Chapter 1
Snow drifts down in slow, lazy flakes, catching the glow of the old-fashioned streetlamps. Kara’s tiny gift-wrapping shop, Ribbon & Pine, glows warm against the cold—windows framed with twinkling white lights, garlands hugging the doorframe, and a wooden sign that still smells faintly of stain and pine needles.
Inside, Christmas music hums quietly from an old speaker. Kara is on a stepstool, wrestling with a strand of fairy lights that has chosen violence.
Kara: muttering “If you don’t cooperate, I swear I’m throwing you back in the box until next year.”
The lights flicker, then settle into a soft, steady glow.
Kara: “That’s what I thought.”
She hops down, brushing fake snow off her red sweater. The shop is small but packed—walls lined with rolls of glossy wrapping paper, shelves of ribbons in every shade, bins of tags, and a little table in the center for custom wrapping.
The bell above the front door jingles as a gust of icy air slices in. Kara turns, smiling automatically.
Kara: “Good morning! Welcome to Rib—”
Her smile falters for a second.
He’s early.
He fills the doorway like a shadow—tall, broad shoulders in a black wool coat dusted with snow. Dark hair, longer on top, falls slightly over his brow. A silver ring hugs the edge of his left eyebrow, catching the light as he steps inside.
Tattoos curl up from the open collar of his black shirt, climbing his neck like smoke. His hands are bare despite the cold, knuckles scarred, veins raised. His eyes—dark, flat, assessing—flick once around the shop, then settle on her.
Kara: soft, more to herself than to him “Todd.”
He doesn’t smile. He never smiles. But his gaze lingers on her for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and that’s… something.
Todd: voice low, rough “Morning.”
That’s new. He usually just nods.
Kara straightens, pushing her hair back behind one ear and trying to ignore the way her pulse jumps.
Kara: “You’re early this year. I was beginning to think tradition was dead.”
One corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smirk, almost nothing.
Todd: “Didn’t want to miss your… schedule.”
His eyes flick toward the big chalkboard behind her, where she’s drawn a messy Christmas countdown.
Kara: lightly “Well, Ribbon & Pine runs on strict holiday law. No one is allowed to be grumpy past this door.”
Todd: “That a rule?”
Kara: “Shop policy.” She points at an empty spot on the wall. “I’m getting it printed on a sign.”
He steps deeper into the shop, the door swinging closed behind him. The air feels smaller when he’s here, more crowded, like he brings the night inside with him.
He sets a box on the counter.
It’s the same every year.
Plain. Brown. No tags. No logo.
But this time, it’s bigger. Heavier. The cardboard looks newer, sharper at the edges—as if whatever’s inside hasn’t had time to breathe.
Kara: teasing, because that’s what she does when she’s nervous “You know, most people bring their presents a week before Christmas. You bring yours like it’s a ritual.”
Todd: quiet “Maybe it is.”
Kara’s fingers brush the edge of the box. The cardboard is cold. Too cold.
Kara: “Same deal? Surprise wrap? You trust me that much?”
Todd: “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
The words are simple, but the way he says them makes something tighten in her chest.
Kara: “Any preferences? Paper type? Ribbon? Glitter? Don’t say no to glitter, I will judge you.”
For the first time, his gaze softens—not much, just enough to notice.
Todd: “No glitter.”
Beat.
Todd: “Red.”
Kara: smiles “Classic. I respect that. Matte, glossy, or metallic?”
Todd: “Whatever you like.”
He always says that. Whatever you like. As if her choices exist in some universe completely separate from his.
She pulls out a roll of deep red paper, almost the color of wine, and a spool of satin ribbon that she saves for the “special” ones. She doesn’t know why he counts. He just does.
Kara: “Pick-up tomorrow?”
Todd: “Tonight.”
That’s different. He usually comes back the next day, late, when the street is empty and most of the lights are off.
Kara: “Tonight?” She laughs lightly. “Someone’s impatient this year. Big date? Horrible in-laws? Secret family with matching pajamas?”
He watches her for a long second, like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to be amused.
Todd: “Nothing like that.”
Kara: “Then why the rush?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze shifts to the window, where snow swirls under the streetlamp.
Todd: “What time do you close?”
Kara: “Eight. Then I go upstairs, eat something unhealthy, and pretend I’m going to watch just one Christmas movie even though it’s always at least two.”
Todd: eyes coming back to her “Lock the door. On time.”
Her smile falters.
Kara: “…Okay. I always do.”
Todd: “Don’t stay late tonight.”
Kara: trying to lighten the mood again “Is that… concern I hear? Wow. That might be a record.”
He doesn’t bite this time. His jaw tightens instead.
Todd: “Kara.”
The way he says her name sends a tiny shiver through her. He almost never says it.
Kara: quieter “I’ll lock up. Promise.”
He studies her a moment longer, then nods once. Transaction complete. Conversation over. That’s usually how this goes.
But he doesn’t turn away. Not yet.
Todd: “How’s business?”
That’s new, too.
Kara: blinking “Uh, good. Busy. People seem to forget how tape works after Thanksgiving.”
Todd: “You like it? This place.”
Kara glances around at the shop—at the twinkling lights, the ribbon walls, the half-decorated mini tree in the corner wearing more bows than ornaments.
Kara: “Yeah. I do. It’s… mine.” She shrugs. “It might be small, but it’s warm. And it smells like cinnamon. That’s basically my life goal.”
Something in his expression shifts, like he’s memorizing the scene.
Todd: “You live upstairs.”
Not a question. He’s noticed.
Kara: “Stalker much?”
He raises a brow. The eye ring glints.
Todd: “You’re the one who leaves the lights on at two a.m.”
Kara: “That’s creative process, thank you. Ribbons don’t arrange themselves.”
Todd: “You should sleep more.”
Kara: soft laugh “You should worry less.”
They stand there for a second in a strange, fragile stillness. Outside, a car drives by, its headlights sliding across the snow. Inside, the only sounds are the soft hum of the heater and the faint jingle of the Christmas song playing in the background.
Kara clears her throat, breaking the spell.
Kara: “Okay, Mystery Customer, I will have this wrapped and gorgeous by seven. You can pick it up then, and I’ll even put in a fancy tag if you give me a name.”
Todd: short “No name.”
Kara: “Of course not. That would be far too normal.”
He reaches into his coat and pulls out his wallet, sliding cash across the counter. More than enough. Too much, really.
Kara: frowning “Todd, this is way—”
Todd: “Keep it.”
Kara: “I can’t just—”
Todd: voice dropping, no room for argument “Kara. Keep it.”
She swallows, then nods slowly, folding the bills and slipping them into the register.
Kara: “Thank you. I’ll, um… make it pretty.”
He looks at her like he wants to say something else. Like words are right there, caught behind his teeth. Then he turns away, coat brushing against the counter, and heads for the door.
The bell jingles as he steps out into the snow.
The shop feels bigger again. Emptier. Colder.
Kara exhales, realizing she’s been holding her breath.
Kara: to herself “All right, Kara. Time to work your magic.”
---
[Later – Evening – 6:45 p.m.]
The sky outside is charcoal, snow falling thicker now. The street has quieted, most of the day’s shoppers gone home. Ribbon & Pine is a little island of warm light in the dark.
Kara hums along to the music as she smooths the deep red paper over the plain box. Her hands move automatically—measure, cut, fold, tape. The kind of rhythm that calms her.
Kara: softly “Who are you, Todd Mirov?”
She’s asked herself that every December for three years.
The man who comes early. The man who pays too much. The man who watches everything.
She ties the satin ribbon, fingers brushing over the knot. The red is rich, almost black in the dim light.
The box is heavier than any she’s had from him before. Not impossible, just… noticeable. She hadn’t really lifted it earlier, distracted by his presence.
Now she does—hands sliding under either side as she goes to move it to the display table near the window until he arrives.
The weight drags at her wrists. Something inside shifts.
—and there’s a sound.
A sharp, precise metallic click from inside the box.
Kara freezes.
Kara: “…What the hell?”
Her heart stutters. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just some mechanical toy. Or… a watch. Or…
Or something else.
She slowly sets the box back on the counter, pulse thudding loudly in her ears. The Christmas song fades into the background, replaced by the high buzz of panic.
Kara: forcing a laugh to herself “It’s fine. It’s probably just… something spring-loaded. You’re being dramatic.”
But her hands are shaking. She presses her palms to the counter to steady herself.
She looks at the clock—6:52 p.m.
Todd is supposed to come at seven.
Her gaze slides back to the wrapped box. The red paper is flawless, the corners sharp. It looks innocent. Beautiful, even. But her instincts are screaming at her in a language she doesn’t quite understand.
Kara: whispers “What did you bring me this year?”
The heater kicks on with a low rumble. Snow taps against the front window. Somewhere outside, a siren wails faintly, then fades.
Kara chews her lip, debating with herself.
Kara: “Okay, no. Nope. I am not being that girl in the horror movie who ignores the creepy noise.”
She reaches out and slides the box closer, fingertips skimming over the smooth paper. The knot of the ribbon sits perfectly at the top like a red bullseye.
Her stomach twists.
Kara: “Should I… check it? Just to make sure it’s not going to, I don’t know, explode in someone’s face?”
She curls her fingers under the ribbon, about to pull—
The front door slams open so hard the bell shrieks.
Kara jumps, yanking her hands back, heart leaping into her throat.
Todd is in the doorway, chest rising and falling like he’s been running. Snow clings to his coat, but it’s not just snow—dark smears stain the fabric near his side, spreading slow and ugly.
He’s bleeding.
His eyes lock onto the box, then snap to her. The easy stillness he always carries is gone, replaced by something sharp and lethal.
He strides inside, kicks the door shut behind him, and in three long steps he’s at the counter, hand slamming down over the box.
Kara: stunned, voice shaking “Todd—what happened? You’re—”
He leans in close, his face inches from hers, eyes burning.
Todd: low, deadly “Put your hands where I can see them…”
His fingers tighten on the box.
Todd: “…and don’t you ever touch this again, Kara.”
