Page 56 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“Then what do you require?”
The question came out wrong. Or maybe exactly right. Either way, it hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us was quite ready to address.
His jaw tightened. He looked at me for a long moment, something dangerous and wanting flickering across his expression. Then he stepped back, putting careful distance between us.
“I require time,” he said finally. “And you require customers.” He nodded towards the front, where I could hear the bells over the door chiming. “Go.”
I wanted to argue, wanted to understand what I’d stumbled into when I’d accidentally brushed his horn. But the customer was calling out a hello, and my shop needed me, and Bastian was very clearly at his limit.
So I went.
The afternoon was steady but manageable. A few browsers, one serious buyer who purchased an entire collection of vintage ornaments, and a family who spent twenty minutes debating the merits of different tree toppers before settling on a classic star.
The whole time, I was aware of Bastian in the back. I could hear boxes being moved, the occasional muttered comment in what might have been German, and the methodical sound of someone imposing order on chaos through sheer force of will.
Around four o’clock, during another lull, I slipped into the back to check on his progress. And stopped dead. My storage area looked completely different. Everything was organized by category, then by size, with clear labels written in surprisingly elegant handwriting. The shelves were arranged for maximum efficiency. There was a color-coded system. Actual floor space was visible.
“This is…” I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is amazing.”
Bastian stood in the corner, arms crossed, surveying his work with the satisfaction of a general reviewing conquered territory. “It is adequate.”
“It’s incredible. I can actually find things now.”
“That was the intention.”
I walked over to him, meaning to thank him properly. Maybe hug him, because apparently I was the kind of person who hugged ancient beings who reorganized storage rooms. He tracked my approach with wary eyes and I stopped.
“Thank you. Really. This must have taken hours.”
“Two hours and forty-three minutes.”
“You timed it?”
“I time everything.”
“Right. Of course.” I looked around again, still marveling at the transformation. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Your system was causing me psychological distress.”
“My system was fine.”
“Your system was an affront to reason and order.”
I laughed, the tension from earlier finally breaking. “Well, your affront to reason is now beautifully organized. So thank you.”
He inclined his head, accepting the gratitude. Then his expression shifted, becoming more serious. “Noelle.”
“Yeah?”
“Earlier, when you touched my horn…” He paused, seeming to struggle with how to continue. “I may have overreacted.”
“You froze completely and then started stress-organizing. I’d say you reacted pretty proportionally to whatever you were feeling.”
“I was attempting to maintain control.”
“Of what?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Myself.”
