He reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging us into darkness. I snuggled closer, breathing in his scent, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
While part of me wanted to whine at the loss of connection with him, the rest of me was too tired to fight it. Besides, I got to be close to him either way. It was a win all around.
“Goodnight, bud,” he whispered.
“Goodnight, Daddy.”
The word still felt new on my tongue, but every time I said it, it felt more right.
The next morning, I woke up to find Simon already gone. Again. But this time, instead of a note on the nightstand, there was a small, wrapped package.
I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes as I reached for it. The wrapping was simple brown paper tied with twine, just like the others had been.
My heart rate picked up as I carefully unwrapped it.
Inside was a journal—leather-bound and beautiful, with my initials embossed on the cover. I ran my fingers over the letters, then opened it to find the first page filled with my Secret Santa’s handwriting.
For all the thoughts you keep inside. You don’t have to share them with anyone, but sometimes it helps to get them out of your head and onto paper. This is your space to be honest, to be messy, to be anything you need to be.
My vision blurred with tears. How did he keep doing this? How did he keep knowing exactly what I needed?
I’d always been someone who processed things internally, turning them over and over in my mind until they either madesense or drove me crazy. The idea of having a place to put those thoughts somewhere private and safe—it was perfect.
I clutched the journal to my chest and took a shaky breath. Then another. I needed to figure out who this was. Needed to thank him, even though I didn’t have to. It felt like I should know who it is by now. Like the answer would be easy to navigate. Except my brain had decided to take a vacation as well this week. I couldn’t seem to put the pieces together no matter how much I wanted to.
I got dressed quickly, not bothering with a shower, and headed downstairs. The house was quiet. It was still early, barely seven according to the clock on the wall.
In the kitchen, I found Harlan starting breakfast prep.
“Morning,” he said without turning around. “Coffee’s fresh.”
“Thanks. Have you seen Simon?”
“Barn. Said something about checking on the tack.” Harlan glanced at me over his shoulder, a knowing look in his eyes. “That from your Secret Santa?”
I nodded, holding up the journal.
“Thought so. You had that look.”
“What look?”
“The one Sean gets every time Atticus does something particularly Daddy-ish.” He turned back to his cutting board. “Go on. Go find your man.”
I grabbed a travel mug of coffee and headed out, not even bothering with my coat despite the cold. I needed to see Daddy to show him this new gift.
The barn was warm compared to outside, heated by the body warmth of the animals and the insulation. I could hear movement from the tack room—the clink of metal, the rustle of leather.
“Simon?” I called as I approached.
“Back here, bud.”
I found him organizing bridles, methodically checking each one for wear and tear. He looked up when I entered, a smile spreading across his face.
“Morning. Sorry I didn’t leave a note?—”
I didn’t let him finish. I set down the journal and my coffee and crossed the space between us in three quick steps, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down to me.
The kiss was harder than the one yesterday, more desperate. I poured everything I was feeling into it—happiness and desire and something bigger that I wasn’t ready to name yet.
