For the next forty minutes, I endured an onslaught. Every two minutes, a new parent appeared, either holding a squirming child or dragging along a kid who looked like they’d rather be at the dentist. Some sat silently, eyeing me like they knew something was off and determined to figure it out.

  I dared them to figure out two plus two.

  Others asked questions. A lot of them. But I stuck to my guns and refused to disclose the exact coordinates to the workshop. Even when I was bribed with smashed cookies and shiny quarters, I didn’t fold.

  One four-year-old had even tried to go big with a button she divulged was really a “gabillion butts.” I told her to keep her gazillion bucks. That button seemed just a little too sketchy.

  A boy with businesslike hair and a jacket worth more than my car sized me up.

  “Why is Santa so small?” he said, nose wrinkled.

  I stared straight ahead. “Santa’s been doing Keto. It’s working.”

  The kid didn’t laugh, but his dad snorted, so I counted it as a win.

  Between customers, Pineflame kept correcting my posture, my hand location, the way I handed out the discount coupons, and the mechanics of the “Santa laugh.” At one point, they even demonstrated. “Like this. Ho, ho, ho.”

  I gave it a shot. “Ho. Ho. Ho.” It came out like I was identifying skanks in a club.

  Their eyes narrowed. “Try to smile.”

  I did, but the beard was now mixing with sweat and the faint powder of a thousand Cheez-Its. My upper lip started to itch.

  At kid number twelve, the pillow under my shirt completely collapsed. For the rest of the hour, Santa’s stomach slowly deflated. Two kids commented on it. One suggested I might have a tapeworm.

  The mall itself was a disaster zone. In the distance, I watched a group of teenagers practice TikTok dances in front of the Sunglass Hut. The scent of cinnamon rolls wafted over everything, including a child who sneezed directly onto my glove. Christmas music played on loop, but the speaker above our station was apparently broken, so it skipped every third note of “Jingle Bell Rock.” I learned the new version to impress my friends.

  Ninety minutes in, my thighs burned. Pillow or not, the seat was concrete disguised as plastic. My lower back screamed, and my beard sagged dangerously. I started fantasizing about a future where the words “seasonal work” were banned from my vocabulary for life.

  At some point, a little girl in sparkly pink shoes asked me how reindeer could possibly fly if they don’t have wings. I answered honestly.

  “We use Amazon drones now,” I told her. “Santa doesn’t condone animal labor.”

  She looked impressed. Pineflame did not.

  I checked my phone when I could, sneakily, but in the suit, every subtle movement took three times the effort. At one point, my glove got wedged in my pocket. I yanked it free and ended up punching my beard in front of a line of toddlers. The parents gasped. I chose to believe it was out of holiday spirit.

  Sweat pooled between my shoulder blades. My beard itched, probably because I assaulted it. The hat kept dipping into my eyes, like it was dozing off to sleep.

  “Santa’s tired,” Pineflame said to someone in front of him I couldn’t see. For the first time, I agreed with him.

  The next child in line took a seat by practically vaulting onto my lap. He must’ve weighed more than I did. My bones audibly popped.

  The mom whipped out her phone and started snapping.

  “You good?” she asked, and I realized, through the haze of beard fibers and artificial vanilla scent, that I’d been grimacing.

  “Just enjoying the magic,” I managed. The kid demanded two candy canes and took a selfie with my beard partially in his mouth. I was surprised Pineflame wasn’t correcting me on the proper way to sit while being assaulted by a Naughty List MVP.

  After a while, the line started thinning. Apparently, even the most enthusiastic parents understood that after so many crying kids, sneezes, and bribes, Santa sometimes needed a break.

  Pineflame leaned over, sliding a jumbo bottle of hand sanitizer in my lap. “Don’t let the kids see you use it.”

  I went for it like a drowning man.

  By the end of the shift, both beard and pillow had lost structural integrity. So had the lower half of my body.

  I excused myself to the “backstage” area, which was really just a folding chair by the emergency exit, and spent five minutes adjusting the tape on my face. The skin felt irritated. I debated just taking it off. Decided to leave it on.

  For reasons unknown, Bryce’s suit had acquired the smell of gummy worms, cheap cologne, and relentless sneezes. I’d started out plump as a chopstick, but after sweating out what had to be a liter of water, it looked bigger on me.

  Only halfway through the shift, yet it felt like I’d been here a week.

  “Ready?” Pineflame asked, looking only slightly less miserable than I did.

  “Never been readier,” I lied.

  Round two started right away. A pair of twins immediately started fighting over who got to sit on my lap. The winner threw the loser’s hat into the mall fountain. I offered advice. “Santa says sharing is caring.” They ignored me.

  Again, the parents didn’t care whether their child screamed, panicked, or drooled. The important thing was the photo. One dad even made his kid pose by yanking their arm into place then turned to me.

  “Smile,” he said.

  I tried. It came with me looking at him like he was a total jackass.

  Pineflame coughed, but it looked more like he was hiding a smile. “Remember the ho-ho-ho.”

  “Ho. Ho. Ho.” Even I didn’t believe it anymore.

  * * * *

  Pineflame’s breath tickled my ear. “Follow me.”

  The sound of Pineflame’s voice so close to my ear startled me. I’d been wiping cookie crumbs off my lap from a two-year-old who’d tried force-feeding me moments ago. One cookie had nearly made it into my mouth. I’d turned my head, and my ear had eaten it instead. Might be hearing in peanut butter for days.

  I hauled myself up with a dramatic sigh. “If this is about my ‘ho-ho-ho’ technique again, I’d rather eat the beard.”

  Pineflame stopped at a metal door and punched in a code. Since when did elves need security codes? This was starting to feel as shady as that button.

  A green light blinked. The door clicked open.

  “Yeah, no. I’m not following the man who won’t even tell me his real name into the murder room. Hard pass.”

  “Santa’s looking a bit haggard,” Pineflame said, eyebrow arched. He was not allowed to look good doing that. “You’ve lost your jolly belly, and your beard’s looking as saggy as your suit.”

  My fingers brushed my cheek, and I winced. “It’s the cloth tape. I didn’t want that questionable beard touching my skin. I was trying to protect it.”

  “You’ve had tape on your face this entire time?” His voice wavered between annoyed and concerned. His eyes scanned my beard, then flickered, just for a heartbeat, to my lips. What was that about? He’d made it clear from the beginning he hated me. Those green eyes shouldn’t be lingering. Period.

  “Clearly,” I snapped, “I should’ve worn a hazmat suit. And while we’re on the subject of tape, it would’ve been nice if you’d done something about that linebacker child who used my thighs as a trampoline. Santa wants hazard pay.”

  Pineflame sighed. “The door leads to a hallway with cleaning supplies and a first aid kit. Santa Claus looks like he’s falling apart, and I’d prefer not to share that with the kids. They’re already confused about your height.”

  “Santa can be fun size!” I shouted, ready to kiss him. No! Kick. Kick his ass. Not kiss. Maybe I needed worker’s comp instead. There was definitely something wrong with my brain. I did not want to kiss a man who couldn’t stand me. Unless my standards threshold had hit rock bottom.

  “Would you mind taking your snit inside before someone sees Santa having a meltdown?” He pushed the door open. “You’ve already lost your padding. Let’s not add unhinged mall Santa to your résumé.”

  I cocked my hip “You are the most irritating man I’ve ever met, Pineflame.”

  “I’m well aware, Alex.”

  The way he said my name sent an electric current straight to my groin. Whatever. I was too exhausted to psychoanalyze that reaction. With a huff, I stormed past him into what was, thankfully, an actual hallway and not the murder dungeon I’d expected. Small victories.

  The hallway was longer than expected, sterile but somehow not cold. Light bounced off white-painted cinderblock. Every few feet, there was a marked door—Janitorial, Electrical, Security, and then a battered laminated sign that read “North Pole Operations: Storage & Staging.” Across the way, a two-stall bathroom, the kind smelling faintly like industrial soap.

  Pineflame strode ahead like he’d lived here his whole life. I lagged, busy cataloguing ways to be murdered by janitorial supplies. The velvet suit had sagged in all the wrong places, and judging by the way my lower half felt, I was leaking stuffing from more orifices than I cared to count.

  Inside, the “supply closet” turned out to be a full-blown room, at least fifteen feet deep with shelves lining two walls and bins stacked everywhere. The air tasted faintly of Pine-Sol and cinnamon.

  Pineflame closed the hallway door behind us with all the drama of a man sealing off a crime scene. He went silent as he strode to the big white kit mounted to the wall, flipped the clasps open, and took stock of the medical supplies like he was prepping for an ER trauma instead of your standard mall Santa meltdown. Then he glanced at me, arms at his sides, head cocked, green eyes way too bright.

  The man had presence. I’d give him that.

  “This might sting. Come here,” he said, voice quieter than I expected.

  I stayed where I was. Not shy, exactly. More like waiting for the football tackle. That, and I didn’t trust anyone who could intimidate me in pointy shoes and tights. Instead, I took a moment and made a point of scanning the closet’s dizzying collection of bleach, glass cleaner, and backup air freshener. Nobody needed this many pine-scented strategies.

  It was impressive, in a post-apocalyptic way.

  Pineflame—or whatever his name was, because nobody with bone structure like that deserved a Comic Sans tag—held up some sort of antiseptic pad, eyebrow raised.

  “I’ll do it myself, thanks,” I said, eyeing his hands with the caution usually reserved for spiders.

  “You keep jerking back like I’m going to stab you,” he replied. “The worst thing I could possibly do is rip off some tape.” He stepped closer, and I pressed my back to the wall of supplies, nearly knocking over a gallon jug of “Odor Neutralizer: Peppermint Nightmare.”

  He rolled his sleeves up, exposing forearms I’d bet money weren’t in Bryce’s contract. At this point, he could strip off the elf hat and start a modeling career called “Sexy Mall Emergencies.” He set his jaw. His eyes dropped to my chin and the beard, which was now looking desperate, half-taped on like a failed ransom note.

  “My name’s Mason,” he said. “Not Pineflame.”

  I tried not to react, but of course my eyebrows did their own thing. “Alex,” I replied, like we’d never been introduced, even though he’d used my name a minute ago. It was easier to focus on the beard. “You want me to just let you rip it off?”

  Mason studied the tape line for a second, then pointed at a battered folding chair beside the supply cart. “Sit there. I’ll be careful.”

  I went along with it, mostly because my legs were tired and the beard had begun to feel like an alien mold taking root under my nose. Lowering myself into the chair, the pillow that used to be my stomach tried to revolt and slid into my lap. I ignored it.

  Mason didn’t immediately start on the beard. Instead, he rummaged through the first aid kit with steady, competent hands, pulling out a little packet and a tube of something. The man had a calm, unhurried way of doing things, like he’d handled a lot worse emergencies than a drag mall Santa. Even with his back to me, he radiated this weird, warm energy, like he belonged in a kitchen making sourdough bread or something.

  I definitely needed to get out more.

  He squatted in front of me, pretty close, until his face was level with mine. Those green eyes didn’t blink. If anything, they looked softer than before. I braced for gloating, but he didn’t gloat. He just reached up, both hands gentle at my chin.

  “On three?” he asked.

  “You want to announce when you’re gonna deliver pain?” I stared wide-eyed at him. “Do it when I least expect it like those kids did.”

  He grinned, the first real smile I’d seen all day. “And you handled it like a pro.”

  “I’ve got battle wounds. How many adults can say they were defeated by an army of toddler drool, sippy cups, and Cheez-Its? I’ve got cheese dust in places that broke me, man. Then they just sit there and stare into your soul like they’re about to reap it. And they have a secret weapon that’s capable of wiping out entire cities. It’s called a tantrum. Trust me. You do not want to be anywhere near when it starts. I’ve seen things, man.”

  Amusement sparkled in his eyes. An actual dimple appeared when he grinned. “You done?”

  “I’m just telling you what it’s like out there.” My lips quirked. They weren’t all bad. Some were adorable. Not that I ever wanted to see a kid again after this.

  With a slow, unfurling motion, he peeled the beard away from my jaw, working in careful movements, glancing at me for any reaction. I tried very hard not to give him one. Three pieces of tape came off without drawing blood. The fourth stuck. I winced before I could stop myself.

  “Sorry,” he murmured, breath inching over my skin. His fingers shifted, broad and steady, tracing the line between Santa and human. The tape gave way. I stifled a groan.

  He pressed a gauze pad with some kind of ointment to my face, careful as anything. The burn faded. All the while, Mason didn’t break eye contact. Was I hallucinating, or was he really...gentle? This was not the towering elf who tried to break my spirit for ninety minutes straight.

  Once the last of the tape was gone, he stepped back, watching me like he was seeing something for the first time.

  “You’re not what I expected,” he said.

  “Define ‘expected,’” I shot back, hoping humor would mask how off-balance I felt. “Less beard, more dignity?”

  He shook his head, pressing his lips together. “No. Just not what I expected. If I’m being honest, I like seeing your face. The real one. Not the dollar-store Santa version.” The way he said it made my stomach flip, and I blamed low blood sugar.

  Before I could come up with a response, he popped a new tube of ointment.

  “This is for the redness. Hold still,” he murmured, almost under his breath.

  Warm fingers skimmed my jawline, patting a cold gel into the tape burn. Standing this close, his cologne hit, a clean, mild scent. He moved slowly, gently like he was afraid of breaking me. A few heartbeats passed before either of us spoke.

  “Why Pineflame?” I asked, because silence had begun to feel too intimate.

  He cocked his head, expression amused. “Fun for the kids. Holiday spirit or maybe liability protection. You look like you could weaponize a candy cane.”

  “Let me guess. Antlers incident?”

  He just smiled. “Something like that. Pineflame sounded more...fun.”

  “It sounds like a scented candle. Or a gay nightclub.”

  “Both are accurate.” He chirped the next bit. “Management’s idea of inclusivity.” Those green eyes flicked up and down my face, checking his handiwork. “You’re good as new. Mostly.”

  “You sure?” I asked, running a finger along my jaw. It stung a little, but I realized my face was open to the air for the first time in hours. Weirdly, I missed the scratchy synthetic hair, as if losing it made me too…visible.

  He leaned in, just a fraction too close, and inspected a red streak by my lip. “You really did handle those kids like a pro. I’ve seen grown men fold in less time,” he murmured.

  I wanted to preen. “I’ve never interacted with kids before. I always avoided them because they’d seemed so…oozy. They are, but kind of cute too.” Then I thought of my brother. “Bryce’s shift got changed. He called me and guilted me into filling in for him.”

  Mason’s mouth quirked at the corners. “You’re loyal. That’s rare.”

  “I’m not loyal. I just hate surprises involving public humiliation.” The words came out with more edge than I intended. But to his credit, Mason didn’t press. He just twisted the little cap back on the ointment and tossed it into the kit.

  He pivoted, rummaged on a lower shelf, and pulled out a sealed bag—a real, bona fide Santa belly, complete with Velcro. It looked ridiculous. And a little like a floatation device.

  He turned, holding it up for inspection. “Padding. Official-issue. This will stay put, even if you have to bench-press as linebacker.”

  “Did you have this the whole time?” I shot back, torn between relief and annoyance.

  He shrugged, eyes sparking. “I was curious to see how long you’d last with that pillow duct-taped to your waist.”

  This was flirting. Maybe. Unless my brain was assigning meaning to every look. Either way, I couldn’t help but laugh, tension draining away. I let him wrap the new belly around me, fingers steady as he cinched the Velcro. At his touch, every nerve in my torso seemed suddenly, stupidly aware of itself.

  He stepped behind me, smoothed the costume at my back, and adjusted the belt until my make-shift stomach sat perfectly round and proud.

  “Much better,” he said, voice lower. The words hung there, strange and loaded, for a split second.

  He raked his hands down the costume sides, smoothing any stray wrinkles. Each brush of his hands sent a prickle straight through the polyester. I held my breath, waiting for his hands to go lower, but he just stepped back and fished a new pair of gloves from the supply shelf.

  “Arms,” he ordered. I complied, letting him slide the gloves over my sticky palms. His fingers lingered, just a second too long, adjusting the seams. He handed me a wipe. “For the drool. From the baby, not me.”