Page 13 of Daddy Christmas

"Make yourself comfortable," I said, gesturing toward the couch. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. Inside, my stomach twisted itself into knots—anxious ones, excited ones, all tangledtogether. I shrugged out of my coat and hung it on the hook by the door, brushing snow from my sleeve.

"Your place suits you," he said as he wandered further inside, pausing by the small shelf near the window. His fingers skimmed over a couple of books stacked there. He picked one up, turning it over in his hands. "You like fairy tales."

"Who doesn’t?" I replied, moving toward the kitchen. It gave me something to do, somewhere to look that wasn’t him. "They’re an escape, I guess."

"An escape," he echoed softly. There was something in his tone I couldn’t quite place, but I didn’t stop to analyze it. Instead, I busied myself pulling down mugs and rummaging for the cocoa mix. The clinking of ceramic against the counter filled the space between us.

"Do you want marshmallows?" I called over my shoulder.

"Always," he answered, his voice closer now. When I glanced back, he was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching me. The way he stood there, so at home in himself, made my chest ache in a way I didn’t have words for. Like I wanted to borrow some of whatever it was he had.

"Coming right up," I muttered, focusing hard on the task at hand. I heated the milk, stirred in the chocolate, added cinnamon. My fingers trembled slightly as I sprinkled the marshmallows on top, but not enough to ruin the symmetry. I carried the two steaming mugs back into the living room, careful not to spill.

"Here," I said, handing him one. My fingers brushed his briefly, and I jerked mine back too fast, almost sloshing hot cocoa onto the floor. "Oops."

"Relax," he murmured, his smile softening the edges of his words. He took the mug, cradling it in both hands. "Thank you."

"Yeah, sure." I sank onto the couch, tucking one leg underneath me and holding my own mug close to my chest.He sat beside me—not too close, but close enough that I could feel the faint warmth radiating off of him. The silence stretched between us again, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable this time. Just . . . charged.

"I have a tradition," he said. "On special evenings, I like to read a favorite book before bed. Would you allow me to share it with you?"

“You want to read me a story?”

“I’d like to.”

“That sounds nice.” My voice came out quieter than I intended, like I was afraid of shattering the moment.

"How doesThe Polar Express sound?"

My heart did something strange and fluttery in my chest. “That sounds really good.”

“You have a copy?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Well, young lady, why don’t you finish up your cocoa, brush your teeth, then I’ll read it to you in bed?”

"Seriously?" I asked, unable to hide my grin. "You want to read to me in bed?" This was making me tingle with excitement. It was like heknewthat I was a Little. He couldn’t, could he? Maybe it was just obvious.

“I never joke about bedtime stories.”

So I did what he asked. Finished up the cocoa, went to brush my teeth. When I returned, he was waiting.

“I got theses pajamas out for you,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

He’d chose my Christmas pajamas, of course.

“They’re perfect.”

He stepped outside while I got changed. A big part of me wished he’d stay.

On the surface, I guess, this might seem quite strange. A man who seemed obsessed with Christmas, who called himself Santa(or Nick) and who, as far as I knew, always wore red, wanted to read me a story in bed.

But. . . .

It didn’t feel strange. It felt ridiculously natural. And even though he was here, in my place, he wasn’t pressuring me into kissing him, or doing anything else (even though I would have been very into the idea). I felt so safe and so looked after. It was wonderful.

“They look good on you,” he said when I’d called him back in.

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