"That's just good customer service," I mumbled, looking away.
"That's making this place a home for every weird, magical misfit that walks through the door," Silas corrected, his voice softening momentarily before hardening again. "And now you're just going to let him take it away without a fight? After everything you've put into it?"
I swallowed hard. "What am I supposed to do? March up to him and demand he keep me on? He's Krampus, Silas. He's not exactly known for his generous spirit and compassionate decision-making."
Silas's laugh was sharp enough to cut. "Don't look at me like that, if you wanted Krampus on his knees, you could have him there in under sixty seconds."
Heat flooded my face. "I don't—that's not—what are you even talking about?"
"Please," he scoffed, reaching for a nearby spatula and waving it dramatically. "Every time he looks at you, it's like he's mentally undressing you with those freaky gold eyes." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And don't think I haven't noticed you staring at his ass when he walks away."
"I have never—" I sputtered, mortified.
"You have absolutely," Silas interrupted, poking me in the chest with the spatula. "And that's fine! The giant horned asshole is hot in a terrifying, might-eat-you-but-you'd-enjoy-it kind of way. The problem isn't that you want to fuck him six ways to Sunday. The problem is that you keep hiding behind that smile and waiting for someone to give you something."
The spatula jabbed me again, punctuating his words. "You have to fight, Simone. Not just for the café, for you. Bramble and I will fight with you, but you have to want it."
His words hung in the air between us, heavy with truth I wasn't ready to face. My mouth opened and closed, searching for the right deflection, the perfect diversion, the escape route away from my own feelings.
"I just..." I faltered, hands twisting the dishcloth I still held. "I'm not sure I know how to fight for something like this."
Silas's expression softened, the anger bleeding out of his features as quickly as it had ignited. He set down the spatula and stepped forward, taking my face between his hands with surprising gentleness.
"You fight by not backing down," he said quietly. "By asking for what you want instead of settling for what you think you deserve. By taking up space instead of making yourself small."
His thumb brushed away a tear I hadn't realized had escaped. "And maybe by admitting you want to bone our terrifying boss,because honestly, the unresolved tension is making my soufflés fall."
A strangled laugh escaped me, half sob and half genuine amusement. "You're the worst."
"I'm the best," he corrected, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead. "Love you, dumbass."
Before I could respond, he was gone, sweeping out of the kitchen with the same dramatic flair he'd entered with, leaving only the jingling echo of his bell-adorned horns and the tray of abandoned macarons.
I stood alone in the suddenly quiet kitchen, dishcloth hanging limply from my fingers, Silas's words reverberating in the empty space.
Fight for what you want.
The problem was, I wasn't sure I knew what that was anymore. The café, yes. But Krampus? The way my body responded to his presence was terrifying. The way my heart raced when those eyes fixed on me was dangerous. Fighting for the café seemed impossible enough. Fighting for him? That was a battle I wasn't sure I was brave enough to wage.
I pushed chairs back into place my body going through the motions while my mind whirled like a tornado trapped in a snow globe. The café was empty now, Bramble's holiday lights casting pools of colored shadows across the worn floorboards. Red. Green. Blue. Gold. They pulsed gently, matching the rhythm ofmy racing thoughts. Fight for what you want, Silas had said, as if wanting something was enough to deserve it. As if I could just reach out and take the things I craved most. The café. A home. A sense of belonging. Him.
"Table four is already straight," I muttered to myself, moving to the next one anyway. "And five. And six. And—"
The soft click of hooves against wooden floorboards froze me mid-motion, my hands still gripping the back of a chair. My heartbeat accelerated traitorously, each thump echoing in my ears like drums announcing the arrival of Krampus.
"You missed closing time by about an hour," I said, aiming for light and professional but landing somewhere in the vicinity of breathless and nervous. I kept my back to him, straightening napkin holders that were already perfectly aligned.
"Why do you keep hiding behind that fake smile?"
I forced a laugh, light and dismissive. "I'm not hiding. I'm just naturally cheerful. Some people are just born sunny-side up."
"Lie," he said, the single word carrying no judgment, just quiet certainty.
I moved to the next table, fingers trembling slightly as I aligned sugar shakers. "I don't know what you want me to say. That I'm secretly miserable? That I hate puppies and rainbows? Sorry to disappoint, but the smile isn't fake."
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but it was a familiar bitterness, the same flavor I'd been swallowing for years. Keep smiling. Stay positive. No one wants to see the mess underneath.
He didn't respond immediately, but I could feel him watching me.
