Chapter 8 Simone
Chapter eight
Simone
Iscrubbed at a particularly stubborn patch of dried icing on the counter, my shoulders hunched with exhaustion I couldn't afford to acknowledge.
The pastry kitchen after hours was my sanctuary, where the constant performance of Perfectly-Put-Together Simone could take a break.
My dress was smudged with cocoa powder and cinnamon, evidence of the day's chaos written across the fabric.
I just needed fifteen more minutes alone before I could drag myself home to the echoing emptiness of my apartment.
Krampus's announcement about Friday's party still rang in my ears, each word a nail in the coffin of my time at The Hearth.
"The new manager will be formally announced.
" Not "I'll announce if there will be a new manager.
" Not "We'll discuss Simone's future." But "the new manager" as if the decision was already made and my replacement was already chosen.
My throat tightened as I scrubbed harder at the counter, the physical exertion a poor distraction from the hollowness expanding in my chest. Months of thinking I'd finally found a place where I belonged.
All of it, evaporating like steam from a fresh latte.
The pastry kitchen door flew open with enough force to send a cloud of flour puffing up from the nearby work surface.
Silas stormed in, his eyes flashing with indignation, tiny bells jingling from his horns in sharp contrast to his thunderous expression.
He slammed a tray of leftover macarons onto the counter hard enough to make them bounce.
"Kitchen's closed," I said automatically, not looking up from my scrubbing. "Unless you're here to help clean, in which case there's another sponge in the—"
"Fuck the sponge," Silas interrupted, grabbing my wrist and yanking me away from the counter. "Look at me."
I sighed, finally meeting his gaze. "I'm tired, Silas. Whatever pastry emergency you're having can wait until—"
"You really gonna let him string you along like that?" he demanded, his tail lashing behind him like an angry cat's. "A party announcement? Seriously? You're just going to smile and nod while he dangles your job in front of the entire café like some kind of fucked-up Christmas ornament?"
"It's fine," I said, the words so automatic they required no thought. My smile slid into place, a reflex as natural as breathing. "I'm fine. It's his café. He can run it however he wants. I don't want to make it weird—"
"Oh my god, stop," Silas groaned, releasing my wrist to throw his hands up in exasperation. "Stop with the sunshine and rainbows routine. I've had enough sugar today to rot my fangs, and your fake smile is giving me a toothache."
I blinked, the practiced curve of my lips faltering slightly. "I'm not—"
"You are," he insisted, pointing a clawed finger at my face. "You're doing the thing where you pretend everything's fine when it's clearly a dumpster fire. The thing where you act like you don't care when you're actually falling apart inside."
The accuracy of his observation stung, but I folded my arms defensively. "I'm just being realistic. I've always known this job was temporary."
Silas's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Bullshit.
You've been running this place for months.
You don't just deserve to manage it, you should own it.
" His voice rose with each word, the bell on his left horn jingling indignantly.
"You work your ass off. You figured out how to get those little frost imps to stop freezing the pipes by leaving them tiny knitted sweaters. This cafe is nothing without you."
"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 of my 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.
"The customers appreciate a friendly face," I continued, filling the silence with nervous chatter. "Studies show that service with a smile actually improves the customer experience by forty-three percent, and in a business like this—"
"Simone." Just my name. Nothing else. But the way he said it made my hands still on the tabletop.
"What?" I whispered.
"Look at me."
Against my better judgment, I turned. He stood less than an arm's length away, his body blocking the colored lights so that he seemed outlined in holiday magic. His eyes fixed on my face with such intensity I nearly took a step back.
"When you think no one is watching," he said, his voice gentler than I'd ever heard it, "your smile falls. Just for moments, fragments of seconds. And what I see in those fragments is... exhaustion. Worry." He paused, searching my face. "Grief."