Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
Clayton
I woke up to the smell of pancakes. Real ones—not the instant kind that always turned out too thin, but thick, fluffy ones like Mom used to make when we’d pretend Christmas lasted all year.
The soft hum of music floated down the hallway. Not the usual jazz Felix played when he worked, but something softer, slower. Lullabies on piano, maybe.
When I walked into the kitchen, blinking sleep from my eyes, Felix was already at the stove—sleeves rolled up, hair damp from a shower.
The sight of him, so domestic and steady, made my chest go warm and tight at the same time.
Then I stared open-mouthed at the Christmas decorations. Had they been there last night?
He saw me looking. "I've ordered some more but I thought you'd like to put them up." I nodded, excitement rushing through me. He stepped close and brushed a kiss on my lips. “I should have started with good morning, sleepyhead.”
I froze. The word wrapped around me like a blanket and a warning all at once. Sleepyhead. No one had ever called me that before. Not like that. Not where it felt…safe.
“I, um—good morning.” I rubbed my arms, suddenly aware that I was wearing one of his t-shirts. It hung halfway down my thighs.
“Sit,” he said gently, nodding to the small kitchen table. A coloring book lay open there—the thick, heavy kind meant for kids, with animals and simple shapes outlined in bold black. A box of colored pencils sat beside it, perfectly sharpened. Next to that was a mug with a cartoon reindeer.
He noticed me staring and shrugged, a little self-conscious. “Thought we’d have an easy morning. No stress. Pancakes, cocoa, maybe some cartoons after. You could try coloring, if you want.”
My throat went tight. He meant well—I knew that. Every inch of him radiated patience and quiet care. But something in me panicked at the thought.
“That sounds…nice,” I managed, sitting down carefully. My palms left damp prints on the table.
Felix slid a plate of pancakes in front of me and sat across, not pushing, not watching too closely. Just there.
I tried to eat. Tried to breathe. Tried to convince myself that I could do this—just relax, just be.
He flipped a page in the coloring book. “You don’t have to stay inside the lines,” he said softly. “There aren’t any rules here.”
That made my chest ache. I reached for a crayon, blue, and stared at the blank page. The second my hand touched it, my pulse started to race. The colors blurred.
I wasn’t supposed to make mistakes. Not at work. Not at home. Not anywhere. Jason’s voice echoed from the past—don’t act childish, you’ll embarrass yourself—and I flinched hard enough that the crayon snapped in my grip.
Felix was beside me in a heartbeat. “Hey,” he murmured. Not scolding. Not startled. Just calm. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Clayton.” His hand covered mine. Warm. Steady. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I nodded quickly, but my eyes were stinging. The coloring book blurred again. “I just…can’t seem to…”
He waited, patient as ever.
“Relax,” I whispered. “I want to. I really want to. But I don’t know how.”
Felix exhaled softly, thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Then we don’t force it. We just start smaller. No rules, no expectations.”
“I’m supposed to be better at this,” I said, trying to laugh and failing. “I used to plan Christmas for a living. I can’t even pick a crayon.”
He smiled, that quiet one that always undid me. “You don’t need to perform for me, sweetheart. You just need to be here.”
The endearment hit deep—tender, unguarded. I wanted to believe it, wanted to sink into it. But the habit of holding myself together was stronger. And I realized I’d been doing it for years.
After a while, Felix turned on the old cartoon channel. We didn’t talk. He sat beside me on the couch, his arm resting behind me but not touching, giving me space.
Half an hour later, the plate was empty, the cocoa gone cold, and I was still sitting too straight, fingers laced tight in my lap.
Felix sighed quietly, then reached over and brushed my hair back from my forehead. “You don’t have to play to belong here, Clayton.”
That undid me more than anything else could have. I leaned against him—not quite Little, not quite grown—just me. And for the first time that morning, I let myself breathe.
Felix
Work wasn’t supposed to intrude on the weekend.
That had been the whole point—giving him a break, giving us a break.
But by the time I’d cleared the last breakfast plate, my phone was buzzing with a dozen messages from the office.
A server issue, an advertiser threatening to pull a campaign—nothing catastrophic, but enough to need my signature, my calm voice, my “it’s handled. ”
I looked at Clayton sitting on the couch, curled in my sweater, pretending to read a magazine he’d been staring at upside down for five minutes. His fingers still twitched when he tried to relax.
I didn’t want to leave him alone. Not after this morning.
“Clayton,” I said softly.
He looked up fast, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. “Yes, sir?”
I hated how easily that tone came—the apology built into every word. “I have to run into the office. Something’s come up.”
His face fell a little, then brightened, brave. “Of course. I’ll stay out of the way.”
I shook my head. “No. You’re coming with me.”
He blinked. “Me?”
“Unless you have better plans?”
He smiled, shy and unsure, but he stood. “No, sir.”
The office on a Saturday was quieter than usual. Most of the lights were dim, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off glass and steel. Clayton stayed close, wide-eyed as the elevator doors opened onto the top floor.
I half expected him to retreat the way he had this morning—but he didn’t. He straightened, smoothing the hem of his borrowed coat, and followed me into the bullpen with a kind of cautious dignity that made me want to touch him just to ground him.
“Mr. Reddington!” My assistant, Lucas, stood from his desk. His curly hair was frazzled, and there were dark circles under his eyes. “Sorry about the mess. Barry’s on duty, and I didn’t have anyone else to—”
Two tiny shapes burst from behind his desk.
“Daddy!” shouted one of them, small enough that his voice echoed off the glass walls.
Lucas groaned. “Twins,” he muttered, exasperated but fond. “Theo and Rory, say hi to Mr. Reddington.”
Two pairs of enormous brown eyes stared up at me—then at Clayton.
“Hi,” Clayton said softly, crouching automatically, his voice warm. “Is that a velociraptor?”
They were, in fact, wearing matching dinosaur t-shirts, one green, one blue. The boys grinned.
“I’m Theo!” said the blue one.
“I’m not Theo!” said the green one.
Clayton laughed—the kind of laugh I’d barely heard from him yet, the kind that started deep and surprised him on the way out. “I’ll try to remember that.”
Lucas mouthed a silent thank-you to me as I ducked into my office to review a few contracts. I expected chaos to follow—paper balls, arguments, tiny feet thundering down the hall.
But instead, I heard it: laughter. Soft, steady, full.
When I glanced out through the glass wall, Clayton was sitting cross-legged on the carpet between the twins, copy paper on the floor between them, the other wielding a paperclip chain like a sword.
“What’s your name?” Theo asked, brandishing the sword.
“Clayton.”
“That’s not a superhero name,” Rory said solemnly.
Clayton tilted his head, pretending to think. “What about Captain Candy Cane?”
That got giggles. “That’s silly!”
“Of course it is,” he said with mock seriousness. “Every good hero is a little silly. How else can you make people smile?”
He was glowing—truly glowing—and I felt it like sunlight in the middle of a gray day. The same man who couldn’t bring himself to pick up a crayon this morning was now crafting paper crowns out of sticky notes and calling it royal paperwork.
Lucas leaned against my doorframe, smiling faintly. “He’s good with them,” he whispered. “You should see them around anyone else. They never sit still.”
I watched him for a long moment. “Yeah,” I murmured. “He’s good with a lot of things.”
Clayton caught me looking once. His cheeks flushed pink, but he didn’t stop. He just smiled, small and sweet, before turning back to the twins, who were now demanding he tell them a Christmas story.
So he did—something about a runaway elf and a reindeer who couldn’t fly straight. His voice was animated, soft but confident, drawing the boys in completely.
I don’t think he even realized how easily he did it—how natural it was, how much light he carried without even trying.
By the time I’d signed the last document and sorted out the contract that had forced Lucas to come in on a Saturday in the first place, both twins were asleep on the floor beside him, using his coat as a blanket.
He looked up at me as I approached, his fingers carding gently through one boy’s hair. “I think I made them crash,” he whispered.
“You made them happy,” I said quietly. “That’s harder.”
He smiled at that—the shy kind that reached his eyes.
And right there, in the middle of a sterile office full of glass and deadlines, I realized something that scared me more than any contract ever could:
I was falling for him. Not the polished submissive version I’d been drawn to, but the messy, tender, careful heart of him—the man who could make children laugh, who could make even me believe in something gentle again.
The twins were still asleep when Lucas gathered them up, whispering thank-yous and apologies as he slipped out the door.
Clayton stood awkwardly, smoothing his shirt like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.
There was a smudge of marker on his cheek and a sticky-note crown still tangled in his curls.
He looked ridiculous. He looked perfect.
“Ready?” I asked.
He nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. I, um…I hope I didn’t overstep.”
“By entertaining two over-sugared four-year-olds while I put out a contract fire?” I said dryly, holding the door for him. “I’d say you saved the office.”
That made him blush. He ducked his head, following me down the quiet corridor.
The elevator ride was silent except for the faint hum of the cables. Clayton kept glancing at me like he expected me to revoke the warmth, to take back the small moment of belonging he’d found. I wanted to tell him it wasn’t going anywhere—but the words stayed trapped somewhere behind my ribs.
Outside, the day had turned crisp and clear. The city lights shimmered off the wet pavement. Clayton climbed into the passenger seat, careful with my coat still draped around him like armor. Neither of us pretended that he wasn't going to wear it now.
Halfway down the block, I heard him sigh. “They were sweet kids,” he murmured. “Lucas is lucky.”
“Lucky he had you there,” I said.
He laughed softly. “They didn’t need me. They just needed someone to listen.”
That line hit me harder than it should have. Because in that moment, I realized how simple he made it sound—connection, belonging, joy. The things I’d spent years trying to buy with incentives, benefits, and carefully worded mission statements.
All the staff retreats and bonus programs in the world couldn’t fix what we were missing.
People didn’t stay because of policies. They stayed because they felt seen.
Because someone noticed when they were struggling, or remembered their kid’s name, or gave them permission to laugh at work without fear.
I had a vague idea Lucas’s husband was a nurse, but I didn’t really know, and to say the man had worked for me for five years, that made me ashamed.
And here was Clayton—the man who still apologized for existing too loudly—showing me exactly what that looked like without even trying.
I stopped at a red light, watching the glow ripple across his face. His eyes were distant, soft. Probably replaying that silly story he’d told the twins about the reindeer with crooked antlers.
“You’re good with people,” I said quietly.
He blinked, startled. “I just like them, I guess.”
“Maybe that’s the part I’ve been missing,” I murmured, mostly to myself.
“What do you mean?”
I hesitated, then admitted, “I’ve been trying to fix staff turnover for months. Bonuses, flexible hours, new leadership seminars—none of it works. But today…watching you…I realized it isn’t about incentives. It’s about care. The kind that doesn’t have a checkbox.”
He looked over at me, a small, surprised smile ghosting his lips. “You think I helped with that?”
“You reminded me of something I’d forgotten,” I said. “That kindness is contagious.”
The light changed. I pulled forward slowly, the tires whispering against the wet road.
Clayton was quiet for a long time after that. Then, softly: “You could make the office feel like that every day, you know. You don’t have to wait for Christmas.”
I glanced over. “And how exactly would I do that?”
He gave a small shrug, eyes twinkling. “Maybe…fewer meetings, more stories.”
I laughed—a real one, the kind that felt rusty from disuse. “I’ll take it under advisement, Mr. Elf.”
He giggled at that, covering his mouth, and I felt the last of the day’s tension melt out of me.
As we turned into my building’s garage, the warmth between us hummed, quiet but steady. I parked, cut the engine, and for a moment we just sat there—the world outside muffled and still.
He turned to me, voice soft. “Thank you for taking me.”
I looked at him—really looked—and thought about how easily he’d fit into that little scene of laughter and chaos. How right it had felt. How wrong it would be to let it end with the holidays.
But I wasn’t ready for forever. Was I?
So instead, I reached over and brushed the paperclip crown still perched in his hair. “You did well, Captain Candy Cane.”
He laughed again—and this time, it was pure joy.
And I thought, maybe for the first time in years, that joy might actually be enough to build something real.