Chapter 8: The Mask Begins to Fall
1095 Words
Nicholas had always considered himself a master of control.
He controlled his workshop.
He controlled his emotions.
He controlled the world’s perception of him.
But ever since Alina had arrived, he had felt something slipping—something loosening inside him, no matter how hard he tried to tighten his grip.
So, he did what he always did when things felt uncertain.
He distanced himself.
For days after the Winter Ball, he avoided her whenever possible. He kept himself buried in work, watching but not engaging, finding excuses to focus on details that normally wouldn’t bother him.
He convinced himself that it was because Christmas was fast approaching, that efficiency mattered more than anything right now.
But the truth?
She was in his head.
And Nicholas Claus didn’t like having things in his head that he couldn’t control.
Alina, of course, wasn’t fooled.
She wasn’t the type to demand attention, nor was she the type to let something go unnoticed. She saw what he was doing, and rather than call him out on it, she handled it the way she handled everything else—with quiet defiance.
She refused to let him pretend she wasn’t there.
When he scolded the elves over a mislabeled shipment, she rolled her eyes and muttered, “You’re impossible.”
When he skipped dinner, she placed a mug of hot cocoa on his desk without a word.
When he refused to meet her gaze, she smirked like she knew exactly what he was doing.
She didn’t push him.
She simply existed.
And somehow, that was worse than if she had outright confronted him.
Because it left him to wrestle with his own thoughts.
The night he finally spoke to her again, he hadn’t meant to.
It was late. The workshop had long since gone quiet, the elves tucked into their warm beds, the fireplaces flickering with soft golden light.
Nicholas had been restless.
At first, he told himself he was just walking, clearing his head, stretching his legs after a long day of calculations and logistics. But somehow, his wandering footsteps had taken him outside, toward the reindeer stables.
And that was where he found her.
Alina stood by the wooden fence, her breath curling in the frigid air, her fingers gently running through the thick fur of one of the younger reindeer.
The animal—a small one named Lirien, not yet ready for the sleigh—nuzzled into her palm, eyes half-lidded in comfort.
Nicholas hesitated in the shadows for a moment before finally stepping forward.
“You should be asleep.”
Alina didn’t turn around. “So should you.”
Nicholas folded his arms, leaning against the fence beside her. “You like the reindeer.”
“They’re honest,” she said simply. “They don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”
Nicholas smirked. “Unlike people?”
Alina finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. “Some people.”
Silence stretched between them.
It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. If anything, it felt… oddly natural, as though they had stood like this a hundred times before.
The wind whistled through the trees. The reindeer snorted softly, shifting its weight.
Then, before he could stop himself, Nicholas asked, “What about you?”
Alina tilted her head slightly. “What about me?”
“You don’t talk about your past.”
For the first time, she hesitated.
It was quick—barely more than a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the slightest shift in her posture—but Nicholas noticed.
He had spent years observing people, learning to read them, learning when someone was lying.
And Alina was lying.
Not with words.
But with the way she forced an easy smile and said, “Maybe there’s nothing to talk about.”
Nicholas exhaled, turning to face her more fully. “Everyone has a past.”
She shrugged, still smiling. “Some of us just choose not to look back.”
Nicholas studied her, the way her fingers had subtly tightened in the reindeer’s fur, the way her eyes had darkened just slightly.
It was the same look he had caught in her before.
In the rare moments when she thought no one was watching.
A shadow.
Not the kind that made someone cruel. Not the kind that made someone bitter.
But the kind that made someone too good at hiding things.
The kind of shadow Nicholas knew all too well.
He looked back toward the trees, his voice quieter when he said, “I wasn’t always meant to be Santa.”
Alina blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Nicholas let out a slow breath, watching it curl into the air. “I didn’t grow up dreaming about being the one to deliver presents. I never wanted this role.”
Alina frowned. “Then why do you do it?”
He was silent for a long moment.
Then, finally, he said, “Because I have to.”
Alina’s expression softened. “Who told you that?”
Nicholas stiffened.
The question caught him off guard. No one had ever asked him that before.
Because I have to.
That had been his answer for years.
And yet, when Alina asked why, he suddenly realized… he didn’t know.
It had never been a choice. It had always been a burden.
He didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Alina didn’t press him.
Instead, she turned her gaze back toward the stars, a small, almost sad smile on her lips. “You know, for someone who hates the cold, you spend a lot of time standing out in it.”
Nicholas smirked slightly. “Maybe I just hate going back inside.”
Alina chuckled softly. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know the feeling.”
Nicholas frowned, glancing at her.
She had said it so quietly, like it had slipped out before she could stop herself.
Like she understood exactly what it was like to feel like you never truly belonged where you were.
Like she, too, had been running from something.
He didn’t ask.
She didn’t offer.
They just stood there, side by side, as the night stretched around them—two people who had spent their lives avoiding things, slowly realizing they weren’t as alone as they had always believed.
That night, Nicholas didn’t dream.
For the first time in a long time, his mind was quiet.
And maybe—just maybe—that had something to do with her.
- Writer
