Had it really been that long? I glanced at Elton, who was grinning.
"Don't look at me," Elton said. "I'm not arguing with him when he gets that Daddy tone going."
I felt my face flush, but Simon just raised an eyebrow. "Inside. Both of you. Harlan's got lunch ready."
We obeyed, because honestly, who could resist that voice?
Inside, I washed up and joined everyone at the long table. Simon made sure I had a full plate, adding extra servings when he thought I wasn't looking.
"I can feed myself," I pointed out, amused.
"I know you can. Doesn't mean you will." He sat down beside me, close enough that our thighs pressed together. "Eat."
I ate, hyperaware of his presence beside me. Every so often, his hand would drop to my knee under the table, a brief touch that sent warmth flooding through me.
After lunch, Elton and I finished up in the storage barn. By the time we were done, everything was organized and labeled, and I felt a sense of accomplishment I hadn't experienced in weeks.
"Thanks for the help," Elton said as we headed back to the main house. "Made it go way faster."
"Happy to help." And I meant it. There was something satisfying about physical labor, about seeing immediate results from your efforts.
Back in my room, I found another package on the bed.
My heart leapt.Another gift from my Secret Santa.
I unwrapped it carefully, already smiling before I even saw what it was.
Art supplies.
Not just any art supplies—the good kind. Professional-grade colored pencils in every shade imaginable. Markers with fine tips and bold colors. A large sketchpad with thick, high-quality paper. And underneath it all, several new coloring books with intricate, beautiful designs.
My throat tightened as I ran my fingers over the smooth wood of the pencils. The coloring books Simon had found at my apartment were still untouched because I'd never given myself permission to use them. I'd bought them on impulse, then felt guilty for spending money on something so frivolous.
But these were a gift. Which meant someone wanted me to use them.
There was a note tucked into the sketchpad:
Creativity isn't frivolous. It's necessary. You spend so much time in your head—let some of those thoughts out onto paper instead. No judgment, no pressure. Just color and create and let yourself play.
I clutched the note to my chest and took a shaky breath. How did this person know exactly what I needed? How did they see so clearly into the parts of me I kept hidden?
I heard footsteps in the hallway and quickly wiped my eyes. A moment later, Simon appeared in the doorway.
"Hey, bud—" He stopped when he saw the art supplies spread across the bed. "Another gift?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He came over and sat beside me, picking up one of the coloring books and flipping through it. "These are beautiful."
"They are." I finally found my voice. "I can't believe they got me all this."
"Looks like they want you to use them." He set the book down and turned to me. "You going to?"
"I want to," I admitted. "I just… I don't know if I'm any good at it."
"Doesn't matter if you're good at it, bud. What matters is whether it makes you happy." He brushed my hair back from my forehead. "You want to try? I can stay, or I can give you privacy if you'd rather?—"
"Stay," I said immediately. "Please stay."
