Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Nick
The North Pole isn’t what people think. It’s not all endless ice and blizzards, no matter what the postcards say.
Up here, it’s more like a village tucked away in the kind of twilight that never quite tips into night.
The sky is always showing off, streaked with green and purple lights, and the buildings look like someone couldn’t decide between a ski lodge and a cathedral made of glass.
It’s cold enough that you might reach for a sweater, but you’d never really need it.
The snow doesn’t melt, either. It just sort of disappears, like sugar stirred into tea.
Right now, the whole place is buzzing. It might be May for everyone else, but up here, we’re already knee-deep in prep.
The workshops are lit up, and you can hear the clatter and chatter from halfway across the square.
People think we’re all about toy-making, but that’s just the story that looks good on a Christmas card.
The real work is a lot messier and not nearly as easy to explain.
I’m standing in the middle of the main courtyard, clipboard in hand, pretending to keep track of the chaos. Truth is, I’m not really watching anything. My eyes are open, but my mind’s off somewhere it has no business being.
And there she is again. Samantha. I can’t shake the memory of how she looked at me that night, moonlight catching in her eyes like she could see right through me.
I keep hearing her laugh, the kind that’s low and honest, and remembering how her skin felt under my hands, solid and warm, like she was the only real thing in the room.
"Mr. Kringle."
I blink. Someone’s talking at me about magical distribution patterns out in the Pacific Northwest, but it’s all just noise right now.
"Mr. Kringle, are you listening?"
I focus on the speaker. One of the coordinators whose name I should definitely remember. "Sorry, what?"
She tries again, something about energy flow and timing, and I nod like I’m following along. As soon as she’s gone, my mind slips right back to Caraway Cove.
The first time I saw Samantha, she was behind the bakery window, flour on her cheek, pulling a tray from the oven.
I knew right then I was in trouble. I’ve been around longer than I care to count, seen more faces and stories than I could ever list. My whole job is figuring out what people need, what gives them that little spark in their chest, the thing mortals call the Christmas spirit.
But I've never wanted anything for myself. Not like this.
Not until her.
That night wasn’t supposed to happen. I went into the bakery to do my job, just watch, get a feel for the place, maybe figure out what made that little town tick.
Instead, I ended up circling around this sharp-tongued, soft-hearted woman who looked at me like I was someone worth knowing.
She touched me like I was real, not just some patchwork of magic and old promises.
My actual job involves distributing the spirit of Christmas throughout the mortal world.
Not presents, though sometimes presents are part of it.
More like ensuring certain encounters happen at certain times.
Making sure the right person hears the right song, or finds the right book, or bumps into someone they need to meet at exactly the right moment.
It's about cultivating connection, fostering generosity, and maintaining the thin thread of hope that keeps humanity from sliding into complete cynicism.
I don’t actually ride around in a sleigh with flying reindeer. Not most of the time, anyway. There was that one time back in the 1800s when a poet saw more than he should have, and I’ve been cleaning up that mess ever since.
The point is, I create experiences. I weave moments of magic into the fabric of the mortal world. And right now, I'm supposed to be planning the distribution patterns for the upcoming season, ensuring maximum impact with minimum disruption to the natural flow of mortal events.
Instead, I'm thinking about what Samantha's skin tastes like. The way she moaned that first time I slid into her.
She’s probably forgotten me by now. Just one night with a stranger who disappeared without a word. She probably thinks I used her, that it was nothing but a fling. The idea makes my throat close up.
If she had any idea how much I've thought about her. If she knew that leaving her was the hardest thing I've done in centuries.
"You're doing it again."
I turn to find Everett standing behind me, arms crossed.
My head elf cuts an imposing figure at just over six feet, dark hair pulled back in a style that would look at home in any mortal boardroom.
The elves here bear no resemblance to the jolly little helpers of popular imagination.
Think less workshop sprite, more otherworldly corporate executive with an occasionally alarming sense of humor.
"Doing what?" I ask, though I know perfectly well what he means.
"Daydreaming." Everett's silver eyes narrow. "That's the third time this morning. We're trying to finalize the Western Europe protocols, and you're staring into the middle distance like some lovesick mortal."
"I'm not lovesick," I say automatically.
Everett just looks at me.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "It's nothing. I'm just tired."
"You don't get tired. You're essentially immortal."
"Then I'm bored."
"You're never bored during prep season." Everett steps closer, his expression shifting from irritated to concerned. "What's actually going on?"
The words hover on my tongue. I should brush him off, make some joke, redirect his attention to the thousand things that need handling. But Everett has been with me for longer than most civilizations have existed. If there's anyone I can trust, it's him.
"I fell in love," I hear myself say.
Everett stops moving. Stops breathing, probably, though he doesn't technically need to do that much, anyway. "You did what?"
"It's fine. I've moved on."
The lie sounds unconvincing even to my own ears. Everett's expression suggests he's not buying it for a second.
"You know what will happen if they find out." He emphasizes the word "they" in a way that makes my jaw clench. "You can't—"
"Of course I know!" The words come out sharper than intended. "Why the hell do you think I left her without a clue as to who I was or where to find me?"
Not that she could find me even if I'd given her an address and detailed directions.
The North Pole exists on an entirely different plane of reality, accessible only to those who belong here or are brought here by someone who does.
The separation isn't just physical. It's metaphysical, fundamental.
I feel it every moment of every day, her absence like a wound that won't close properly.
I turn away before Everett can respond, striding across the courtyard toward my residence. I hear him call after me, but I don't stop.
My house sits at the edge of the village, a structure that shifts slightly depending on my mood.
Right now, it's leaning toward rustic cabin mixed with architectural elements that wouldn't be out of place in a fairytale.
Exposed wooden beams, stone fireplaces, windows that frame views of the aurora-lit sky.
Cozy is the word mortals would use, though that coziness is wrapped in enough magic to make the air shimmer if you look at it right.
It's too big for one person. I've known that for years but never cared before. Lately, though, I keep catching myself imagining what it would sound like with someone else here. Another voice. Laughter echoing through rooms that stay too quiet.
A voice that sounds suspiciously like Samantha's.
I head straight for my study, a room lined with books and curiosities collected across centuries. In the corner sits an antique mirror, though calling it just a mirror is like calling the ocean just water. It's a window, really. A way to look in on the mortal world from this pocket of elsewhere.
My position grants me certain privileges. The ability to observe, to check on situations that might need intervention, to witness the ripple effects of the work we do here. I'm supposed to use it sparingly and only for professional purposes.
I've spent the last six weeks not looking at Samantha.
Every single day, I've come close. I've stood in front of this mirror, my hand hovering over the carved frame, ready to speak her name and let the magic show me how she's doing. Whether she's okay. Whether she thinks of me at all.
And every single day, I've stopped myself.
I stop myself now, staring at the covered glass. All I have to do is remove the cloth draped over it, speak her name, and I'd see her. Just a glimpse. Just enough to know she's alright.
My hand reaches for the fabric before I consciously decide to move.
I freeze there, fingers inches from the cloth, heart pounding in a way that feels absurd for someone who's technically beyond such mortal concerns.
If I look, I won't be able to stop myself from going back.
That's the truth I've been avoiding. It's not just about breaking rules or facing consequences from whatever higher powers govern the boundaries between my kind and mortals. It's that seeing her will shatter whatever fragile restraint I've managed to construct.
I'll go back to Caraway Cove. I'll find her. I'll tell her everything, rules and consequences be damned.
And then what? I pull her into my world, into a life she never asked for? I burden her with the reality of what I am, what I do, the fact that I'm not quite real in the way she is?
Or worse, I keep visiting, keep pretending we can have something normal, until eventually she ages and I don't, until the inevitable end that comes for all mortals while I continue on, carrying the weight of her absence for eternity?
"Damn it," I breathe, pulling my hand back.
I'm in love with a woman I can never have.
The thought sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable. I turn away from the mirror, leaving it covered, and drop into the armchair by the fireplace.
Somewhere in the mortal world, Samantha is going about her day.
Baking bread, serving customers, living her life completely unaware that on another plane of existence, the immortal embodiment of Christmas generosity is sitting alone in the dark, wishing for something he can never allow himself to take.
Outside, the aurora pulses in shades of green and gold. Beautiful. Timeless. Utterly meaningless.
I close my eyes and see her face again, the way she looked at me in the moonlight.
And despite everything, despite all the logical reasons to stay away, I feel it. A pull. Something calling me back to the bakery that smells like cinnamon and home, to the woman who made me want something for myself for the first time in my long, long existence.
I should ignore it.
I won't.
But I won't give in yet. Not today.
Maybe tomorrow.