Chapter 25 #2
I shift my grip, feeling all of it—the everything—pressing in. The town. The night. The ridiculous, stubborn fact that everyone’s still here.
“And just to check,” I say, tightening my grip, “are we working with a method here, or are we leaning heavily on vibes?”
“Strong, decisive vibes,” Nick says.
“Excellent. Love that for us.”
Nick glances at me, then out at the square.
“Ready, Frost?”
“Always, Draven.”
Together, we close our eyes. For a heartbeat, everything else drops away.
I reach for something solid. Something Willow Creek.
Marcy, cheeks smeared with chocolate after a long day in her shop, handing me a coffee.
Ronan, destroying doors with an enthusiasm that makes general contractors salivate.
Wes mixing a cocktail, stylish and smoldering, still standing where he said he would.
The town—messy, loud, impossible—showing up anyway. Karaoke in pajamas. Snowstorms and shared shovels. People who argue about fairy lights and still turn up with ladders.
I hold onto that. Tight.
The globe answers.
Light bleeds out from beneath our hands—thin at first, uncertain. The tree inside twitches, its crooked branches dragging themselves toward something straighter, like it’s remembering how. The star flickers, slips—then catches.
“More voices,” Frank calls.
The square obliges.
Mrs. Lee flips the urn lid so peppermint steam billows like incense.
The Scouts snap lanterns alight in a rough circle.
Mr. Patel swings the gritter’s lights toward us like we’re on stage whether we like it or not.
The choir finds a note and holds it, and even the vampires join in, adding a harmony that hums through bone.
The light swells. Warmer now. Stronger.
The tree pulls straighter—almost there—
—and then it stutters.
The glow falters, flickering at the edges like it might gutter out entirely. The warmth thins. The star wobbles, wrong again.
A ripple of unease moves through the square.
It’s not enough.
Not yet.
I tighten my grip on the glass, cold biting deeper now, like the thing is pushing back.
Come on.
“It’s not working,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“It is,” Nick says quietly.
I shake my head. “No, it’s…look at it. It’s falling apart again.”
“Frost.”
His thumb brushes against my hand. Deliberately. Steadily. There’s no magic. Just him.
“Don’t look at the tree,” he says. “Look at me.”
Everything else drops away—the noise, the light, the pressure of a hundred people holding their breath—until doubt slips in right behind it.
I only got this job because my mom made a call. Celeste Frost wouldn’t be standing here second-guessing herself with a cursed snow globe in her hands and half a town watching. She’d already have a plan, a backup plan, and a clipboard color-coded for festive emergencies.
And me?
I’m standing in the middle of the town square, holding a cursed snow globe that might decide the fate of Christmas, making it up as I go.
Brilliant.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he says.
“I’m trying not to ruin Christmas.”
“You won’t.”
He doesn’t budge. That’s the thing I keep coming back to. When everything else tilts, Nick doesn’t. He just…holds.
And I relax.
The glass doesn’t so much shatter as sigh.
It softens into light, lifts like a glittering snowfall, and drifts through our hair and coats without a single cut.
When it clears, the globe is gone—and in its place stands a real tree, full and green, spruce and not pine, hung with warm white stars.
The crooked topper turns, thinks better of it, and sets itself straight.
The wrongness is gone.
Warmth rolls through the square—not so much the air, but the people in it.
The cheer rises, but it doesn’t scatter. It settles. Arms link, lights are straightened, cups passed hand to hand. A note lifts, holds. For a moment, the whole town seems to realize what it’s done—together—and the glow belongs to them as much as the tree.
I glance at Nick.
He’s smiling, really smiling, and when he looks at me, it feels like I’ve finally stopped bracing for the next thing to go wrong.
We did it.
When I look around, reality refuses to be ignored.
The square is littered with broken crates, smashed Christmas decorations, and snowbanks turned into slushy obstacles. Snowballs lie abandoned, candy canes are shattered, and the inflatable snowman is as deflated as he was when the rogue elves stole the tree.
Right.
Time to get to work.
“Okay, everyone,” I say, clapping once like a headmistress you do not cross. “Teams of ten. Lights, litter, ladders. Cocoa breaks on the half hour. Choir, sing something brisk, nothing by Bach.”
A cheer goes up. Brooms appear from nowhere. Someone already has a spreadsheet. Willow Creek has pivoted from battle to tidy-up without even pausing for breath.
“And after that?” someone calls. “We’ve still got a square to rebuild and three miles of tinsel in knots.”
“Then we follow Holly’s list,” Marcy calls back. “She points, we sparkle.”
I scan the square, already slotting pieces into place—what goes where, what can be salvaged, what needs replacing. Candy canes lie in pieces. Tinsel is tied in knots. It’s a mess, but it’s a fixable mess.
“You still want to put the gala on tomorrow, don’t you?” Nick sighs, lacing his fingers through mine. “You’re not letting this go, are you, Frost?”
“I’m not giving up on Christmas,” I reply, shaking my head.
Nick squeezes my hand. “Good. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”
I look out over the square—my town, our town—already moving, already rebuilding.
Hope feels less like a wish and much more like a plan.
It’s time to get to work.