A Daddy for Christmas

CHAPTER SIX — Christmas Morning

I woke to laughter.

Not distant. Not imagined. Real bright and bubbling, echoing down the hallway like music.

For a moment, I stayed still beneath the covers, listening. The cabin felt alive in a way it hadn’t before, as though Christmas itself had slipped inside overnight and settled into the walls.

“Mira! It’s Christmas!”

Ivy burst through the doorway before I could sit up, her curls bouncing wildly, her pajama sleeves already smeared with something that looked suspiciously like chocolate.

“Good morning to you too,” I laughed, sitting up just in time to catch her as she launched herself onto the bed.

“Daddy said I could wake you up because it’s a very important day,” she announced seriously.

I glanced past her into the hallway.

Landon stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching us. His hair was still sleep-mussed, his sweater soft and worn, and there was something about the way he looked at me quiet, open, unguarded that made my chest tighten.

“She insisted,” he said.

I smiled. “I don’t mind.”

And I meant it.

The living room glowed.

The tree lights shimmered softly, reflected in the windows where snow still clung to the edges. Wrapped presents sat beneath the branches, not many, but carefully chosen. Intentional.

Ivy dove for them with glee, then froze suddenly, eyes wide.

“Wait,” she whispered. “Daddy says we open gifts together.”

Landon crouched beside her. “That’s right.”

She nodded solemnly, then looked at me. “You too.”

I hesitated. “Oh, Ivy, I”

“You’re here,” she said simply. “That means you’re included.”

Landon’s gaze lifted to mine.

And something unspoken passed between us.

I sat down.

Watching Landon with Ivy as she opened her gifts was humbling.

He didn’t rush her. Didn’t push excitement. He let her savor each moment, each tear of paper, each small gasp of delight.

When she opened the bunny pajamas, she squealed.

“You remembered!” she shouted, throwing her arms around his neck.

He hugged her tightly, eyes closing for just a second.

Then she handed me a small, unevenly wrapped box.

“This one’s for you,” she said proudly. “Daddy helped me.”

My breath caught.

I looked at Landon, startled. “You didn’t have to”

“I wanted to,” he said quietly.

Inside was a mug.

Hand-painted. Slightly crooked.

It read: Tea in quiet places.

I stared at it, throat tight.

“Ivy told me,” he said. “About what you said.”

I swallowed. “It’s perfect.”

And somehow, at that moment, I knew this wasn’t charity. This wasn’t kindness out of obligation.

This was care.

After breakfast which was pancakes shaped like stars and far too much syrup, Ivy bundled up to play outside again. Landon and I stood at the window watching her stomp through the snow, laughter trailing behind her like bells.

“She likes you,” he said.

“I like her,” I replied softly.

He turned to me. “I don’t introduce Ivy to people easily.”

“I know,” I said.

“She doesn’t attach quickly either.”

That landed heavier than he probably intended.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” I said honestly.

“I don’t think you would,” he replied just as honestly. “But I need to know you won’t disappear.”

I faced him fully then.

“I didn’t plan to come here,” I said. “But I’m not running anymore.”

His eyes searched for mine , careful, protective, and hopeful.

“That matters,” he said.

Later, while Ivy napped again apparently Christmas exhaustion was very real Landon and I stood outside on the porch, mugs warm in our hands, breath fogging the air.

“I’ve spent years building walls,” he said quietly. “Not to keep people out but to keep Ivy safe.”

“I understand,” I said. “I built mine to survive.”

He glanced at me. “And now?”

“Now I don’t know if I need them as much.”

He nodded slowly. “Neither do I.”

The snow fell gently around us, soft and unhurried.

And then slowly, deliberately he reached for my hand.

Not suddenly. Not demanding.

Asking.

I let my fingers lace with his.

He exhaled, something deep and relieved.

“I don’t know where this goes,” he said.

“I don’t either,” I replied.

“But I want to find out,” he added.

“So do I.”

He didn’t kiss me.

Instead, he rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed, the intimacy of the gesture stealing my breath far more than a kiss ever could.

And in that stillness, I felt it clearly:

This was no longer accidental. This was intentional. Careful. Real.

That night, after Ivy fell asleep clutching her bunny, Landon and I stood in the dim hallway again.

“Merry Christmas, Mira,” he said softly.

“Merry Christmas, Landon.”

He hesitated then pressed a gentle kiss to my temple.

Not claiming.

Not rushing.

Just promise.

I watched him walk away, heart full and steady.

Tomorrow, I didn’t know what would come.

But tonight, I knew this much:

I wasn’t alone.

And neither was he.