Only Santas in the Building (Under the Mistletoe collection)

Chapter One

A pristine white snowflake hangs from my doorknob by a loop of bright red cord.

After trudging up the stairs to my third-floor walk-up on the Upper East Side, I’m sweating profusely in my down coat and carrying a canvas tote filled with goodies from my deadline-fueled snack run. A quick glance at the other three units on my floor reveals that none of them have anything dangling from their doorknobs.

Further examination shows that the snowflake is one of those hand-cut varieties that kids make in school, where you fold a paper into triangles and cut shapes into the sides. It’s fashioned out of card stock, and the cuts are neat and precise.

The only children in our building live in 4D. It’s mid-December and I imagine their mom, Mrs. Kim, must be overrun with paper snowflakes and has decided to share the wealth. Smiling, I bring the snowflake inside.

I have a Christmas tree, such as it is. It’s small and looks like it was planted by Charlie Brown. It’s also completely devoid of decoration, much like the rest of my apartment. I hang my snowflake on the tree, front and center, before stripping off my coat and unloading my snack haul: salt and vinegar chips, red- and green-wrapped Hershey’s Kisses, roasted cashews, and a container of honey so big it would make Winnie-the-Pooh salivate with envy. When I’m on deadline, I get very specific cravings, and having snacks on hand means I’m less likely to order an entire cake when my stress levels skyrocket. I also mainline tea like it’s oxygen; hence the jumbo-size honey.

I tear open the bag of Kisses, grab a handful, and return to my desk, where the remaining panels of Starsong #24 await me.

The next day there’s an origami crane hanging from my doorknob. I spot it on my way downstairs to check the mail.

The crane is crafted from heavy red-and-gold-striped wrapping paper, and it fits in the palm of my hand. The edges of each fold are sharp, and the crane’s head is cocked at a jaunty angle. It’s suspended by a loop of red cord. I collect my mail, and on my way back in, I bring the crane with me.

It goes on the tree with the snowflake, and already my apartment feels a little cheerier.

Not that my home is dreary per se. The walls are typical apartment-rental white, and my compact furniture is cream with oatmeal accents. It’s just that I only moved in three months ago, and most of my stuff is still in storage, including my Christmas decorations. I’ve managed to frame the variant cover I did for Starsong #10, which shows a flashback of the pink-haired, lavender-skinned superhero flying over her home world before she was pushed through a portal and crash-landed on Earth. I also have a single plant, a housewarming gift from my sister, April. It’s a rubber plant, which, according to her, is notoriously difficult to kill.

Otherwise, the only decor in my living space is the previous occupant’s junk mail, empty snack packaging, and used mugs.

Don’t judge me. I’m on deadline, and it’s not like there’s anyone else around to be bothered by the mess. And Starsong, who can overcome obstacles with the literal and metaphorical power of her voice, is, alas, unable to illustrate her own prebattle pep talk to her team. With my mind full of all the close-up shots I’m about to draw, I dump some cashews into a small dish, refill my giant cup with tap water, and get back to work.

On the third day, another piece of red cord is looped over my doorknob, this one attached to a circular wood slice painted with the silhouettes of evergreen trees in front of a dark, snowy sky.

I flip it over to see if there’s anything written on the back, but it’s blank. I’d assumed everyone in the building was receiving these ornaments, but something like this would take more time and skill, and I can’t imagine the kids in 4D, who are both under ten years old, are that enterprising. But then again, people were always complimenting my drawing skills when I was a kid, so maybe one of them is a particularly gifted artist, or maybe their parents helped.

Or maybe these aren’t coming from them. I haven’t seen Mr. or Mrs. Kim around to ask.

Whatever. I don’t have time to worry about it. My deadline is in two days, and I’ll only make it if I work every waking hour and more than a few sleeping ones too. I’m finishing up a battle sequence, the culmination of Starsong’s efforts to surround herself with community.

I bring the wood slice inside, since it seems rude to leave it on the door. Also, it’s pretty. The ornament goes on the tree with the others, and I return to my desk, where the round, blank eyes of a dozen Funko Pops stare me down. They’re some of the few things I’ve managed to unpack and my only companions. They remind me of the Precious Moments figurines that populated my grandmother’s living room, a thought that’s both comforting and a little unsettling. Tightening my wrist brace, I focus on sketching one complicated action pose after another.

On the fourth day, there’s a white, crocheted star waiting for me on a loop of red cord. I shouldn’t even be wasting time by going outside, but I’m out of oat milk, and I need it for my tea.

My shoulders relax as I finger the yarn. I know who these are from.

Mrs. Greene in 2C used to be a costume designer. She sews, obviously, but she also knits, embroiders, needlepoints, and more—anything involving fiber crafts, she can do. Her apartment is like a museum, filled with costume pieces and props from movies and Broadway shows she worked on. I love hearing all the stories behind each item. When she goes out of town to visit her grandchildren, I take care of her two cats. And while Mrs. Greene is not an old Puerto Rican woman, her knowing grin and propensity to bring me home-cooked food reminds me of my own grandmother, who died this past summer, leaving behind a void that will never be filled.

My deadline is technically today, but I have one page left to complete: the resolution, showing Starsong surrounded by her found family in her new home on Earth. I want this page to have an emotional impact, and I’m planning to work all night until just before the start of business hours tomorrow. After I regain some brain space, I’ll think of a nice way to repay Mrs. Greene.

I submit my final pages at eight o’clock the next morning. Overall, I’m proud of how they turned out. I’m known for blending a cutesy style with a strong command of anatomy, and I really brought my A game to this project.

After sending the Frodo “It’s done” GIF to my Chismosas in Comics group text, I take a shower, wash my greasy deadline hair, and fall into bed, where I sleep for the next five hours.

When I wake, my phone is full of texts expressing some variation of “Congratulations, Evie!”

I drag myself out of bed and make a cup of tea. My fridge is mostly empty, and since Goldfish crackers don’t count as a meal, I place an order at the Thai restaurant around the corner that has a great lunch special. After bundling up in my coat, hat, and scarf, I leave to pick up my food. It’ll be faster than having it delivered, and I could use some fresh air.

My phone buzzes with another congratulatory text as I’m turning the corner to the staircase. I glance at the screen ... and run smack into a hard, hoodie-clad chest.

One big hand catches my elbow, another cups my waist, and I’m suddenly staring up into eyes the color of rich hot chocolate.

It’s Theo Winters.

My upstairs neighbor.

And the subject of all my late-night fantasies.