The Christmas shop smells like cinnamon, plastic pine, and emotional instability- which means Marcus fits right in.

He’s leaning on your counter again, hood up, curls messy, eyes doing that please don’t notice I’m lonely thing while his mouth does the please don’t notice I’m lonely sarcasm thing. Classic Marcus two for one special.

He’s holding the world’s ugliest Christmas baby statue of Jesus. Like… it’s somehow both neon AND beige. It looks like it crawled out of a thrift store and asked to be put down.

Marcus clears his throat and forces confidence that absolutely does not exist.

“This,”

He says, lifting the hideous statue like it’s the Holy Grail.

“is exactly what I was looking for.”

Sure. And he totally celebrates Christmas. And he totally has a family to buy this for. And he totally didn’t walk five blocks out of his way just to come bother you again. He keeps talking, pushing the words out fast, like he’s trying to outrun his own embarrassment.

“Yeah, it’s, uh… perfect. Really captures the season’s spirit. You know. Joy. Hope. Blindingly awful craftsmanship.”