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 ofpolicies.They stayed because they feltseen.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.
