His hands were covered in flour, and there was a smudge of it on his cheek. He looked young and happy and absolutely perfect.
"Is that right?" I came over to inspect their work. Several lumpy biscuits sat on a baking sheet, clearly formed by Tanner's inexperienced hands.
"They're not very pretty," Tanner admitted, looking down at them critically.
"They're fine," Harlan corrected. "Homemade biscuits don't need to be pretty. They need to taste good, and these will."
"He's right," I said, reaching out to wipe the flour from Tanner's cheek with my thumb. "And you're doing great, bud."
He leaned into the touch, his eyes going soft like they always did when I praised him.
"Why don't you two finish up here," I said. "I need to go check on something upstairs."
Harlan caught my eye and gave a subtle nod. He knew what I was doing—had helped me plan it, after all.
I grabbed the bag and headed back up to Tanner's room.Our room,really. My clothes were in the dresser now, my books on the shelf next to his. We'd merged our spaces naturally, like we'd been doing this for years instead of days.
I set the container in the middle of the bed where he couldn't miss it, arranging it carefully. Then I stood back and studied it, making sure everything looked right. It was different from my original plan, but it would have to do.
Everything looked good. It looked like care. Like attention. Like someone paying attention to the little details that made Tanner who he was.
Satisfied, I headed back downstairs.
In the kitchen, Tanner was sliding his sheet of biscuits into the oven while Harlan supervised. His tongue poked out slightly in concentration, and my chest went all warm and liquid.
Man, I had it bad for this boy.
"All done?" I asked.
"Yep!" He closed the oven door and turned to me with a proud smile. "Harlan says they'll be ready in fifteen minutes."
"Then you've got time to go clean up before they're done." I nodded toward his flour-covered hands and the dusting of white on his shirt.
"Oh, right." He looked down at himself and laughed. "I'm a mess."
"A cute mess," I said, then lowered my voice. "Go on up, bud. I'll call you when they're ready."
He bounced on his toes—actually bounced, like he couldn't contain his energy—and headed for the stairs.
I waited, counting in my head. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
"SIMON!"
His voice carried down the stairs, filled with excitement and emotion. I exchanged a grin with Harlan and headed up.
I found Tanner in the middle of the room, the container open in front of him and snacks spread across the bed. He was holding the note in trembling hands.
"Hey, hey," I said gently, coming over to him. "What's all this?"
"They got me snacks," he said, his voice thick. "My Secret Santa got me snacks, Daddy. Look at all of this!"
He gestured at the array of items like they were treasures, not simple grocery store purchases.
But I understood.
Because to him, they were treasures. They represented permission. Freedom from guilt. The ability to want something without justifying why he deserved it.
"They're perfect, aren't they?" I said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
