Page 24 of Daddy Christmas

"More?" I raised an eyebrow but followed his suggestion anyway. As I walked, the warmth of the house wrapped aroundme, sinking into my skin. The soft glow of the lights followed me down the hall, flickering off polished wood and colorful rugs.

The first doorway opened into what looked like a toy store exploded. Shelves lined the walls, packed with plush animals, dolls, board games, and puzzles. In the center of the room, a miniature train chugged around a snowy village, complete with tiny skaters twirling on a mirrored pond. I crouched down, watching the wheels spin perfectly along their tracks.

"Do these actually work?" I asked, glancing back at Nicholas, who had followed me silently.

"Of course," he said, crossing his arms. "Nothing here is just for show."

His tone was light, but there was something underneath—pride, maybe? Ownership? Everything here was meant to be touched, played with, loved. It was overwhelming and comforting all at once.

"Do you ever, I don’t know, get tired of all the Christmas stuff?" I asked, running my fingers along the spine of a storybook on one of the shelves. "It’s . . . a lot to live with year-round."

"Never." His answer came so quickly, it startled me. He stepped closer, his boots creaking on the floorboards. "Christmas isn’t just a season, Gemma. It’s a feeling. A promise."

"That sounds . . . nice," I said softly, though part of me wondered if it was really possible to feel that way all the time. Still, as I turned toward another doorway, I couldn’t deny the tug of curiosity pulling me deeper into his home.

The next room stopped me in my tracks. If the last one had been charming, this one was pure magic. Shelves stretched floor-to-ceiling, packed with books I recognized from childhood: fairy tales, adventure stories, picture books with thick, glossy pages. Soft cushions covered the floor, inviting me to sit, maybe even curl up with one of those old favorites. A carousel horsestood in the corner, its painted mane shimmering in the firelight from a small hearth tucked into the wall.

"Okay, now I’m jealous," I joked, letting out a laugh. "You’ve got everything."

"Not quite everything," Nicholas said behind me, his voice quieter now. There was something in his tone that made me pause, but when I turned to look at him, he only smiled.

"Keep exploring," he urged, gesturing toward another door. "The best part’s still ahead."

I wasn’t sure if he meant the house or something else entirely, but I didn’t argue. Something about the way he looked at me made my heart skip, like maybe this place wasn’t just built for Christmas cheer. Maybe it was built for me.

Nicholas pushed the door open, stepping aside so I could see inside. Warm light spilled out, flickering from a fireplace nestled against the far wall. The room was small but impossibly cozy—plush cushions in every color piled high on thick rugs that looked softer than clouds. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars of paintbrushes, stacks of sketchbooks, tubs of crayons and markers. A low table sat in the center, scattered with puzzles half-finished and little wooden toys that looked handmade.

"Go on," he said, smiling as he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. "Take a look."

I hesitated in the doorway. My fingers curled tighter around the strap of my bag, and I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. The space felt . . . intimate, like walking into someone’s childhood memories.

"Gemma," Nicholas said gently, his voice dropping into something warm and steady, like the crackle of the fire. "This is your space too. It’s here for you."

"Me?" I laughed nervously, glancing at him over my shoulder. "I think you’ve got the wrong girl for this. I’m not exactly . . .artsy." My voice sounded lighter than I felt. The truth? I wasn’t sure what I was doing here at all.

"Doesn’t matter," he replied easily. "It’s not about being good at anything. It’s about having fun. Letting yourself enjoy it." His smile widened, and something about it made my chest ache a little. "You deserve that, don’t you? Remember?"

Before I could answer, he stepped past me, crossing the room in a few long strides. He crouched by the shelves, pulling out a box of colored pencils and setting them on the table. Then he grabbed a sketchbook, flipping through its thick pages before laying it open beside the pencils. When he glanced back at me, there was no judgment in his eyes, no impatience. Just quiet encouragement that somehow made me feel seen and safe all at once.

"Come sit," he said, patting the cushion next to him. "Or, y’know, stand there pretending you’re not curious. Your call."

I bit my lip, fighting a smile. He’d called my bluff. Finally, I stepped into the room, letting the door swing closed behind me.

Nicholas waited until I perched awkwardly on the edge of the cushion, my knees tucked together like I might bolt at any second. Then he slid the sketchbook closer to me, tilting it slightly so I could see the blank page staring back at me.

"Pick a color," he said, nodding toward the pencils. "Any color. No wrong answers.

"That’s a lot of pressure," I joked, but my hand drifted toward the box anyway. I pulled out a deep blue pencil, holding it between my fingers like it might break. "What am I supposed to draw?"

"Whatever you want." He leaned back on his hands, watching me with an easy grin. "A snowman, a Christmas tree, a stick figure with a Santa hat. Doesn’t have to be perfect. I suppose, if you insist, it doesn’t even have to be Christmassy. Just has to make you happy."

I stared at the page, the pencil hovering just above it. Happy. That word felt so big, so far away. But then Nicholas reached out, his fingertips brushing mine lightly. Not enough to startle me, just enough to ground me.

"Start with a line," he said softly. "See where it goes."

So I did. The pencil moved shakily at first, the line curving into something messy and uneven. But Nicholas didn’t laugh or correct me. He just watched, his gaze steady and patient, like he had all the time in the world.

"See?" he murmured after a moment. "Nothing to it."

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