Holiday Lucky Magic

The Not-So-Lucky Charm part 2

Unknown: Hi, this is Glowmart support. Just confirming your availability to cover a shift today 4–9? Double pay.

She stared at it, chewing slowly.

“Everything okay?” Sasha asked around a forkful of pancake.

“Work wants me to cover tonight,” Mara said. “Double pay.”

“Oof.” Sasha wrinkled her nose. “Holiday money.”

“Holiday money,” Mara echoed.

She should say no. She was already tired. But her bank account was also very tired. Double pay meant groceries without mental math. It meant maybe—if she squinted—a present for Sasha that wasn’t a three-dollar candle.

She texted back:

Mara: I can do it.

Almost instantly:

Glowmart: Perfect, thank you! See you at 4. Happy holidays :)

Sasha watched her tuck the phone away. “You know, if you ever want to not spend every December getting yelled at by people returning blenders, my office is hiring.”

Mara smiled faintly. They’d had this conversation before. “I’m not qualified to do anything but apologize to strangers and navigate glitchy software.”

“You’re qualified,” Sasha said firmly. “You just don’t like interviews.”

“Interviews don’t like me,” Mara said. “Plus, I’d have to wear real clothes.”

“You’re wearing real clothes now.”

Mara looked down at her sweater, which had a small hole near one cuff. “Debatable.”

After brunch, they braved the thrift store, which was a fever dream of polyester and abandoned holiday cheer. Sasha found a bright green sweater with pom-pom snowmen and decided that wasn’t nearly enough. By the time they left, they had a bag full of tinsel, bells, battery-powered lights, and a pack of googly eyes.

“This is going to be glorious,” Sasha said, hugging the bag to her chest. “You’re coming over before my cousin’s thing, right? I need your evil genius.”

“I’ll be there,” Mara said. “Assuming I make it through tonight without being trampled by a mob of last-minute shoppers.”

“That’s the spirit,” Sasha said.

They parted ways at the subway—Sasha heading downtown, Mara catching her bus back toward the mall. As she climbed aboard, she caught sight of herself reflected in the darkened window.

Hat slightly askew. Nose pink from the cold. Eyes tired, but not hollow.

She looked… almost normal.

The bus jolted forward. Mara settled into a seat and let her mind drift.

That’s when she realized: the day had been, so far, weirdly smooth.

She’d gotten a hot shower. Brunch had gone off without a fire alarm. The thrift store outing had not ended in a shelving collapse or a mysterious plumbing incident. No one had spilled hot coffee on her. No one had stepped on her foot.

For a normal person, that was just… life.

For her, in December, it was suspicious.

Her hand drifted to her bag, fingers closing around the velvet box.

“Absolutely not,” she whispered. “You don’t get credit for this.”

The charm, nestled inside, remained stubbornly inert.

The afternoon rush at Glowmart was already in full swing when she clocked in. The Returns Counter had sprouted a second rope line since that morning, like some kind of bureaucratic hydra.

Her manager, Kayla, waved her over. “You’re an angel, Mara. We’re drowning.”

“I gathered,” Mara said, eyeing the line.

“System’s glitchy today,” Kayla said. “Again. Just do your best. Oh, and corporate wants us to say ‘Merry Christmas or preferred seasonal greeting’ now. There were complaints.”

“Of course there were,” Mara said.

She took her place at the terminal and launched into the rhythm of scanning barcodes, explaining policies, and reminding people that they could not, in fact, return an air fryer they’d “used once” that still smelled like chicken.

Her bad luck made several attempts.

The receipt printer jammed. Twice. A kid swung a candy cane dangerously close to a rack of fragile ornaments. A stack of boxed board games on a nearby display tilted ominously when a customer brushed against it.

Mara braced herself each time, ready for the domino effect.

But the printer spat out the receipts after a firm smack. The candy cane kid’s mother snatched it away at the last second. The board games wobbled, teetered… and then, miraculously, settled back into place.

“See?” Kayla said, passing by with an armload of tape. “It’s not so bad today.”

Mara eyed the boxes warily. “Don’t say that out loud.”

Hours blurred together. Her back ached; her feet ached; her brain ached. But nothing spectacularly awful happened.

Until 7:46 p.m.

She was halfway through processing a return for a woman with three screaming children when the overhead lights flickered.

Mara froze.

The customer glanced up, annoyed. “If the power goes out, do I have to stay in line?”

“Uh,” Mara said. “Let’s hope it doesn’t.”

The lights flickered again, then steadied.

A moment later, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She finished the transaction, plastered on a “Merry Christmas or preferred seasonal greeting,” and hit the brief lull between customers to check it.

A text from an unknown number, but the preview said: Hi, it’s Noah –

Her stomach did a small, undignified flip.

She swiped it open.

Noah: Hey, it’s Noah (across-the-hall cinnamon roll dealer). Got your number from the building group chat. Hope that’s not weird 🙈

Immediately followed by:

Noah: We’re doing a trial run for the potluck lighting in the basement and… half the string just died. Any chance you have a magic touch with cursed electronics?

Mara stared at the screen.

The lights above her flickered again, like they were in on the joke.

“Next!” shouted someone in line.

She typed with one hand while reaching for the next item with the other.

Mara: You picked the wrong neighbor for that. Electronics fear me.

She hesitated, then added:

Mara: Also, this is 100% weird but I’ll allow it.

His reply came moments later.

Noah: Noted: acceptable level of weirdness located.

Noah: No worries about the lights. The building has beef with me, I get it.

Noah: How’s work? Still on Holiday Strike?

She snorted softly.

Mara: Holiday Strike is ongoing. I’m at the Returns Counter. Pray for me.

Noah: Say no more. Offering sympathy from afar. I’ll save you a cinnamon roll. For post-shift recovery. If the strike allows temporary truces.

Her fingers paused over the screen.

She imagined opening her door later, the smell of sugar and spice drifting into her apartment. She imagined sitting on his couch, knees almost touching, watching some ridiculous movie while sharing warm pastry.

Her chest did that strange rearranging thing again.

The customer in front of her cleared his throat. “Ma’am?”

“Sorry,” she said quickly, shoving the phone back into her pocket.

As her hand moved, she felt something warm against her fingers, even through the pocket lining—the velvet box.

The next customer stepped up, holding out a bag. “Hi, I need to return this coat? The zipper broke the first time I wore it.”

Mara took it, sliding it out of the bag.

The zipper tab dangled by a single thread.

“Of course,” she began. “Let me just—”

The zipper gave up entirely and clattered onto the counter.

The customer sighed. “See? Useless.”

“Sorry about that,” Mara said automatically, and started the return.

The terminal beeped. A small warning window popped up: CONNECTION LOST.

Mara groaned inwardly. “Not now.”

She hit “retry.” The window blinked away. The transaction went through.

Huh.

Usually, that kind of error meant at least five minutes of the system sulking.

She completed the return, bagged the coat, and sent the customer on their way. The line shuffled forward.

Somewhere between a misprinted receipt and a gift card reload, it hit her: the timing.

The flickering lights.

The buzzing phone.

Her smile when she’d read Noah’s texts. The little lift in her mood, the thought of cinnamon rolls and movies and—

Her cheeks warmed.

“Next,” she called, voice a shade too bright.

Maybe it was coincidence. Probably it was coincidence.

She clung to that thought like a shield for the rest of her shift.

By the time she trudged home, the world was an icy slush. Snow had turned to sleet, then back to snow again. Her hat was damp; her socks were damp; her soul was… probably damp.

The building’s front steps glistened treacherously.

“This is how I die,” she muttered, gripping the railing.

She ascended carefully, planting each foot like she was disarming a landmine. At the top, her boot slipped—just a little—but her hand tightened on the rail, catching her in time.

“Ha,” she said breathlessly. “Nice try.”

Inside, the lobby was warm and mercifully well-lit. The string of cheap tinsel someone had draped over the mailboxes earlier in the week hung at a slight angle, like it had considered falling down and then changed its mind.

On the bulletin board, a fresh copy of the building potluck flyer was pinned dead center. Someone had doodled tiny hearts around the date.

She side-eyed it, then headed upstairs.

On the third floor landing, she heard footsteps behind her.

“Hey, neighbor.”

She turned.

Noah stood a few steps below, balancing a small white box on one palm. His hair was damp again, a few curls plastered to his forehead. A cable-knit sweater hugged his shoulders, the kind that would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else but somehow made him seem both cozy and… distracting.

“You survived,” he said. “Returns duty and all.”

“Barely,” she said. “I may never look at kitchen appliances the same way again.”

He closed the distance between them, holding out the box. “As promised: cinnamon roll. Singular. The others mysteriously vanished.”

“Tragic,” she said, taking the box. It radiated a faint warmth. “You could’ve just texted me where you left the body instead of escorting it personally.”

“Maybe I wanted to check in on you,” he said lightly. “Retail in December can be brutal.”

She snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

They reached the top of the stairs and moved toward their doors, which faced each other like they’d been installed for maximum sitcom potential.

“So,” he said, leaning his shoulder against his doorframe. “How’s the Holiday Strike going?”

“Strong,” she said. “Zero carols, zero tree decorating, zero festive joy. I’m basically an emotional Switzerland.”

He grinned. “So, neutral but secretly hoarding chocolate?”

“I plead the fifth.”

He nodded at the box in her hands. “That’s contraband, you know. Cinnamon is a gateway spice.”

“Gateway to what?”

“Gingerbread. Hot cocoa. Questionable eggnog decisions.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, extremely,” he said. “Hence the supervised delivery.”

She unlocked her door, nerves buzzing in a way that had nothing to do with the long day. Over his shoulder, she could see the faint glow of a TV in his apartment, casting flickering light across a couch scattered with blankets.

“What are you watching?” she asked before she could stop herself.

“Some holiday movie Sasha recommended in the group chat,” he said. “The one where the grumpy city girl gets snowed in with a guy who owns a Christmas tree farm. There is an alarming number of flannel shirts.”

“That sounds like my worst nightmare,” Mara said.

“You say that, but your eyes are sparkling with curiosity.”

“That’s just the overhead light reflecting off my corneas.”

He laughed softly.

The sound did something warm and disorienting in her chest.

The hallway light above them brightened almost imperceptibly.

She felt it, the way you felt a room change when someone opened a window. A tiny shift in the air, in the way the shadows fell.

Her hand tightened around the box.

Focus, she told herself. It’s just electricity. Old wiring. Random chance.

“You’re welcome to join,” Noah said casually. “If you want. No pressure, no flannel requirements. Just… company. And terrible dialogue.”

Her first instinct was to say no. That was the safe script. That was the strike.

But she’d spent the whole day being jostled by strangers under fluorescent lights. She’d spent the last year and a half proving she could be alone and still be okay.

The idea of sitting on that couch, wrapped in a blanket, laughing at something predictably ridiculous with someone who already knew her name and her floor creaks…

It tugged at her.

The charm shifted in her coat pocket, like it was listening.

She swallowed. “I… probably smell like retail despair.”

“Same,” he said. “Adds authenticity. Look, you can always escape back across the hall if it’s terrible. Consider it low-commitment rebellion against your own strike.”

She huffed a reluctant laugh. “You are very persistent, you know that?”

“Occupational hazard,” he said. “I do community outreach for a non-profit. I’m used to politely bothering people into doing things that are good for them.”

“Is watching attractive people fall in love over Christmas cookies good for me?” she asked.

“Statistically, inconclusive,” he said. “Anecdotally, I’d say yes.”

She exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” she said, surprising herself. “One movie. If the curse takes you out, I’m haunting this building forever out of guilt.”

“I’ll risk it,” he said, his smile brightening. “Give me five minutes to make tea?”

“Make it ten,” she said. “I need to de-retail my face.”

“Deal,” he replied. “Door’ll be cracked. Just come in.”

He disappeared into his apartment.

Mara stepped into hers, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. She leaned back against it, heart thudding.

“You are out of your mind,” she told herself.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds. On her coffee table, the velvet box sat where she’d left it earlier, its lid closed.

She set the cinnamon roll box beside it and went to splash water on her face. In the bathroom mirror, she examined herself critically.

Tired eyes, yes, but also… something else. A spark.

Romance blooms, the note had said.

“Don’t,” she warned her reflection. “Do not romantic-bloom at your neighbor.”

Her reflection, rudely, did not argue.

She changed into clean leggings and a soft long-sleeved shirt, hesitated over a cardigan, then put it on. Cozy, but not trying too hard. She finger-combed her hair, pinched her cheeks for color, then laughed at herself.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

Back in the living room, she picked up the velvet box.

For a second, she considered leaving it behind. Then she imagined something going horribly wrong—spilled tea, broken glass, a freak electrical fire—and found herself tucking it into her pocket instead.

“Just insurance,” she told it. “You’re my emotional support trinket.”

She grabbed the cinnamon roll, crossed the hall, and nudged Noah’s door open.

Warm light spilled across the threshold. The smell of cinnamon hit her first, then vanilla, then something that might have been pine. A modest artificial tree stood in the corner, wrapped in white lights and mismatched ornaments.

On the TV, a man in a flannel shirt was arguing earnestly with a woman in a peacoat about the true meaning of snow.

“Hey,” Noah said from the tiny kitchen area, where he was pouring tea into two mugs. “Perfect timing.”

His apartment was the same layout as hers but felt entirely different. There were plants in the windows, a bookcase overflowing with novels and board games, a framed map on the wall with pins stuck in various cities.

She tried not to stare. She failed.

“Come in, come in.” He waved her toward the couch. A fluffy blanket lay draped over the back like a friendly creature.

She held up the box. “I brought the evidence.”

“Excellent.” He set the mugs down on the coffee table. “We can dissect it during the climactic snowstorm scene.”

She sank onto the couch, sinking into cushions that were suspiciously comfortable. Her hand brushed something on the cushion beside her.

She looked down.

A small, red knit pillow with the words FA-LA-LA NOPE printed in block letters.

She laughed. “This speaks to me.”

“I thought it might,” he said, settling onto the other end of the couch, not too close, not too far. “Sasha saw it at a craft fair and said it had your energy.”

“So that’s how you got my number,” she realized. “The group chat is just Sasha foisting things at you.”

“Mostly,” he admitted. “She also sends a lot of memes about raccoons.”

“That tracks.”

He picked up the remote and turned the volume up a notch. On screen, the main couple were now trapped in a rustic cabin while snow howled outside in a very obviously fake sound effect.

Mara opened the cinnamon roll box.

The pastry inside was round, golden, and generously iced. It smelled unfair.

“Sharing?” she asked.

“I’m not a monster,” he said, holding out his hand for a piece.

She tore off a portion and passed it to him. Their fingers brushed.

It was the barest touch, skin against skin for half a second.

The room seemed to… shift.

The twinkle lights on the tree brightened subtly. The radiator, which had been knocking irregularly, settled into a steady, contented hum. The faint whine in the overhead fixture, one she hadn’t consciously registered until it stopped, faded into silence.

The air itself felt warmer, cozier, like someone had thrown an extra blanket over the whole apartment.

Mara’s breath caught.

Noah didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. He just took a bite of cinnamon roll and closed his eyes briefly in appreciation.

“Oh, that’s good,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said weakly.

Her fingers curled around the velvet box in her pocket.

The metal charm inside felt… warm.

Not hot, not glowing, but warmed as if it had been sitting in sunlight.

On screen, the flannel guy stumbled, caught the heroine as she slipped, and they ended up in a heap, faces inches apart. Sparks flew. Literally. Someone had strung lights across the cabin rafters and they flickered right on cue.

Mara watched them, watched the timing of the snow and the music and the attractive people with perfect teeth, and thought: That’s what it looks like. When everything conspires.

She tore her gaze away to look at Noah instead.

He sat with one arm draped along the back of the couch, mug cradled in his other hand, totally absorbed in the ridiculousness. When something particularly cheesy happened—a surprise puppy, an inexplicably well-timed carol—he’d make a quiet, amused sound, half laugh, half groan.

She found herself smiling, even when she tried not to.

At one point, the heroine tripped on yet another patch of improbably placed snow. Noah shook his head. “Someone needs to salt that woman’s life.”

“Preaching to the choir,” Mara murmured.

He glanced at her, his eyes catching the light. “You really don’t like this time of year, huh?”

“I’m fine with cold weather and hot drinks,” she said. “It’s the expectations that are lethal.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. People build it up in their heads. One perfect day to fix everything that’s messy the rest of the year.”

“Exactly,” she said, relieved he understood. “And then when it’s not perfect, it feels worse. Like the universe personally looked at you and said, ‘Not you, though.’”

He was quiet for a moment.

“When I was a kid,” he said, “my family did huge Christmases. Loud. Messy. Everyone talking over each other. I thought they were perfect.” His mouth twisted. “Then my dad left in January, and I realized they weren’t perfect. They were noisy enough to cover up the cracks.”

Mara blinked.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I still love this time of year. But it’s not because I think it’s magic. It’s because I like the excuse to make things a little kinder. For other people. For myself. It’s like—if we’re already dragging trees into the house and putting lights on everything, why not go all in on the ‘being decent’ part too?”

She studied his profile, the line of his jaw, the way his thumb traced absently along the ceramic of his mug.

“Does it work?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes it doesn’t. But I figure the trying is the point.”

The charm in her pocket pulsed gently with warmth.

She shifted, suddenly overly aware of the space between them on the couch. It felt like a physical thing, a stretch of fabric and air laced with cinnamon and possibility.

“That’s very unfairly reasonable,” she said. “You’re ruining my grinch narrative.”

He smiled sideways at her. “I have faith in your grinch skills. They seem well-honed.”

“Thank you,” she said dryly.

They watched the rest of the movie like that: trading commentary, occasionally sharing another bite of cinnamon roll, their shoulders drifting a little closer over time in that unconscious way bodies did when they were comfortable.

Once, when she reached for the mug at the same time he did, their fingers intertwined for a fleeting second. Her heart stuttered. The lights on the tree brightened again, then steadied.

By the time the credits rolled and the main couple kissed under strategically placed mistletoe, Mara’s carefully built walls felt… not demolished, but cracked. A hairline fracture where warmth was leaking in.

“Wow,” Noah said, stretching his arms over his head. The hem of his sweater rode up, revealing a sliver of skin. “That was a lot of tinsel.”

“My teeth hurt from the sweetness,” she said. “I think I have a cavity in my soul.”

“You loved it,” he said.

“I tolerated it.”

“Progress,” he said lightly. “Next thing you know, you’ll be helping decorate the tree.”

“Don’t push your luck,” she said.

He smiled, but his gaze caught on her face, lingered a fraction too long. The easy humor in his expression softened into something else. Something that made the room feel very small and the air feel very thin.

Her breath hitched.

Time did that strange stretchy thing, expanding and contracting around a single moment.

If this were a movie, she thought vaguely, this is when the music would swell. Someone would zoom in on our faces. There would be mistletoe.

There was, in fact, a sprig of plastic mistletoe hanging from the ceiling near the door, a leftover from whoever had lived here before. It wasn’t directly above them. Yet.

Noah shifted slightly closer.

His thigh brushed hers.

The charm burned warm in her pocket, heat spreading through the denim, seeping into her skin.

Panic and desire collided in her chest.

Works only when romance blooms, the note had said.

What would happen if she leaned in? If he did? Would the lights explode? Would the building levitate? Would the universe throw a temper tantrum or, worse, cooperate?

She swallowed hard.

“I should—” she began.

“Yeah,” he said at the same time. “It’s late.”

They both laughed, the sound too bright, too sharp.

He cleared his throat. “Thanks for the company. I know this is… not exactly your natural habitat.”

“It was… not terrible,” she admitted.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

She stood, suddenly unsteady on her feet. The room seemed to sway, or maybe that was just her.

At the door, she turned back.

Noah was watching her, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders relaxed but eyes searching.

“Good night, Mara,” he said softly.

“Good night,” she replied.

She stepped into the hallway.

The overhead light there, which had been dim earlier, shone bright and steady, illuminating every scuff on the floor, every crack in the paint. It felt like walking into a spotlight after leaving a dark theater.

In her pocket, the charm cooled, the heat fading as soon as the door clicked shut behind her.

She forced her hands to stop trembling long enough to unlock her own door.

Inside, her apartment felt smaller, somehow. Quieter.

She set the empty cinnamon roll box on the counter, then pulled out the velvet box and opened it.

The charm lay inside, chipped and imperfect, all evidence of warmth gone.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she told it.

It did not respond, because it was an inanimate object and she was losing her mind.

Still, as she got ready for bed, the pieces arranged themselves in her thoughts no matter how she tried to scatter them.

Warm showers. Perfect bus timing. Near-misses with ice. Flickering lights that steadied. Glitches that resolved.

All clustered around one thing.

One person.

One impossible, dangerous feeling she’d promised herself she was done with.

Mara crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling.

“This is nothing,” she whispered into the dark. “It has to be nothing.”

The charm on her nightstand caught a stray bit of streetlight and glinted faintly, like a wink.

Sleep took a long time to find her.

When it finally did, her dreams were full of snow and cinnamon and a pair of warm brown eyes watching her like she wasn’t cursed at all.