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Pete's life isn’t technically in shambles—it just feels like every decision he’s made since age sixteen has folded in on itself like a dying star.
College? Dropped out.
Scholarships? Gone the second he decided his band was finally—finally—on the cusp of being something.
The band? Imploded in a spectacular, stupid way that he still can’t talk about without wanting to walk into traffic.
So now he’s twenty-something, living back at home, sleeping in the same room where he used to tape up Star Wars posters, and being mothered to death. Which, actually, isn’t the worst part. His siblings moved out, so he’s the sole recipient of all his mom’s coddling. She cooks extra for him. She folds his laundry even when he tells her not to. She kisses his forehead in passing like he’s freshly returned from war instead of college.
The strings attached to all that comfort are the problem.
When she tells him the charity she volunteers for lost their Santa because he was going through a divorce or rehab or something, he stops listening after “lost”—she asks Pete to fill in. Pleads, really. And Pete’s never been great at disappointing his mother. So he tries to explain, gently, that he is:
1. Too tattooed
2. Too brown
3. Too punk
4. Not even remotely jolly
But she gives him that look. The one that means please do this for me. And suddenly he’s in a dingy mall dressing room being fitted into a fat suit that smells like dust and defeat.
The fake beard is itchy. The wig is crooked. The suit is somehow both too hot and not warm enough. He looks like Santa after a nervous breakdown and three nights in county jail.
And yet… he doesn’t hate it.
He’s always loved Christmas—everything about it. The lights, the music, the dumb movies, the way kids still believe in pure magic even though the world keeps trying to crush it out of them. Representing the entire holiday feels like a lot of pressure, sure, but it’s not the worst job he’s ever had.
It’s just not exactly the life he pictured for himself.
Not when he’d been so close to something bigger.
Not when he thought he was supposed to be more.
Still, he sits on the oversized throne in the dying mall, folds his tattooed hands in red felt sleeves, adjusts the beard that refuses to stay put, and decides he can do this.
For now.
For Christmas.
For his mom.
The thing is, despite the mall being one bad day away from becoming a Spirit Halloween , there’s still a steady flow of children who stubbornly believe in Santa. Even in this cynical, post-internet world where toddlers have iPads and middle schoolers know more about YouTubers than Pete ever will, kids still line up for him.
Elementary kids who climb into his lap and immediately ask for Robux or Fortnite skins with the seriousness of little businessmen making high-stakes negotiations.
Toddlers who begin screaming the moment they’re within a ten-foot radius of him, as if sensing their parents desperate need for a decent Christmas photo.
Goth high schoolers who take group photos with him “ironically,” but still give him shy smiles and soft “Thanks, dude,” afterward.
Not even ten years ago, that had been Pete—awkward, eyeliner-smudged, convinced the adults running the world were idiots. So he has a soft spot for them, even the ones who insist he “do the metal horns for the picture, Santa.”
And somehow, without meaning to, Pete ends up with a rotating cast of regulars.
Ben
Ben is around eleven, maybe, and always has his shoes untied in a way that makes Pete’s blood pressure spike. His mom works at the kiosk that sells bedazzled cell phone covers, so he drifts over whenever he’s bored—which is often.
Ben doesn’t really come to see Santa. He just kind of… hangs out.
Pete suspects the kid is both lonely and a little neglected, so he lets him linger behind the velvet rope during slow periods. They talk about video games and movies and school. About how Ben has done the math, the physics, the logistics, and is firmly convinced Santa cannot possibly visit every home in the world in one night.
Pete appreciates the skepticism. He appreciates the earnestness even more. Ben reminds him a little of himself: too smart, too restless, trying to figure out where he fits
Then there’s Aricelly, who is also eleven going on twenty-five. Her parents run the Mexican fruit stand in the food court, and she spends so much time slicing cucumbers and handing out Tajín packets that she looks bored on a cellular level.
She’ll wander over and sit cross-legged next to the Christmas tree like it’s her personal living room. She’s confident in the way eldest daughters usually are—sharp, observant, responsible, a little bossy. And she knows all the mall gossip. Chisme, she calls it with a grin.
“Santa, are you on Ozempic? You’re too skinny,” she’ll say, deadpan.
“It’s all the darn cookies kids leave out for me, I had to." Pete will reply, matching her tone.
She snorts every single time. Pete likes her, too.
And then… there’s Ryan.
Ryan is probably around eight. Possibly feral. No one knows where his parents work. There are theories that they simply leave him at the mall as budget childcare, and honestly, Pete can’t dismiss the possibility. He has another theory that Ryan just lives in the vents and emerges only to feed on free samples and terrorize the arcade.
Ryan is a tornado in light-up sneakers. He sprints. He climbs. He startles old ladies for sport. Last week he stole Pete’s beard and ran three full laps around the fountain before someone finally intercepted him. In a few years, he’ll probably have a promising career in football—or crime.
Pete respects his commitment to chaos. He also fears him. And he has a soft spot for the kid—he was once an ADHD whirlwind too, too loud, too fast, too much for most adults.
Together, the three of them—Ben, Aricelly, and Ryan—form something like Pete’s unofficial entourage. His helpers. His court. His weird little mall gang.
And Pete, against all odds, finds himself… not hating it.
Not the noise, not the chaos, not the feeling of being needed, even in these small, ridiculous ways. For a guy wearing a fake beard and a slightly moldy fat suit at the lowest point of his life… he’s weirdly content.
He’s still a college dropout in a fat suit. A failed musician in borrowed boots. But when these kids gather around him, leaning in with their secrets, their boredom, their little-kid intensity…
He feels like he’s doing something that matters.
Even if it’s just for a few minutes at a time.
Aricelly shows up one afternoon with Ben and Ryan trailing behind her like little ducklings—Ben shuffling with untied shoes, Ryan sticky for no explainable reason. She’s eating mini pretzels from Auntie Anne’s, cinnamon sugar clinging to her mouth like glitter.
She stops in front of Santa’s throne, eyes shining with chisme.
“Santa,” she begins, “have you seen the new singing elf they hired? He’s promoting that fancy candle store, I think?"
Pete perks up under the beard. “A singing elf?”
Aricelly nods, solemn. “He has the voice of an angel. Like—people stop walking. Even the moms with strollers.”
Ben chimes in, “He’s short, like really short for a boy.”
Ryan says, “He moves fast,” which is concerning because Ryan perceives the world in feral-animal metrics.
Aricelly leans closer. “He’s cute though. Like, actually cute.”
And Pete—who has been dead inside for several months now—suddenly feels a pulse of interest.
A cute elf. With a voice like an angel.
This is exactly the kind of side quest a failing mall Santa deserves.
“Well,” Pete says, trying to sound nonchalant, “maybe Santa will keep an eye out.”
Aricelly gives him a look. “Don’t make it weird, you freak.”
He absolutely will.
Pete spends the remaining hours of his shift scanning for any flash of green felt or jingling bells. Nothing. The mall stays painfully mundane: stroller traffic, teenagers with Hot Topic bags, toddlers licking the fake snow.
Then, just as he’s about to clock out—
He hears it.
Soft, bright, totally unfair vocals drifting across the atrium.
A lilting, almost haunting version of “Last Christmas.”
It is unequivocally the voice of someone too beautiful to be working retail.
Pete lurches upright so fast the kid in his lap slides unceremoniously onto a pile of decorative gift boxes.
“Santa!?” the kid squeals.
“Emergency,” Pete mutters, eyes scanning wildly.
There—across the mall—a small figure in red and green. That’s all he gets. A silhouette. Blondish hair caught in the overhead lights. The faint outline of pointed shoes.
But the face?
Completely out of sight.
Turned away, hidden behind a kiosk, gone before Pete can even take a step.
He tries anyway, stumbling over the velvet rope, nearly tripping over a fake reindeer.
By the time he reaches the edge of Santa’s Village, the elf has vanished. The song fades into the mall’s background hum, like a dream dissolving.
Aricelly strolls up beside him, licking pretzel icing off her thumb.
“You juuuust missed him.”
“I didn’t even see his face,” Pete says, breathless, devastated in a way he can’t fully justify.
“That’s how elves work,” Ryan says wisely. “They’re shy. That's what happened to my elf on the shelf."
Ben adds, “Or maybe you’re just slow. Maybe he sensed you and remembered 'Stranger Danger'."
Pete ignores both of them.
What matters is this:
There is a mysterious singing elf roaming the mall.
He’s cute—according to a very reliable source.
Pete hasn’t seen him, but he’s heard him, and the voice alone rearranged his brain chemistry.
It’s not just the crush — though that’s absolutely part of it. It’s the way the sound cracked something open in him. The way it reminded him of stages and amps and that brief, stupid hope that maybe his life was about to start instead of stall out.
Maybe the elf is nothing.
Or maybe he’s everything.
Maybe he’s the answer to Pete’s half-formed prayers — a second chance, a spark, a voice that could fit into a band and pull Pete back toward something that feels like becoming instead of settling. Something that isn’t being a college dropout in a borrowed Santa suit, pretending this is where the story ends.
Pete straightens in his throne, heart racing.
Santa has found his new quest.
And he will not rest until he finds the face that matches that voice.
Pete gathers his tiny entourage during a lull—Ben perched on the velvet rope, Aricelly sitting cross-legged like a tiny CEO, and Ryan upside down on a decorative present for reasons known only to him.
He clears his throat like he’s about to deliver a State of the North Pole address.
“Okay, team,” Pete says, lowering his voice. “First one who finds out the singing elf’s name gets five bucks.”
The effect is immediate.
Five. Whole. Dollars.
In this economy Pete is practically liquidating his entire life savings.
The kids’ eyes all go wide and bright, like he just announced a golden ticket scavenger hunt. Then they immediately huddle together, whispering intensely. It’s like watching a sports team strategize during the final inning—if the team was made of slightly neglected feral mall children.
After a long, suspiciously coordinated huddle, Aricelly steps forward as their spokesperson, pretzel-dust authority radiating from her.
“We have decided,” she announces primly, “that we want to stick together.”
“You're unionizing?" Pete repeats, because of course.
“And so,” Aricelly continues, fingers steepled like a lawyer, “we expect five dollars each.”
Pete almost says yes because she sounds so professional, but then the math hits him.
Fifteen dollars.
For a name.
A single name.
Absolutely not. He’s not Santa Union-Busting Moneybags Claus.
“A dollar each,” he counters.
Aricelly doesn’t flinch. “Four.”
Pete squints. “Two.”
“Three,” she says, folding her arms. “And that’s as low as I’m going.”
Ben nods like this is a fair and just compromise.
Ryan picks a gummy bear off the floor and eats it.
Pete sighs, defeated, because he is a grown man negotiating with elementary schoolers and losing.
“Fine. Three. But you better get me that name.”
The trio cheers like they’ve just secured a groundbreaking labor contract.
Operation Find the Elf is officially underway.
The next day Pete is excited to get to work. To put on his fat suit and itchy beard just to catch a glimpse of this elf. The candle store is nowhere in Pete's jurisdiction or eyesight but that doesn't stop him from peering over kids heads who are on his lap and looking around.
"Santa are you even listening to me?" A girl who is probably no older than six says.
"Yes, you want a Wicked Barbie and a squishmallow. You're on the nice list so, I'll be sure to remember. Thanks."
The girl huffs and rolls her eyes and stomps off.
Suddenly he hears the elf again in the distance singing all I want for Christmas is you only second best to Mariah's version. He practically sprints over the velvet rope following the sound of the angelic voice, when a hoard of preschoolers see him and have a beatlemania moment of being hysterical by his presence when he loses sight on this elf again.
Misses him again.
It’s a few more painful hours of pretending to listen to children spill their hopes and dreams—ponies, Roblox gift cards, siblings who stop being annoying—while Pete’s own hopes and dreams revolve around catching even one glimpse of a mysterious singing elf.
By late afternoon, he’s slumped in his Santa throne like a man awaiting execution by Nutcracker when he sees them.
His little misfit army.
Ben, walking fast with his usual untied shoelaces.
Aricelly, strutting with purpose.
Ryan, eating popcorn he definitely did not pay for.
And they look victorious.
Pete straightens immediately. The beard shifts. The wig listing to the side suddenly feels like the crown of a king receiving crucial intel.
Aricelly steps forward, chest puffed out with pride.
“I asked around the entire mall,” she declares. “The lady who owns Cookie Corner told me that Susan—you know, the Susan with the old lady clothes store—told her that Mr. Lopez from security said that the new elf’s name is…”
She pauses, savoring the moment.
“Buddy.”
She beams. Ben nods sagely. Ryan inhales more popcorn like a gremlin.
Pete stares.
“Buddy?” he repeats. “As in, like… Buddy?”
“Yup,” Aricelly says. “Like the movie.”
Pete rubs his temples. “Yeah, sorry, kid—that has to be, like, a fake stage name. Like a strip—”
He freezes.
Three pairs of innocent (and one mildly deranged) eyes stare at him.
“Strip… mall,” Pete finishes weakly. “A strip mall name. Because it’s the mall. And he’s an elf. In the mall.”
They do not look convinced.
Ryan squints. “What were you gonna say—”
“NOTHING,” Pete snaps. “Great job, team! Strong work! Ten out of ten on investigative skills.”
Aricelly smiles proudly, but Ben shrugs. “It’s probably his nickname.”
Pete tries to process it.
His angel-voiced mystery elf might be named Buddy.
He is now falling in love with someone he hasn’t seen whose name might be shared with a Labrador retriever.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
"Oh! One more thing,” Aricelly adds. “They said he has a cubby in the mailbox room. That’s where he gets his notes for his elf assignments.”
Pete blinks.
A cubby.
A location.
An actual lead.
He has never felt more alive.
Ben nudges Aricelly aside. “Maybe you can send him a note. Like a Secret Santa thing.”
Pete considers it.
A note.
A mysterious message from Santa to his elusive singing elf.
His heart does a weird, embarrassing flutter.
Ryan narrows his eyes at him, deeply suspicious. “If he’s an elf,” he says, “and you’re Santa… why don’t you know him?”
Pete freezes.
The children stare.
This is a crisis. A canonical Christmas lore crisis.
“You know…” Pete begins slowly, reaching into the deepest, dustiest recesses of his improv abilities, “I have so many elf employees. Like, too many. An overwhelming amount of elves. Thousands. Possibly millions.”
They stare harder.
Pete presses on. “It’s really hard to keep track of who is who. They’re very… busy. Constantly moving. Very jing-le-y.”
Ben squints. Aricelly is unimpressed. Ryan looks like he’s preparing a cross-examination.
“This elf,” Pete continues desperately, “is special, though. He has the voice of an angel. So I—uh—just haven’t met him yet. Paperwork backlog. Elf HR stuff. Very complicated.”
Ryan’s eyes narrow even further. “I think you’re lying.”
“Okay!” Pete blurts, clapping loudly. “Time to focus on your mission: getting me this elf’s actual name so I can—uh—perform… Santa duties. And we can start a Christmas band."
Operation Elf Contact has officially begun.
Ben suddenly lights up, eyes going wide with excitement.
“My mom has a notepad and pen!” he announces, and before Pete can even respond, he’s off—hurrying across the mall toward the cell phone cover kiosk where his mother works.
Two minutes later he returns, triumphant, holding out a tiny notepad shaped like a unicorn and a sparkly gel pen.
“Here!” he says, thrusting them into Pete’s hands.
Pete stares at the blank page and immediately panics.
What is he supposed to write?
Hi, I heard you sing once and now I’m convinced you’re my soulmate—want to run away together and live with polar bears in the North Pole?
Absolutely not. Straight into a restraining order.
This is ridiculous. He hasn’t even seen the guy’s face.
The elf could be straight.
He could be married.
He could have a long-term partner who writes poetry.
He could hate Santa.
He could be allergic to beards.
Pete’s chest tightens.
How is he supposed to write something that doesn’t scream I’m already mentally planning our Christmas-themed wedding?
Aricelly watches him spiral like a seasoned therapist. “You good, Santa?”
“No,” Pete admits.
The kids all crowd in, ready with suggestions.
Ben shrugs. “Just tell him he sings really good.”
Aricelly nudges him. “Tell him you think he’s cute and you love him.”
Pete’s soul leaves his body. “No. No we are not doing that.”
Ryan tilts his head, thinking hard. Then, in the voice of a child who believes he is being extremely helpful, says:
“Tell him you know where his family lives.”
Pete chokes on absolutely nothing.
Aricelly smacks Ryan lightly on the arm. “Ryan! No! Why would you say that?!”
Ryan blinks innocently. “Because he’s Santa. Santa knows where everybody lives. In the North Pole database. Duh.”
Pete rubs his temples. “Okay… maybe something subtle. Something not terrifying.”
Aricelly’s eyes glimmer. “Like a scavenger hunt.”
Ben nods. “Yeah! Leave him clues. Elves love clues.”
Pete considers it.
It’s whimsical. It’s festive.
It doesn’t immediately imply he wants to marry the guy.
“Okay,” Pete says slowly. “A scavenger hunt.”
Ryan digs around in Pete’s coat pocket out of nowhere and pulls out a candy cane.
Pete stares. “How did you—?”
Ryan shrugs. “You should leave him gifts. Like… little things. One at a time.”
Pete doesn’t know where the candy cane came from, but the idea fits.
Small gifts.
A note.
A trail of clues.
A way to reach out without scaring the guy half to death.
He looks at the unicorn notepad again, this time with determination.
“Alright,” Pete says, uncapping the sparkly gel pen. “Let’s write something.”
Ben beams.
Aricelly leans in like she’s producing a heist.
Ryan climbs onto the arm of the Santa throne, solemn as a lookout.
Santa’s Secret Scavenger Hunt is officially in motion.
----
Pete is practically skipping on his way into work, fat suit slung over one arm, beard tucked under the other. It’s ridiculous—he knows that—but for the first time since his band fell apart, since college imploded, since everything went sideways, he actually feels excited.
Because today, according to his mini intelligence squad, the singing elf is supposed to be back on shift.
As soon as he enters Santa’s Village, his little entourage snaps into formation.
“There he is!” Aricelly calls, waving him over like they’re planning a heist.
Ben is clutching the unicorn notepad like it’s classified intel.
Ryan is chewing something red that looks vaguely like a gumdrop, though Pete didn’t see anyone give him one.
Pete beams. “Alright, team. Today is the day Santa meets his elf.”
They all nod, solemn and united.
Pete feels like an evil genius.
A romantic mastermind.
He wrangles himself into the fat suit, straps down the itchy beard, plops onto the Santa throne, and tries to look casual while mentally practicing his hello.
Then—
A ripple of sound cuts through the mall noise.
A warm, bright voice singing:
“Have a holly, jolly Christmas…”
Pete’s heart leaps into his throat.
He whips his head toward the sound, nearly knocking the beard off, and there—
There he is.
The elf.
The same small, rosy-cheeked figure from the day he first heard the voice.
Today he’s holding a guitar wrapped in silver tinsel, the tuning pegs glittering with tiny Christmas ornaments. Every time he strums, the tinsel shimmers.
He stands in front of the trendy new holiday shop—the one selling overpriced candles shaped like pastries—and launches into the chorus with a smile so bright it outshines the mall lights.
Families stop to watch. Kids tug on their parents’ sleeves. Even the kiosk workers pause their sales pitch to listen.
Pete is a goner.
Absolutely gone.
He leans forward in his throne, mesmerized. If Santa could swoon, that’s what he’s doing. His chest feels warm in a way he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.
The elf ends the song with a little flourish, then cheerfully announces:
“Make sure to stop by Hearth & Harvest for 20% off all holiday candles! We’ve got gingerbread, peppermint bark, hot cocoa, and uh… evergreen forest if you’re not into dessert smells.”
Pete’s lips part.
He can’t look away.
But before he can fully process his own emotional collapse, a Christmas rush surges in—families lining up for photos, toddlers wobbling around in reindeer pajamas, shopping bags everywhere. The crowd swallows Santa’s Village, and the elf steps aside to let people pass.
For a moment, Pete loses sight of him.
Then the crowd parts just enough for a single, perfect second.
The elf’s eyes lift.
And he sees them.
All four of them.
Pete in the Santa suit.
Aricelly standing like a tiny general.
Ben clutching the notepad.
Ryan eating a red gumdrop and staring with unblinking intensity.
The elf blinks, confused.
Then he gives them a small, polite, somewhat puzzled smile.
It is devastating.
And then—just like that—he’s swept away again by customers asking questions, kids wanting to touch the tinsel on his guitar, and mall staff pulling him back toward his station.
Pete feels like he’s just witnessed a miracle.
Ben whispers, “He looked right at us.”
Aricelly nods, impressed. “You made an impression, Santa.”
Ryan licks his fingers and announces, “He seems nice.”
Pete is still staring at the spot where the elf stood.
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
A little dazed.
A lot smitten.
“Yeah… he does.”
---
Patrick loves his family. He really does.
He supports them the way good sons do — emotionally, practically, and apparently now professionally — even when their ideas are, frankly, stupid.
Like the candle shop.
His mother and sister had looked so proud unveiling it, a boutique full of $45 candles shaped like pastries and exotic desserts.
“People love luxury,” his mother had insisted.
Patrick personally thinks anyone willing to pay $45 for a candle that smells vaguely like “Dubai chocolate” needs a spiritual intervention, but what does he know?
He’s the one dressed as an elf.
He’s doing a singing telegram gig on the side — birthdays, surprise office events, car dealership promotions — anything that pays enough so he can finally scrape together money to move out of his mother’s house and start being a functioning adult.
So it tracks that he would also promote the candle shop. It’s family. It’s income. It’s hustle.
Still, he hadn’t imagined this version of adulthood would include pointy felt shoes and a jingling hat.
Patrick doesn’t take pride in much.
He’s too short to be taken seriously, too pale to look intentional, and too nerdy to be mysterious. He blends into crowds. He always has.
But —
he’ll admit this one thing:
He can sing.
His voice is the one thing he’s confident about, the one gift he doesn’t question. He doesn’t know how he does it — how sound comes out of him with warmth or clarity or that softness people always comment on — but he’s always been musical.
As a kid, he hummed more than he talked.
As a teenager, he wrote songs nobody ever heard.
So singing outside a store?
Fine. Comfortable, even.
Dressing like an elf?
Absolutely not what he pictured.
His mother had framed it as “festive branding.”
His sister pitched it as “an immersive retail experience.”
Patrick just calls it character assassination.
But he needs money, and the costume paid well, and if humiliating himself in public for a week gets him a security deposit on an apartment, then whatever.
He jingles when he walks.
People keep asking if he built toys.
He isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or evaporate.
None of this really matters, though —
because being an elf was never part of the plan, and yet here he is
with tinsel wrapped around his guitar
promoting a candle shop nobody can afford
and hoping no one he knows walks by.
The first time Patrick noticed the children, he didn’t think anything of it.
Kids hung around the mall all the time — bored, sugar–addled, and high on the holiday chaos. But these ones were different.
They lurked.
He would move locations, and they would shuffle three feet behind him, ducking behind kiosks and potted fake poinsettias whenever he turned. They’d pop up near the fountain, whisper aggressively to one another, then scatter when he glanced their way.
At first, it was strange.
Then, honestly? Kind of cute.
Like little feral holiday squirrels.
But now?
Now he was becoming mildly concerned.
Because it wasn’t just the following.
It was the mailroom cubby.
The mall gave seasonal staff tiny cubbies in the back hallway — a little slot for shift memos, promotional scripts, or passive–aggressive notes from management about not singing too loud.
Patrick hadn’t checked his much until one day he opened it and found a folded note.
Pink unicorn paper. Glitter pen handwriting. No signature.
Welcome to the North Pole.
Find the one in red.
Patrick blinked.
Okay. Weird but harmless.
He tossed it in his guitar case and forgot.
But then another appeared.
And another.
Seek the throne of snow.
Follow the jingle trail.
Santa awaits.
At first he figured it was some mall employee hazing ritual or a children’s department manager with too much free time.
Then came the gifts.
A candy cane.
Fine — festive.
A half–eaten sugar cookie shaped like a Christmas tree.
Less fine — deeply questionable.
Then small trinkets: a jingle bell, a sticker shaped like a reindeer, a coupon for a free photo with Santa that had "COME SIT ON MY LAP" written sloppily across the top… all delivered through the cubby slot. Every note was written in slightly different handwriting, but always on the same unicorn notepad — like a roving council of tiny pen pals.
He stared at the latest one, which simply said:
You are summoned.
Patrick squinted at it, deeply unsettled.
Was this some weird mall initiation?
Mall Santa mafia recruitment?
Did pre–teens run some underground holiday cartel he wasn’t aware of?
He glanced out at the mall atrium where the Santa setup glittered in faux snow. The children were there again — the same little cluster — whispering, shushing each other, nudging the smallest one forward like he was bait.
Patrick’s eyes narrowed.
Something was going on.
If Patrick’s deduction skills were any good — and he likes to think they are — then he’d say he has found the culprits behind the mysterious notes and offerings.
The same group of kids who: Whisper aggressively whenever he passes.
Pretend to hide behind three–foot decorations.
Stare at him like they know something he doesn’t.
Them.
Definitely them.
The question is why.
Because honestly?
It’s cute.
A little stalkerish, but cute.
Are they bored?
Do they think he’s an actual elf?
Did he accidentally become the leader of a mall–based child cult?
Worse, Patrick’s brain supplies unhelpfully:
What if they’re trying to lure me somewhere to steal my kidneys?
He shakes his head.
No, unlikely.
…probably.
He wants to ask them — he genuinely does — but every time he tries to approach:
He takes one step forward
They make eye contact
They squeal
They scatter like ants.
He stands there, frozen, hands half–raised in surrender.
He cannot — under any circumstance — be the man in jingly tights and curled boots attempting to chase children across a failing mall.
There are security cameras.
There are witnesses.
There is social media.
He will not go viral in that way.
So Patrick settles for observing.
He watches them form tiny huddles.
He sees them shove each other forward and then back again.
He spots one of them — the little quiet boy — drop a candy cane on purpose near his feet like an offering and then sprint away like he committed espionage.
Patrick runs a hand over his face.
No teacher or parent has demanded his arrest, so he assumes this isn’t malicious.
Probably. (He still checks if "mall elf harassment" is a new TikTok thing.)
Still, the mystery gnaws at him.
Why him?
Why the notes?
Why the gifts?
Why do they look at him like he’s missing the punchline?
He looks across the mall again, gaze drifting — inevitably — to Santa.
Santa is watching him.
Santa looks startled, guilty, and a little dazzled.
--
Pete hums to himself as he slips another folded unicorn-paper note into the elf’s cubby. He’s mid–self-congratulatory grin when a voice erupts behind him:
“AH-HA!”
Pete yelps and nearly throws the note like a ninja star.
The elf steps out of the dim hallway corner like he’s been waiting there for hours.
“I knew it was you!”
He points accusingly. “You and your little meddling child army!”
Pete blinks. “What—”
“What’s all this about?” the elf demands. “Are you bullying me? Am I being bullied by Santa?”
Pete flails. “What? No! Why would Santa bully someone? That’s barely on brand—”
The elf crosses his arms, fuming. “You do know I’m not a real elf, right?”
Pete sputters. “Yes — of course — I— nobody thinks you make toys in the back—”
“Oh good,” the elf says with biting sweetness. “Because for a second I thought you believed in your own lore.”
Pete’s brain short circuits. “Listen, I didn’t mean to— this isn’t bullying— I only put in like three notes. Totally normal notes.”
He yanks the beard down to reveal his face.
A mistake.
The elf falters for half a second — cheeks flickering pink — before regaining steam.
“Three?” he echoes. “THREE?”
Pete winces. “…That I personally wrote.”
The elf gestures wildly at the cubby behind him.
“I have received TWELVE notes in children’s handwriting. THIRTEEN if you count the one that literally said Santa Sees You.”
Pete groans. “That one wasn’t me—”
“And gifts,” the elf barrels on. “Candy canes. Bells. Some kind of coupon. A STICKER. And a half-eaten sugar cookie. There are ANTS. EVERYWHERE.”
Pete throws his hands up. “I didn’t send the ants—”
“You enabled the ants!” the elf fires back, pointing at him with righteous conviction.
Pete stammers, “It was— they — the kids — I didn’t know—”
“So you admit there’s a child cult involved?” the elf snaps.
Pete wants to die. “I wouldn’t call it a cult—”
“You are Santa,” the elf says, incredulous, “and there is a gang of small children acting as your operatives. If that isn’t a cult, what is?”
Pete steps forward, hands out in surrender. “Okay — I get why this seems… unhinged.”
“Seems?” the elf repeats, voice climbing.
Pete tries to laugh. It dies instantly.
“I just— okay, hear me out — I heard you sing once and I thought— ‘hey, wouldn’t it be nice to leave a friendly note?’ And then the children— expanded the project without authorization.”
The elf narrows his eyes, unimpressed. “Uh-huh.”
Pete scrambles. “I swear I wasn’t trying to harass you. I wasn’t stalking you. I wasn’t— sending insects.”
“Ants don’t just appear!” the elf cries, hilariously indignant. “Someone PUT them there!”
Pete loses composure. “Do you think I released ANTS like a Bond villain?!”
The elf hesitates.
“…I don’t know what you do off-shift.”
Pete drags a hand down his face. “Look. I’m sorry. Truly. I wanted to— not in a weird way — talk to you.”
“Talk to me,” the elf repeats flatly.
“Yes.”
“And your method,” he says, each word dripping judgment, “was to run an anonymous scavenger hunt while conscripting minors.”
Pete points helplessly at the cubby. “It was going to be cute!”
“It was menacing!” the elf shoots back.
They stare at each other.
Pete feels himself unraveling. “I swear I am not trying to terrorize you.”
The elf huffs a breath — still annoyed, but cracks showing. “Then maybe next time, I don’t know — walk over and say hi?”
Pete opens his mouth. Nothing but air comes out.
The elf’s expression shifts — slightly less furious, maybe even amused.
He sighs. “What’s your actual name, Santa?”
Pete blinks.
“…Jim.”
The elf squints at him. “Jim?.”
“Yes. No. Wait. Fuck-"
He nods once, begrudgingly. “Well, whatever the fuck your name is… please communicate like a human being next time.”
Pete nods rapidly. “I’ll do my best.”
The elf turns as if leaving — then looks back at him, eyes flicking briefly to his actual face.
“And maybe tell your… child elves… to stop acting like a covert intelligence unit.”
Pete mutters into his beard, “I don’t actually control them.”
The elf snorts — despite himself.
“Clearly.”
And with a frustrated flick of tinsel, he disappears, leaving Pete clutching his beard, heart pounding, brain yelling, He’s even cuter when he’s mad.
Pete drags himself through the last hour of his shift like a kicked golden retriever.
The kids approach cautiously, like zookeepers checking on a wounded animal.
He sighs dramatically.
“You guys overwhelmed him. He thought we were terrorizing him.”
Aricelly winces.
Ben rubs the back of his neck.
Ryan looks genuinely disturbed. “We accidentally harassed and scared off the elf.”
Pete nods. “It’s okay. I’ll… survive. We don’t have to do anything else. Let's just leave the poor guy alone....Santa doesn't need to start a band....or new friends....you guys have done enough."
The kids exchange a glance — silent, horrifying agreement.
Pete has no idea he just triggered their emergency matchmaker protocol.
Pete somehow makes it through his shift without threatening suicide once, which is a real win.
He clocks out, gathering his things, when Ben appears out of nowhere holding an envelope.
“You need to go,” he says solemnly, handing it to Pete.
Pete frowns. “Where?”
“You’ll know,” Ben says cryptically before sprinting away.
Pete opens the envelope.
Unicorn paper.
Sparkly pen handwriting.
Follow the snowflakes.
He squints — then sees another child five feet away waving frantically and pointing toward the atrium.
He sighs.
But he goes.
Because clearly this is his fate now.
⸻
Patrick zips his guitar bag closed, exhausted and ready to go home, when Aricelly pops up holding a different envelope.
“This is for you,” she whispers.
Patrick takes it warily.
" I talked to your boss. I thought we agreed you were not hazing me anymore.”
She smiles far too sweetly.
“Just read it.”
He does.
The elf must follow the light.
He sighs — but curiosity wins.
So he follows the twinkling arrows of paper snowflakes taped to the tile floor.
-
Pete almost doesn’t notice the paper snowflakes at first.
They’re taped to the tile in a neat, unmistakably smug line, glitter catching the low mall lights.
THIS WAY.
DON’T PANIC.
YOU’RE DOING GREAT (PROBABLY).
Pete squints.
“Wow. Even the scavenger hunt is condescending.”
Still — he follows them. Past shuttered storefronts, past the silent fountain, past the kiosk that used to sell flip phones. Every few feet, another snowflake.
KEEP GOING, SANTA.
YES, YOU.
STOP FIDGETING.
“Rude,” Pete mutters, adjusting his jacket.
⸻
On the other side of the mall, the elf finishes packing his guitar when he notices hand-drawn arrows taped to the pillars.
They’re crooked. Festive. Menacingly cheerful.
ELF →
TRUST US.
(NO ANTS THIS TIME.)
He exhales slowly.
“I hate that that had to be clarified.”
But curiosity gets him — it always does — and he follows the arrows through a rarely used exit.
⸻
They step onto the patio at the same time.
String lights glow overhead. A small heater flickers. Two watery hot chocolates sit waiting on a little metal table with an umbrella. Above it all hangs a crooked sprig of mistletoe, doing absolutely nothing subtle.
Pete stops dead.
The elf freezes too.
They stare at each other.
Then Pete breaks first, laughing and rubbing a hand over his face.
“Oh my God. They parent-trapped us.”
The elf glances around the patio, taking in the lights, the heater, the carefully staged mugs, the mistletoe hanging like a threat.
“I would say this is naughty-list behavior,” he says slowly, “if it wasn’t… disturbingly well organized.”
Pete grins, rocking back on his heels. “Yeah. I’m thinking it’s at least an A for effort.”
They stand there for a second too long, neither of them quite sure what to do with their hands.
Pete gestures toward the table. “Well. We can either flee the country or sit down.”
The elf studies him. “You seem like the fleeing type.”
Pete scoffs. “Please. I panic, but I commit.”
That earns him a real smile — small, but unmistakable.
They sit.
Pete nudges one of the hot chocolates toward him. “Peace offering?”
The elf lifts it, squints into the cup. “What are the odds this is drugged?”
“Low,” Pete says easily. “They’re terrified of Santa-related consequences.”
The elf smirks. “Good. Because if I hallucinate reindeer, I’m suing.”
They sip.
It’s quiet for a moment — not awkward, just… settling.
“So,” the elf says, tilting his head, eyes flicking over Pete, “are you always this chaotic, or is this a seasonal thing?”
Pete winces. “This is… me on my best behavior, actually.”
The elf laughs. “That explains a lot.”
Pete relaxes into it, smiling. “You’ve got a good laugh.”
“Thanks,” the elf says, then immediately grimaces. “I think? I made it myself? Wow. That was bad. Sorry — you’re hot and it makes me nervous.”
Pete blinks. “Oh.”
The elf groans softly and hides his face for half a second. “Wow. I really said that.”
Pete grins, warmth blooming in his chest. “No, please, continue. I thrive on honesty.”
They fall into an easy rhythm after that — teasing, talking, inching closer without acknowledging it.
Pete clears his throat. “Hey. I should probably apologize. Again. For… everything. I promise I’m not weird. I mean — I am weird. But not maliciously.”
The elf hums. “For the notes?”
“Yes.”
“The ants?”
“Especially the ants.”
“The one that said ‘Santa sees you’?”
Pete groans. “I would like to formally disavow that one.”
The elf grins. “Good. Because I almost pepper-sprayed my cubby.”
Pete snorts. “Honestly? Fair.”
The elf studies him for a moment, expression softer now. “So… why me?”
Pete hesitates, then exhales and goes for it. “Because your voice is insane.”
The elf blinks. “Oh.”
“Like,” Pete continues, words tumbling out now, “unfairly good. You were singing and my brain just shut off. I wanted you to join my band.”
The elf arches an eyebrow. “Your band.”
“Former band,” Pete says quickly. “Briefly promising. Now very dead. But still — if it ever resurrects, I’d want you.”
The elf smirks. “You say that to all the elves?”
Pete laughs. “No. Just the ones who also happen to be really cute.”
The elf chokes on his drink. “Oh. Wow. Subtle.”
Pete’s ears go red. “I panicked!”
“You panicked and started a child-run scavenger hunt cult.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
The elf shakes his head, amused. “You know you could’ve just said hi.”
“I know,” Pete groans. “But then you smiled at me once and my soul left my body.”
The elf’s mouth twitches. “So you admit I’m charming.”
Pete grins. “Painfully.”
They laugh, shoulders brushing.
The elf leans back, eyes lingering on Pete. “You’re not what I expected from a mall Santa.”
Pete tilts his head. “What were you expecting?”
“Older. Jollier. Less…” The elf pauses, smirks. “Handsome.”
Pete blinks. “Wait — what?”
The elf shrugs. “Just being honest.”
Pete ducks his head, smiling shyly. “Careful. You’re gonna make me believe this worked.”
Their knees bump under the table — once, then again — neither of them moving away.
Eventually Pete clears his throat, nerves shifting into something quieter, more real.
“So… I just realized something.”
The elf raises an eyebrow. “Uh-oh.”
“I don’t actually know your name.”
A pause.
Then the elf smiles — open, warm, just a little vulnerable.
“I’m Patrick.”
Something in Pete’s chest absolutely trips over itself.
“Pete,” he says, offering his hand like an idiot.
Patrick takes it. His grip is warm, steady.
Above them, the mistletoe sways.
Pete glances up and laughs softly. “They’re relentless.”
Patrick blushes. “Honestly? They should run a matchmaking service.”
Pete grins. “Five stars. Would recommend.”
They laugh — easy, real.
Pete looks at Patrick, questioning, hopeful.
Patrick gives the smallest nod.
Pete leans in and kisses him — sweet and soft, lingering just long enough to feel like a promise.
Somewhere behind the shrubs, three children silently lose their minds.
Pete leans back, breathless and lighter than he’s felt in months.
“Well… Patrick,” he says, smiling, “want to stay a bit? Maybe… actually get to know each other?”
Patrick doesn’t hesitate.
“I’d like that.”
The lights glow.
The heater hums.
Two hot chocolates steam between them.
And for the first time in a long while, Pete thinks things are finally looking up for him.