Page 4 of Mountain Daddy
So tired, I could probably fall asleep until spring.
But the second I open the door, warmth hits me like a hand on the chest.
Not just the temperature.
The sound. Elsie’s giggle. And Celia’s voice, soft and low.
It’s like I’ve walked into someone else’s picture-perfect life. Some version of the world I never thought I’d have.
I step inside and shut the door hard behind me, shaking the snow from my jacket. I’m peeling off my gloves when I see them.
They’re sitting together on the rug in front of the fire, surrounded by construction paper, glue sticks, and a half-built gingerbread cabin that leans to one side like it survived an avalanche.
Elsie is leaning into Celia’s side, humming another Christmas song while Celia holds a star cut from paper and dusted with glitter. Her hair is falling loose from the braid she has her longer hair swept back into. Her cheeks are rosy from the heat of the fire.
And her sweater—oversized, and so soft looking my fingers practically itch to touch it—is doing absolutely nothing for my ability to be a decent man.
Celia looks up at the sound of the door closing.
Her eyes soften.. “You’re frozen.”
I am. In more ways than one.
I clear my throat. “Storm’s getting worse.”
Elsie pops up. “Daddy! Daddy! Look! We’re making the cabin like the one in the Christmas book!”
She holds up the sad, slumping gingerbread wall.
“I see that,” I say, tugging gently on one of her pigtails. “It looks… solid.”
Celia snorts, trying and failing to smother it. God help me, the sound goes straight to my chest.
“It was standing,” she says. “And then it wasn’t.”
I shrug out of my coat, setting it by the stove to dry. When I turn back, Celia is watching me with that soft, steady gaze she doesn’t seem to realize she has. The kind that makes a man feel seen. Known.
And fuck me, I feel it everywhere.
I force myself to look away before I do something stupid.
“You two staying busy?” I ask.
“Oh yes!” Elsie announces. “We practiced my Christmas songs. And Celia let me help stir the chili. And we made paper snowflakes. And we?—”
“Bug,” I say gently, “breathe.”
She giggles and collapses into Celia’s lap again.
And I swear — the sight of them like that hits harder than the wind outside.
A picture I’ve imagined in quiet, lonely moments — only to shove away with equal parts guilt and fear.
But here it is. Real. Warm. Alive.
“Did you make it to town okay?” Celia asks.
I shake my head. “Barely. And you’re not going anywhere.”
