Puck The Halls | Jack Hughes

THREE

MIRACLE
_______________

WELL, IT'S CONFIRMED.

I positively and completely hate Christmas music. I worked in a convenience store part time, to help me save for college, and of course, for the entire duration of November and December, I was being forced into listening to Mariah Carey and Justin Bieber.

Please, somebody tie my noose.

I was currently sitting behind the cash register, my feet on the counter. I was wearing a pair of worn out old converse, the platform kind, a pair of jeans that were sort of too big on me so I had to wear a belt, and a CCM t-shirt I'd stolen from Z's room after he left for USA. I had to wear a stupid vest while working here and it was bright fucking green and definitely didn't do much for making me look decent.

I was just glad that this store in particular was a little too far out for people I knew to make the trip too, making it absolutely not convenient, and always dead quiet, but it paid to get paid for doing nothing.

I had both AirPods in, listening to music you absolutely wouldn't pick was my genre if you saw me in a crowd.

Bring Me The Horizon.

Yes, border lining screamo, but more like just drums and guitar and Ollie Sykes heavenly voice. Angry girl music. Tis the season.

I'm half contemplated to go to the back of the store and get myself a hard kombucha, but in think better of it, my boss would not be pleased if I got drunk of the job. Sigh. And so, instead I opt for reorganising the candy aisle, and then doing it again.

It's some time around nine in the evening when I get entirely sick of the jolly magic ringing through the completely empty store, and when I'm convinced nobody will be coming in anytime soon, I change it to my own music.

I'm mopping the floors, dancing around to the sound of classic Pierce The Veil, when the bell above the door jingles, but I don't hear it. I hold the mop, moon walking with complete confidence across the store front, before pretending the mop is a microphone and singing into it, and I definitely can't sing.

"She's mine!" I scream, getting way too passionate. "You stay away from her it's not her time—"

My eyes fly open wide as I snap upright, dropping the mop and pausing in place as my eyes latch onto a deep blue gaze. A taunting deep blue gaze.

He's just staring at me, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest and a tiny smirk on his lips and I blush with the realisation that he's amused. I try to be coy, to act as though I hadn't just been caught jamming out to post hardcore and trying to scream the high notes by possibly the hottest person to exist.

There is a long moment where neither of us speak, both not willing to break the awkward silence growing between us that I could have mistaken for tension, almost, if you squinted.

He cocks his head, raking his gaze over me, like he's not even trying to hide the fact that he's checking me out. It infuriates me, because I don't hate it. I'm also embarrassed beyond belief, but I was trying to play it cool, like this was a total normal thing to catch me doing.

"Nice moves, pretty girl," he teased, biting back a grin.

I glared at him, feigning boredom. "Thanks, pretty boy."

He clicks his tongue, raising both eyebrows as my words ring in his head. They're not a compliment. He knows it. I'd never liked pretty boys. I liked rough boys, men, if you will.

He stares at me, trying to puzzle me out, I stare right back, raising a single eyebrow, challenging him. Now, there was definitely tension, and it was thick. He wraps his hand around the stick of the mop, right above mine, and I definitely don't measure how much larger his hand is than mine.