Page 6 of Daddy Christmas

His face softened, his hand stilling against my waist. “We’ll have to fix that.”

The certainty in his tone sent a strange flutter through my chest. I shifted slightly, my fingers brushing against the velvet of his jacket. He was so solid, so present, and I wasn’t used to anyone looking at me the way he was now—like I mattered. Like he saw me.

“What about you?” I asked, desperate to turn the attention back on him. “What makesyouhappy?”

His lips curved into a sly grin, mischief flickering in his eyes. “Oh, lots of things,” he said, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down my spine. “But right now? You.”

“Me?” I blinked, caught off guard.

He chuckled again, quieter this time. “The way your nose scrunches when you’re thinking too hard. It’s adorable.”

My face went hot, and I ducked my head, trying to hide the blush I knew was creeping up my cheeks. “You’re ridiculous,”I muttered, but there was no bite to it. If anything, I sounded breathless.

“Maybe,” he said, his grin widening. “But I’m not wrong.”

I couldn’t bring myself to look at him, but I felt the heat of his gaze all the same. The air between us seemed to hum, electric and unspoken. Time slowed, the world outside the grotto fading completely from existence. It was just him and me, the soft glow of lights casting shadows across his sharp features, the distant melody of bells filling the quiet spaces between words.

“Well, sweetie, I’ve checked, and it seems like you’ve been a very good girl this year.”

Even though he said it to everyone, I felt a sudden burst of pride surge through my.

Santa leaned back slightly, his hand disappearing behind the ornate chair. I watched, curious, as he rummaged for something hidden from view. When he straightened again, he held a small box wrapped in shimmering gold paper, topped with a silver bow that caught the light like frost on a windowpane.

"Here," he said, holding it out to me. "A little something for you."

I stared at it, blinking. My hands stayed in my lap for a beat too long, unsure if this was really happening. "You didn’t have to," I murmured, though my voice wavered, betraying how much the gesture made my chest tighten.

"Everyone deserves a gift at Christmas." His gloved hand reached forward, brushing lightly against my cheek. The touch was warm despite the leather, and it lingered—just long enough to make me forget to breathe. "Especially you, Gemma."

I swallowed hard, nodding as I accepted the box. My fingers trembled around its edges, the weight of it feeling far heavier than it should’ve. He watched me closely, his green eyes soft but sharp, like they were taking in every part of me all at once.

"Go on," he encouraged, his deep voice coaxing. "Open it."

The paper crinkled under my touch as I peeled back the layers, careful not to tear anything. It felt too beautiful to rush through, too deliberate to ruin with haste. Beneath the wrapping lay a simple white box, and when I lifted the lid, my breath hitched.

Nestled inside was a stuffed kitten, its fur as white and soft as freshly fallen snow. A tiny red and white knit hat sat perched on its round head, its pom-pom slightly off-center. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I let it out in a shaky exhale.

"Do you like it?" he asked, his tone quieter now, almost tentative.

I couldn’t answer right away. My fingers traced the plush fur, the delicate stitching of its embroidered eyes, the way the little hat fit snugly over its ears. The details were perfect, almost painfully so. The kind of perfect that pulled memories from places I’d long since locked away.

"Yeah," I managed finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "I—" My throat tightened before I could finish. I cleared it quickly, forcing myself to look up at him. "It’s . . . it’s amazing. Thank you. I’ll call him Christmas."

"A perfect name." The corners of his mouth tugged upward, but there was something else in his expression I couldn’t quite place. Relief? Satisfaction? Maybe both. "You deserve it. A happy Christmas."

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Something about the way he said them, like he meant them more than anyone ever had before. Like he knew exactly how much that stupid little kitten meant to me, even without me saying a word.

I looked down again, cradling the toy in my hands. Memories swirled unbidden—of sitting cross-legged on threadbare rugs in cold rooms, clutching a different stuffed kitten while the world outside felt impossibly big and unforgiving. That one had been gray, with a pink bow around its neck. I’d loved it fiercely, the way only a child could love something so small and helpless.And then, one day, it was gone. Just another casualty of moving boxes and foster homes and people who never stayed.

But this one . . . this one felt like it was mine in a way nothing had been in years. Maybe ever.

"Are you okay?" His voice broke through the haze, grounding me.

"Yeah," I said quickly, though the lump in my throat begged to differ. I forced a smile, hoping it would be enough to convince him—and maybe myself. "Just . . . you don’t know what this means to me."

"Maybe I do," he said softly, his gaze steady and unyielding.

For a moment, I thought I might cry. But instead, I pressed the kitten closer to my chest, letting its softness soak up the ache.

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