It's not that Noelle hates Christmas, she just... doesn't do it. And being an elf at Santa's Grotto might pay well, but it's definitely not her idea of festive fun. When she starts sharing shifts with fellow elf Klaus, he's determined to make her believe in Christmas. And maybe, just maybe, she will.

"So," I say, shifting my weight onto my back leg and crossing my arms. I narrow my eyes at the newest recruit. His nametag says 'Klaus'. "Who did you piss off?"

"Huh?"

"To end up here. Who'd you piss off?"

"Nobody." The poor sap looks so confused. That's when I realise he must've volunteered for the position. Good God. "They said there was a position open. It's good pay."

That is the only redeeming feature. This has got to be the worst job going, but the pay makes it almost worth it. It's almost double what I was getting when I was stuck in the stockroom last month.

The toy store down the street got someone to dress up as a reindeer earlier this week. When the department store realised they were missing a trick, they set up Santa's Grotto at the front of the store. It's a huge charity promotion, and it draws the parents in. Sales are up.

That's great for the store. Not so great for me, stuck working long hours surrounded by excited, hyper little kids and weary, stressed out parents. Or worse: grumpy older siblings, stuck bringing their little brother or sister along to see Santa when they'd rather be doing like, literally anything else.

I sympathise. I'd rather be doing literally anything else, too.

In all fairness, the Grotto does look pretty spectacular. Everything glitters and sparkles and it looks vintage and cute and authentic.

Almost makes me wish I liked Christmas more.

"Who'd you piss off, then?" the guy asks me.

"The, er..." I laugh awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck. Everyone knows, but I haven't exactly had to tell anyone outright. But this guy is new. He doesn't know the lie of the land. "So the manager in my department – I was working in shoes – was my ex's older sister. Nasty breakup. She stuck me in the stockroom. I complained about it to HR, and ended up here."

"Well this isn't so bad, right?"

He beams at me, a wide toothy smile. He's got a crooked front tooth. And dimples. Messy brown hair under his green pointy hat, a long face and nose.

He's tall – more like a Tolkien elf than the tiny ones the kids are expecting to see with Santa. Meanwhile, I'm closer to five feet than six.

Actually, he's kind of cute.

Except I'm not in the market. Nope. I've sworn off relationships. Bah humbug, and all that jazz.

"Oh, sure, what's not to love? The incessant Christmas songs, the jingle bells on the hat and the boots, the screaming children, the impatient parents, the snot and tears and tantrums – oh, no, wait. That's just me."

He laughs. "All right, Grumpus. I get the picture."

"It's your first day, right? Trust me, you'll get sick of this within an hour. The rest of the holidays will feel like never-ending torture."

His eyebrow quirks up, and his lips pull upwards, too. "You say that, but I worked in one of those Christmas ornament shops while I was in Sixth Form, and the one summer after my first year of uni. Nothing can dampen my festive spirit."

"Did someone say festive spirit?"

Hannah's appeared, opening the back door of Santa's little hut. We're picking up now her shift has finished. She grins at us.

"Pass the eggnog, then."

"Oh, ha-ha." I roll my eyes. "That's only the third time I've heard that this week."

"Oh come on. You know you love the jokes."

"Almost as much as I love this job."

She biffs me over the head, knocking my hat to one side. Her nametag says 'Candy'. They give everyone who's working in the Grotto ridiculously festive names. Mary and Joseph and Myrrh and Gabriel and Rudolph and Comet and Holly and Joy...

I've still got my old nametag. They decided Noelle was a festive enough name already.

"Hey, new guy. Good luck. May the festive spirit be with you."

"Come on," I tell him, fixing my hat. The bell on top jingles. "It's show time."

I hook the velvet rope back in place, ushering the little girl and her parents to Santa. "Now make sure to tell Father Christmas what you want for Christmas this year, Melody."

"And make sure to say please and thank you," her mother reminds her.

Our system works great: I go down the line and chat to the kids, get their names, and pass them on to Klaus (whose real name I don't actually know), who tells them to Jerome (I mean, Santa) so it's all wonderfully magical for the children.

It's worth the magic, for the little kids, but it means it takes a little while to get through the line. Which the parents don't appreciate.

I start moving back down the line again, and a tiny hand tugs my skirt.

"You're too big to be an elf," the little boy tells me, frowning. He's maybe six, seven.

I crouch down, gritting my teeth into a cheery smile. It's not the first time I've had this issue.

"Well you can't believe everything you see in the movies."

"But you can't be an elf," says a little girl. I think she's his sister. She looks a little bit older. Too old to believe in Santa, but it's not my place to question that.

"I've got pointy ears and everything. Of course I'm a real elf."

"But elves aren't real."

"Sophie, stop it," her dad says. "Be nice to the lady."

"But they're not! If you were a real elf, you'd be at the North Pole working."

"Well, Santa has so many elves that he needs our help when he comes to visit the little boys and girls. We've already made almost all the toys during the rest of the year."

"Have you made my toy?" the boy asks me.

"You betcha."

He squints at me, trying to catch me out. "Oh yeah? What is it?"

"Hmm. Let me check my list."

I stand up, looking at my notebook and pretending to find it.

The dad murmurs to me, "Tommy. A Nerf gun."

"Thanks." Then I poke the sheet. "Aha! Tommy. There we go. You wrote to Santa about a Nerf gun."

He gasps, turning to his dad. "Did you see that! Dad! Dad, she knows! It's the real Santa! She is a real elf! Are you like Buddy, then? Did you crawl into Santa's sack when you were a baby, too? Mum, did you hear – she's a real elf!"

The kid next to him hears that, and the one behind. Soon they're whispering down the line about how I'm a real elf, and I know Buddy the Elf from the film, and I know exactly what they all asked for, and they're all clamouring for me to tell them what they asked for to prove it.

Kill. Me. Now.

I've collapsed across Santa's chair in the Grotto, hat propped over my face to block out the light from the rest of the department store, and the flashing (sorry, twinkling) of the fairy lights. Santa went back to the North Pole twenty minutes ago, the kids dispersed, and I'm supposed to be tidying and closing the Grotto up for the night.

But I've been on my feet for five hours dealing with those kids and their parents and I'm beyond exhausted at the idea of doing it all over again tomorrow.

Why, for the love of gingerbread, did I agree to take Hannah's shift as well tomorrow? The extra hours and the pay that went with them had been so tempting. I'd been too greedy.

Maybe I was Scrooge.

Someone plucks my hat from my face and I jolt up, saying, "Hey!"

Klaus is smiling at me, holding my hat in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. He offers it to me.

Tea.

I could cry.

"Thanks." I sit up properly. My feet don't reach the floor, and I see Klaus notice and try not to laugh. I guess it's only so funny because I'm dressed as an elf. The chair's only so big because Jerome is proper big, jolly Santa, and over six foot tall, too. I'm dwarfed in the chair.

"I thought you'd gone home," I tell him, taking a sip. God, it's so good. I haven't had a cuppa in hours. I almost moan.

"Thought I'd come give you a hand."

"Oh. Um, thanks. I've got it in hand, though, if you want to head off."

He grins, looking around at the lights still on, the candy canes scattered on the floor, the clutter. "Yeah, looks like it." Before I can protest, he tosses my hat back at me and starts tidying up.

I tuck my legs up underneath me, and sip the tea, watching him. "Why aren't you looking haggard and exhausted? Why are you still smiling?"

"Oh, come on! This is fun! This is such a cushy, great job. All these happy, smiling kids who still totally believe in the magic of Christmas. That'd make even the Grinch's heart grow."

I roll my eyes. "Tomorrow, you get to deal with the parents, then. And just wait till you have to handle the teenagers. And explain a thousand times that you're not too tall to be an elf. And that yes, there's a Santa in that other store, but we've got the real Santa."

He just laughs. "It's all part of the magic. That, and the lights, and the gingerbread smell, and the cinnamon, and the songs..."

I make a gagging noise. "If I have to listen to Nat King Cole one more time, I swear to God."

"You've got to have a favourite Christmas song. One you don't get sick of hearing. At least one."

"What's yours?" I counter, trying to think.

"Slade. Easy. Merry Xmas Everybody."

To test him, I get my phone out of my pocket, and call up the song on Spotify, turning up the volume. As if he's Spanish Buzz from Toy Story 3 and I've flipped a switch on him, he drops the broom in his hand and throws his arms out, hopping around the room and thrashing about (weirdly in time to the music), singing along at the top of his voice. He sounds terrible. He can't hit any of the notes and his voice cracks on a few of the ones he really tries for, so he's mostly just yelling the lyrics.

But he's so into it that I can't help but laugh, and I'm still laughing when he grabs my hands and draws me to my feet, spinning me around. I feel too awkward to join in, so when he lets go I just stand there. Undeterred, he dances around me.

When it's over, tears are leaking down my cheeks and my face aches from laughing so hard. Klaus bends with his palms on his thighs, breathing hard.

"Go on, then," he wheezes. "What's yours?"

"Don't laugh. You're not allowed to laugh."

"Promise." He crosses his heart.

"Setting the Trap. From the Home Alone soundtrack. It's the bit that plays when he's... setting the trap," I add weakly, trailing off. Maybe I should've just gone with Christmas Wrapping, or a Michael Bublé version of something.

But Klaus is smiling, head cocked, a little confused. "Really?"

I nod. "Yeah. It's such a cool little piece from the movie. And it's not conventionally Christmassy, just in a Christmas movie, and they never play it in the shops so I don't get sick of it."

"A wise choice."

I pick my tea back up, taking a gulp. Mm, tea. "Come on. The sooner we get this glittering hellhole cleaned up, the sooner we get to go home and sneak mince pies."

By the end of the week, it's clear that no matter what these kids or their chaperones throw at Klaus, his Christmas spirit remains unaltered. One kid ate too many candy canes and threw up on his shoes. He didn't even bat an eyelid. One parent yelled at him that the line was taking too long and wanted to speak to our supervisor; within three minutes, they were calm as anything.

It's also clear, by the end of the week, that we're on the same schedules.

On Sunday, we're clearing up after closing early, and I'm looking forward to going home and watching Riverdale on Netflix. For the third time. But then Klaus says to me, "You wanna get a coffee?"

"Huh?"

"They're still open for another half hour. My treat."

"Um..." I feel like it's too rude to ask why he wants to get coffee with me, so I just shrug and say, "Okay."

Ten minutes later, the Grotto is locked up for the night, and we're back in jeans and woolly jumpers, sat in the department store's café on the third floor. I hug a hot chocolate near me. Klaus has gone for a toffee nut latte, extra whipped cream, and a cinnamon dusting. I'm unconvinced, but he seems to be enjoying it.

"So what's your deal, then?"

"Excuse me?" I try not to get too distracted by the whipped cream on the tip of his nose. He's ten times cuter out of that stupid elf outfit. Lean and lanky and his hair is mussed and scruffy from being under the hat for hours. I've been pretty good at ignoring how cute and how very much my type he is so far. The elf costume definitely helped that.

"With Christmas. You don't strike me as a Scrooge. Maybe, like, Buddy's dad."

"I don't have a deal with Christmas."

"Um, yeah, you do. Remind me where you said you did your Christmas shopping this year?"

"Amazon?"

"And how many Christmas movies have you watched, when we're a mere thirteen days from the big day?"

"Two."

He rolls his eyes, grinning. "Watching Love Actually twice doesn't count as two movies."

"Fine. One." Then I sigh, giving in. "Okay, maybe I have a teeny tiny deal with Christmas. I like it, don't get me wrong, I just think it's... overrated."

Klaus gasps, clutching a hand to his heart.

"Pipe down, Nutcracker. I just don't get all the hype. We always went away for Christmas, since I was little, and we don't do big family holiday dinners or anything."

"So where are you going this year?"

"Huh?" I'm way too distracted by the whipped cream still on his nose.

Patiently, he repeats, "Where are you going this year? If you do Christmas abroad."

"Oh, I'm not. My parents are going to Lanzarote, and my brother's spending it in Paris with his girlfriend. He's probably going to do something dorky like propose on Christmas Eve in front of the Eiffel Tower, knowing him."

Klaus coos, then says, "That's not dorky! That's romantic as hell!"

"Dorky."

"What about you?"

"Oh, I'm not. I've got January exams. Final year, you know? So I'm just skipping it this year."

Klaus stares at me, hard, for a long while. Eventually, he says slowly, "You're... skipping... Christmas."

"Yeah." I shrug. It's no big deal. My two housemates are home for the holidays, so I get peace and quiet to myself to study. They're back on the thirtieth ready for New Year, so it's only like, a few days alone. And I'll FaceTime my family. And I can have pizza for Christmas dinner. None of this turkey and cranberry sauce rubbish.

When I say all that out loud, because Klaus is still staring at me like I've got two heads, he slams his palms on the table. "No. No, no, no. This is unacceptable. You can't spend Christmas alone."

"Well I can't go to Lanzarote with my parents," I say, leaning back and drinking some more of my hot chocolate. "The flight's all booked up. And the hotel's full. And I'm not going to the beach just to haul along flashcards and textbooks."

"This is unacceptable." He reaches across to grab my hand. His fingers are warm, a little sweaty. It's not bad, weirdly. His eyes are intense and he's smiling so wide I kind of want to smile back. "Come have Christmas with me."

I laugh so loud a few people look over. "You're mental. I don't even know your name."

He frowns, drawing his hand back. "Jones."

"No, stupid. Your first name."

"Klaus," he tells me, one eye squinting, scrutinising me like I'm absolutely stupid. "You literally use my name a thousand times a day with these kids. It's literally printed on my name tag that you see every day we're here."

I gawk at him for a moment. Wait. He's not serious. "But those are just for Christmas. Like Holly and Joy and Cringle, and –"

"And Noelle?"

I flush. "That's..."

"You're not the only one with a remotely festive-sounding name they decided not to change." He smiles again. "So now you know my name – come on, I can't let you do Christmas alone."

"But – I mean – aren't you spending it with your family?"

"Yeah. There's going to be like, a dozen of us. They'll hardly notice one extra. If you like, you can even pretend you're my girlfriend. See if we can pull off the ultimate charade. Did I mention we play charades at Christmas, by the way?"

My cheeks are hot, and I swallow. "I'll think about it."

He shrugs. "Okay. But know that I'm not giving up, here. I'm going to make you believe in Christmas, Noelle."

The next day, we're on a three-hour shift in the middle of the day. Before our shift, Klaus hands me two strangely shaped items wrapped up in Christmas paper, before I can even say to him that thank you, it was a kind offer, but I'll really be okay spending Christmas alone, I don't want to impose.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

I do, wary. The first is a small golden bird ornament. Confused, I open the second. "A pear? And a bird?"

"I couldn't get the whole tree."

I just stare at him.

"On the first day of Christmas," he sings, in his tuneless, terrible voice, "my work friend gave to me, a partridge and a pear-without-the-tree."

My face crinkles with a smile. "I mean, it's sweet and all, but – you shouldn't have."

"You've left me no choice." Standing in front of me, Klaus places his hands on my shoulders. The gesture seems to emphasise the height difference, and I have to tilt my head back to look up at his serious face. How does someone wearing a jingle bell hat look this serious? "We have twelve days until Christmas, to make you believe."

"You really don't have to –"

"Consider it my holiday act of kindness."

"I don't think that's a real thing."

"Totally is," he says, and straightens his hat. Beaming at me, he says, "Now let's go spread some Christmas magic and get some kids to Santa."

For the second day of Christmas, Klaus gives me two cut-out, hand drawn turtle doves, each one with a piece of ribbon threaded through, like an ornament to hang off the tree.

Day three is a small duck plushie wearing a beret, with a baguette.

Klaus apologies, "I couldn't get three. This was all they had left. But just imagine there are three of them. And that they're hens, not ducks. French hens."

Four is a cartoon of four birds chattering on their phones, with speech bubbles: Merry Christmas ya filthy animal, Ho-ho-ho, and Santa! I know him!

The fourth bird has a crutch and is saying, God bless us, everyone. I think it's supposed to be Tiny Tim.

"Get it? Because they're making phone calls. They're calling birds."

He's a surprisingly good artist. Even if he's a dreadful singer.

He makes five gold rings out of gold ribbon. Days six and seven are more cartoon strips of birds (though I don't point out that his geese a-laying look a lot like the swans a-swimming). For the eighth day of Christmas, he gives me a two-pinter of milk, with the word 'Maid' scribbled on in Sharpie eight times.

On day nine, I doubt that he's going to be able to top it. I don't get my gift first thing before our shift, which surprises me, but when we're about to take our break and I come out of the Grotto, he shocks me by playing some of the music from the Nutcracker ballet, and has nine enthusiastic little girls lined up in front of the grotto to perform their best impressions of a ballerina for me. Their parents video it, smiling, and other people watch on, confused but finding it cute nonetheless.

Everyone claps the little girls when they're done, and they scuttle back to their places in the line.

"Nine little ladies dancing," I acknowledge to Klaus. "I'm impressed."

The next day, he gathers up ten boys from the queue to leap around, and the day after that, hands out kazoos to eleven kids to be my pipers piping.

After that, I make him swear he won't give out drums, because I think some of the parents might kill us, after the look on their faces having to hear eleven kazoos try to play out Jingle Bells.

He draws me a cartoon for day twelve instead.

I clutch it to me, biting my lip as I smile, and peering up at him. "Thank you." I've collected the gifts, putting them around my room. I even went out to buy a small Christmas tree a couple of days ago, getting into the spirit a little more.

We've hung out a few times outside of work, too. Like me, Klaus is a final year student. Unlike me, his family all live nearby and haven't jetted off to sunny Lanzarote for the holidays; and unlike me, he's entranced by everything Christmassy.

"I uh, I got you something too," I tell him shyly, at the end of our shift. We're at our lockers, and I pull out a box for him.

"You shouldn't have!"

But he's itching to tear the paper off, I can tell.

"And you shouldn't have pulled off twelve days of Christmas for me," I reply, but I'm smiling. "Go on, open it."

He does.

And lifts up the mistletoe I put in there. I can feel myself blushing, but I figured I had to try.

So much for me swearing off romance.

He wouldn't go through all that effort with the twelve days of Christmas stunt if he didn't like me, right?

And as he's pointed out countless times: it's Christmas. It's a magical season for believing, and magic, and falling in love.

"Maybe you got an old cynic to believe, just a little," I tell him.

He goes from staring at the mistletoe to beaming at me. There's glitter smudged on his cheek, and his hair is stuck up on end where he pulled off his elf hat, and I feel like my heart is growing ten sizes just from that smile. Klaus lifts the mistletoe, makes a show of closing his eyes and puckering his lips.

I crane my neck, go on tiptoes, but then have to tug on his shirt, feeling awkward and foolish. Even though I'm not the one holding up mistletoe, puckering my lips. "I, uh, I can't reach you."

He bursts into laughter, this time bending down to kiss me first, tasting like coffee and gingerbread and cinnamon and I start to think that maybe, just maybe, Christmas isn't so overrated after all.

"Does this mean you'll come round for Christmas?"

"Do I still have to pretend to be your girlfriend?" I reply, feeling bold.

Klaus is blushing, and smiling, and so goddamn adorable I can't stop myself from reaching up to kiss him again. Forget fireworks, I think, as his hands wrap around my waist, I can hear jingle bells.

And I have to admit: nothing has ever been so magical.