. I knew that feeling.

“I’d like to go,” I said quietly. “If you still want me there.”

“Of course I do.” He leaned forward to kiss my forehead. “But only if you’re up for it. It’s a lot of people. A lot of noise. A lot of feelings in one room. It can be… intense.”

I swallowed. The warning wasn’t a turnoff. If anything, it was… respectful. “I want to try,” I said. “Just… tell me if I mess anything up?”

His mouth twitched. “I don’t expect perfection, sweetheart. Just kindness. You’ve got that handled.”

My throat wobbled. I glanced away, blinking quickly. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know,” he said simply.

We showered, dressed in warm clothes, and made a simple breakfast—leftover cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, coffeestrong enough to reboot my soul. Graeme moved around his kitchen with the easy rhythm of someone who knew where everything lived. I watched him for a moment, leaning against the counter, my mug warm in my hands.

This was what I’d wanted, I realized. Not just sex. Not just a Daddy who soothed my soft edges. This—morning light and shared coffee and him telling me about his life like I belonged in it.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he said, catching me staring.

“Inflation,” I said automatically. “You’ll have to offer more.”

He snorted. “Fine. A cinnamon roll for your thoughts.”

“Sold.” I took the plate he offered and sat at the small table. “I was just thinking I like this.”

“Breakfast?”

“You,” I said, then added quickly, “and breakfast. And… this. All of it.”

His expression did something quiet and devastating, like I’d handed him a gift he hadn’t expected.

“Me too,” he said.

The drive to Maplewood took about forty minutes. The roads had been plowed, lined with soft banks of snow. Bare branches arched overhead like dark ink strokes against the white sky. Christmas decorations still glowed on a few front porches—strings of colored lights, wreaths with red bows, a plastic reindeer or two half-buried in drifts.