Work Text:
Hawkins, Indiana - December 1989
Dear Santa,
For Christmas I would like: the Cool Times Barbie doll, a new book for my sticker collection, and a Madrid skateboard.
But what I really want is for my dumb big brother to get a clue and finally ask out his friend Max Mayfield.
Signed,
Holly Wheeler
P.S. If the skateboard could be purple that would be even better.
Holly folded up her letter, creasing the edges with care, and slid it into the pre-addressed envelope her mom had given her. She pressed the flap down and peeled a shiny wreath sticker from her new sheet, smoothing it over the point.
Then she sat back, chewing the end of her peppermint-scented pencil.
She was pretty sure Santa wasn’t real—how could one man fly around the whole entire world in one night, even with magic reindeer? And why did the presents from “Santa” always come in the same wrapping paper Mom kept in the hall closet?
But still.
It never hurt to cover all the bases.
She studied the sealed envelope for a long moment. It looked small and helpless, sitting there on her desk. Hoping Santa would fix her brother’s pitiful love life felt like asking for too much, even for someone with elves and flying sleighs.
And Holly Wheeler was not the type of girl to leave anything up to chance.
She and Max had become close after… well. After everything that happened. After monsters and Mr Whatsit and terrifying worlds she didn’t like to think about.
Now, whenever Max came over to hang out with Mike and the boys, she always made sure to spend time with Holly too.
She’d sit with her on the living room couch, letting Holly practice braiding her hair while the boys plotted downstairs. And Max never talked to Holly like she was a little kid, just… like she was another person. A friend.
And Mike—her dumb big brother, who thought he knew everything—lit up whenever Max walked into a room. He got louder, and weirder, and his ears always turned red. Holly had noticed. Holly noticed everything.
They were like Han and Leia in The Empire Strikes Back, always bickering but in a way that made everyone else roll their eyes because it was so obvious. Or Sam and Diane from that show her parents liked to watch before bed, always arguing, always circling each other like magnets that couldn’t decide. They were perfect for each other.
They just hadn’t realized it yet.
But Holly had.
She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out another sheet of the nice stationery her grandma had sent for her birthday—a pale blue set with tiny snowflakes in the corners. She smoothed the sheet flat, lifted her pencil, and in her neatest handwriting wrote at the top:
Operation Mistletoe
She underlined it twice for emphasis.
Then she grinned—determined and a little mischievous. If Santa wasn’t going to help, Holly Wheeler certainly would.
And Mike and Max wouldn’t know what hit them.
***
Step One: Dropping Hints
Holly tugged her scarf tighter, the wool scratching her chin as she and Max pushed through the glass doors of The Hawk. A blast of cold early evening air hit them, but Holly didn’t care. She practically bounced down the steps.
She was still humming “Part of Your World,” the song looping in her head for the millionth time that month. This was her third showing of The Little Mermaid—the first with her mom, the second with Mike, who had spent the entire movie whispering about plot holes, and now this one with Max, who at least got it.
“What did you think?” Holly asked, hugging her puffy pink coat to her chest as they walked toward Max’s car. “Isn’t it the best movie ever?”
Max shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her faded cargo jacket, breath fogging the air. She chewed her lower lip—a habit Holly had noticed she did whenever she was trying to find the right words.
“There were some really nice songs,” Max said slowly, “but I don’t think I like the part where she gave up her voice just to get the boy.”
She stopped walking, turning to face Holly, her expression suddenly serious. “No boy is worth silencing yourself or changing who you are. Okay?”
Holly nodded with exaggerated solemnity. “Boys are gross anyway.”
Max barked out a laugh. “They’re totally gross.”
They started walking again, boots crunching across fresh powder. A few cars rolled by, their tires sloshing through the snow.
Holly took a breath. Now was her moment. Step one of Operation Mistletoe: Drop Hints and Run.
“You look just like Ariel,” she said casually, like she wasn’t launching the first phase of the most important—okay, second most important—mission of her nine years of life.
Max raised an eyebrow. “Because of the hair?”
“And because you’re so pretty,” Holly added, kicking a chunk of snow down the sidewalk. No harm in buttering her up first.
Max’s cheeks turned pink—either from the cold or the compliment, Holly couldn’t tell. “Thanks, kid.”
Holly waited a beat. Timing was everything. Then–
“And Prince Eric kind of looks like Mike, don’t you think?”
Max’s boot hit a slick patch of ice, and she skidded, arms flailing for a second before she righted herself with a huff.
She shot Holly a look. “Mike as Prince Eric? Your brother Mike?”
Holly tilted her head, widening her eyes in a practiced expression of innocent curiosity. “Doesn’t he?”
Max opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Holly could practically see the gears turning. Max stared ahead as they walked, brow furrowed as if she were comparing two images in her mind like one of those Spot-the-Difference magazine puzzles.
“I don’t know,” she muttered finally. “Maybe, I guess. The dark wavy hair and the… whatever.”
Holly bit back a victory squeal.
Seed planted.
She looked up at the twinkling Christmas lights strung overhead, imagining a triumphant movie soundtrack swelling.
Operation Mistletoe: officially underway.
***
Holly peeked her head around the hallway corner, gripping the wooden doorframe with anxious hands. The kitchen was in its usual morning chaos—radio crackling with the local news, the smell of bacon in the air, her mom clattering pans like she was conducting an orchestra instead of making breakfast.
And there he was.
Mike. Already in his spot at the breakfast table, hunched over like a gargoyle, jamming an entire piece of toast into his mouth without even chewing first.
Her target was in place.
Holly took a deep breath, smoothing a hand over her neat, freshly done French braids. Max had shown her how to do them yesterday, twisting and weaving the strands until they looked like something from a magazine.
Holly had gotten up extra early today to replicate them. Operation Mistletoe demanded she look trustworthy and adorable—two things she excelled at.
She straightened her sweater, lifted her chin, and flounced into the kitchen.
“Good morning!” she chirped.
Mike didn’t even look up. He mumbled something through his toast—something that might have been “mornffrlgh” or might have been a dying animal sound. Hard to tell.
Her mom, however, turned from the stove with a smile. “Morning, honey!”
Then she paused, spatula midair. “Wow, look at your hair! New look?”
Holly slid into her chair, carefully adjusting her braids over her shoulders. “Max taught me how.”
That got Mike’s attention.
Just a flicker—his eyes darting sideways, barely noticeable unless you were watching for it like a hawk. Which Holly was.
She waited a beat for dramatic effect, then added, “She has the prettiest hair. Like a princess.”
Mike choked. Actually choked. Crumbs sprayed onto the table.
“Max Mayfield?” he sputtered once he recovered, wiping toast dust off his sweater. “A princess? She’s like the least lady-like girl I’ve ever met. She’s practically a guy!”
Holly’s stomach dropped a little. That was… not the reaction she had been aiming for.
She frowned down at her plate, poking her scrambled eggs with her fork. “Well, I think she’s pretty.”
Mom hummed as she slid a plate of crispy bacon onto the table. “She’s certainly grown up to be a looker.” She set the plate down and gave Mike a pointed glance. “You really haven’t noticed, Michael?”
Mike froze.
His eyes widened like someone had hit him with a stun ray from one of his comic books.
And then, in the most suspicious display of coolness Holly had ever seen, he stuffed three—three—strips of bacon into his mouth at once and made a wild shrugging motion with his shoulders, as if to say Who? Me? Notice her? Never! Not even once!
It was so dramatic and weird that Holly almost snorted out her orange juice.
Instead, she hid her smile behind the glass, savouring her tiny victory. Thank you, Mom.
That had gone even better than she’d planned.
Operation Mistletoe: progress—steady.
And Holly Wheeler was just getting started.
***
Step 2: Cookie Canoodling
“No, Mike! We have to pour the wet ingredients into the dry!” Holly exclaimed, snatching the plastic mixing bowl away from her brother’s reach. A small cloud of flour puffed up, floating toward the ceiling like festive snow.
Mike rolled his eyes so hard his whole head moved with them. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
He pinched the recipe card between two fingers, squinting at their mother’s loopy cursive curled across it in cheerful red ink, complete with little doodles of holly leaves in the corners.
“Why isn’t Mom helping you with this again?”
“Because she has her book club tonight,” Holly said, trying to keep her voice level while she corralled the tiny bottles of sprinkles and food colouring. “And I forgot the Christmas bake sale is tomorrow!”
Mike narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Like a detective. A detective who had flour in his eyebrows. “It’s not like you to forget something like that.”
Holly swallowed hard. That was fair. She never forgot school events. Ever. But she couldn’t say, Actually, I forgot on purpose because I needed a reason to trap you and Max together in one room. That would blow her cover.
“There have been too many exciting Christmas things going on…” she said, staring very intently at the food colouring label.
Before Mike could interrogate her further, the side door banged open with a crack of wind, sending an icy blast through the kitchen. Snowflakes drifted in behind a red-haired whirlwind.
“Don’t worry, I’m here!” Max announced, stomping snow off her boots.
She shrugged out of her coat and peeled off her gloves, letting them drop onto the counter. Then she froze, her eyes landing squarely on Mike.
Mike, who was wearing the frilly Christmas apron Holly had insisted on. It was white, with bright red ruffles, and a huge embroidered gingerbread man winking in the middle.
Max burst out laughing. “Wow, Wheeler,” she wheezed. “I never thought you’d look so good in ruffles.”
Mike went red instantly—from his ears to the collar of his sweater.
“Why are you here?” he demanded, yanking at the apron ties like he was being strangled.
“The kid called me,” Max said, tossing her hair as she surveyed the kitchen island. It was a disaster zone—flour everywhere, cracked egg shells scattered like a battlefield, every single measuring cup and spoon in use. “And not a moment too soon, it looks like.”
“We had it handled!” Mike said defensively.
“No, I had it handled,” Holly corrected. “You were ruining the dry ingredients.”
Max snorted, ruffling Holly’s hair affectionately as she passed by. “Hey, squirt.”
Holly’s grin nearly split her face.
Mike leaned forward on the counter, looking between them like they were speaking in code. “So what, you two are like… best friends now?”
Max slung an arm around Holly’s shoulder. “We survived an inter-dimensional hellscape together, Wheeler. We’re pretty much bonded for life.”
Holly felt her heart do a little firework burst.
If everything went according to plan… if Operation Mistletoe worked out exactly the way she imagined…
Someday, Max could be her sister for real.
Max rolled up her sleeves and grabbed the mixing bowl from Mike. “Okay, stand back, amateurs. Let a professional handle this.”
“You are not a professional,” he argued.
“I’ve eaten enough cookies to qualify.”
“That’s not how–”
“Move, Wheeler.” She hip-checked him out of the way—light enough to be playful, but firm enough that Mike took a startled step back.
Holly pretended to be very busy organizing cookie cutters, but her eyes darted between them like she was watching tennis finals with her dad.
Max dumped the wet ingredients into the dry with a flourish. “See? Wet into dry. Super complicated science.”
Mike folded his arms. “That’s literally what I was going to do.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“Yes it–”
Holly cleared her throat loudly. “Can we please get the cookies made before the bus shows up to take me to school?”
Max laughed, bumping her shoulder into Mike’s as she handed him the whisk. “Come on, Prince Eric. Whisk.”
Mike blinked at her. “What did you just call me?”
“You heard me. Whisk.”
Holly watched Mike’s ears turn pink. He grabbed the whisk a little too aggressively and began stirring the batter, which sloshed dangerously close to the edge.
“Careful,” Max warned, leaning over him. “Unless you’re planning to repaint the entire kitchen in… whatever colour this is. Beige?”
“It’s dough-coloured,” he muttered. “And I know how to stir things, thank you very much.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, reaching for the recipe card next to his free hand. “Sure you do.”
Their fingers brushed.
Mike froze for half a second. Max didn’t move hers right away.
Holly’s internal fireworks went off so loudly she nearly squealed.
This. Was. Perfect.
As soon as the dough had chilled in the fridge (“It’s like waiting for Christmas morning,” Holly sighed dramatically), Max tossed flour across the counter like she was summoning a spell.
“Are you trying to start a blizzard?” Mike coughed, waving a hand in front of his face.
Max smirked. “Better than the flour explosion you caused earlier with the electric mixer.”
“That was an accident!”
“Sure it was.” She handed him the rolling pin.
Mike rolled exactly once before Max snatched it back. “No. Absolutely not. You’re going to make weird lumpy cookies.”
“They won’t be lumpy!”
“Nope, I’ve seen enough.” Max shot back, poking him with the handle of the pin. “We are not letting Holly take lumpy cookies to school.”
Once Max had rolled out the dough—lump-free—they took turns pressing cookie cutters into it—stockings, stars, trees, gingerbread people.
Each time Mike’s cutter got stuck, Max teased him. Whenever Max accidentally tore the dough, Mike grinned smugly like he’d been waiting for it.
And every time their elbows brushed, they both looked away too quickly.
Holly practically vibrated out of her chair.
When the cookies cooled, Max mixed up bowls of icing—red, green, white, and the pale pink Holly insisted on.
Mike immediately dipped a finger in the pink icing.
“Hey!” Max smacked his hand. “That’s for decorating!”
“It’s also edible,” Mike said defensively, licking the icing off.
Max rolled her eyes. “You’re like a toddler.”
“Says the girl with a row of Pez dispensers on her bookshelf.”
“Those are collectibles!”
Holly watched them bicker as she piped tiny faces onto the gingerbread men, biting her lip to keep from grinning too big.
Mike’s trees were overloaded with sprinkles. Max’s stars had perfect outlines. When Mike tried to match hers, she guided his hand, leaning close to help steady him.
“That’s it,” she murmured softly. “See? Not so hard.”
Mike didn’t answer. He was too busy looking at her.
Holly almost dropped her icing bag.
Everything was peaceful for exactly eight minutes before Mike flicked a glob of icing at Max’s arm.
She looked at the smeared green frosting, then at him, then back at the frosting. “Oh, you’re dead.”
“Oh no,” Holly whispered, delighted.
Max flung a tiny spoonful of icing back. It hit Mike right in the forehead.
He gasped. “Did you just–”
Max raised her eyebrows like she dared him to complain.
Within seconds, icing was flying. A dab on Max’s cheek. A swipe on Mike’s nose. Both of them laughing, dodging around the island.
Holly clapped her hands in pure joy.
They were flirting. They were very obviously flirting. And neither of them even realized it.
Finally, breathless and covered in more frosting than the actual cookies, Max grabbed a dish towel and tossed it at Mike’s face. “You’re a mess.”
“You’re worse,” he replied, but his voice was soft.
She wiped icing from her cheek, smiling crookedly. “Yeah, well. It was worth it.”
Their eyes held a second too long. Holly sucked in a breath.
This—this was what she’d planned for.
Max and Mike, standing in a warm kitchen with Christmas lights reflecting off the windows, laughing, smiling, looking at each other like something was shifting.
A Christmas miracle in progress.
And Holly Wheeler, future matchmaker extraordinaire, watched the scene unfold with the triumphant glee of a mastermind.
***
Step 3: Rehearsing Romance
“Okay, I only have one copy, so you guys have to share,” Holly said, shoving two wrinkled notebook pages into Mike’s hands before he could protest. She’d written them in her neatest handwriting, complete with little hearts dotting the “I’s”.
“Max, I highlighted your lines in pink. Mike’s are in blue.”
Mike blinked down at the papers like they might explode. “Uh… thanks?”
Max raised an eyebrow and scooted her chair closer so she could read over Mike’s arm. Holly tried not to squeal. They were already sitting way closer than normal. They were practically doing the work for her.
Max squinted at the lines, tilting her head. “What is this project again?”
“Uh, we had to write an original script for English!” Holly said brightly. “A dialogue with two characters. In a wintery setting!”
Mike frowned. “Since when do you write dialogues in fourth grade?”
“Since… now,” Holly said firmly. “Mrs. Spencer’s very progressive.”
Max snorted softly but didn’t push further. Mike cleared his throat.
Holly clasped her hands behind her back, trying to look innocent. “Okay! Start reading!”
They exchanged glances—confused, suspicious glances—but they began.
Mike inhaled dramatically, adopting what Holly assumed he thought was a “serious actor voice.”
“Scene One,” he read. “Inside a cozy log cabin during a winter snowstorm.”
Max bit her lip to keep from laughing. “A log cabin?”
“It’s atmospheric!” Holly insisted.
Mike continued. “Two adventurers—Rico, the brave and serious one… and Moxie, the fiery, sarcastic one—sit by a crackling fire.”
Max elbowed Mike. “You’re Rico.”
“Obviously,” he muttered.
They read on. Max leaned closer, reading her pink-highlighted line. “Ugh, Rico, you’re so annoying. You don’t understand anything. Why do I even travel with you?”
Mike made an offended face. “Wow.”
She smirked. “Hey, I didn’t write it.”
He slouched a little deeper into his chair, but kept going. “Maybe because, deep down, you like spending time with me. Even though you pretend you don’t.”
Max’s eyebrows shot up. She turned her head toward Holly. Holly examined her shoelaces, wandering slowly around the table.
Max continued. “Ha! Don’t flatter yourself. You are loud, stubborn, and your hair is ridiculous.”
She snorted. “Okay, this is getting weirdly accurate.”
Mike reflexively touched his hair. “Wait, are you saying my hair is ridiculous?”
“I’m saying the script thinks so.” Max bumped his shoulder with hers. “But also yes.”
He pretended to glare. “Just finish your line.”
Max sighed and read, “…But I guess you’re not the worst person to get snowed in with.”
Mike’s cheeks went a little pink. “Uh. Okay. Sure.”
Holly bounced on her toes behind them. “Keep going!”
Mike and Max looked back down at the pages.
Mike swallowed and read his next line. “Moxie… sometimes I think we fight because we’re too afraid to admit we care about each other.”
Max froze.
Mike froze harder.
There was a long, loaded silence, thick enough that Holly could’ve scooped it like ice cream. She held in her squeal so hard she thought she might explode.
“Okay!” Max said suddenly, tapping the page. “What’s next? Let’s see Moxie’s reply…”
Mike clumsily flipped to the next page. Max read, “Maybe I do care. Maybe I care a lot more than I let on.”
Another dangerous pause.
Holly watched Mike’s face go beet red. She watched Max’s turn pink. They both looked anywhere except at each other.
Mike ran his finger down the page, desperate. “There’s, uh, there’s only one more line.”
He swallowed and read it. “Then maybe… we should stop pretending.”
Mike dropped the pages like they were made of fire.
Max stared at Holly for a long, suspicious moment—long enough that Holly worried she’d pushed too far, that maybe Max had figured out the entire plan down to the mistletoe currently hidden in Holly’s desk drawer.
But then Max’s expression shifted—something flickered in her eyes. But it wasn’t anger or annoyance.
It was more like panicked realization.
She bolted upright so fast her chair screeched across the floor.
“Okay, uh– wow, time flies!” she blurted, stuffing her arms into her jacket with the desperation of someone escaping a crime scene. “I just remembered I–I have to go help my mom with… something. Important. And time-sensitive.”
Mike blinked. “Since when do you help your mom with anything?”
Max pointed at him. “Shut up.”
She grabbed the script pages off the table—then immediately slapped them back down like they were radioactive.
“Oh right, those are Holly’s, so I'll just– yeah…” She backed toward the door.
Holly stepped forward. “But we were going to rehearse again–”
“Nope!” Max said, hand already on the doorknob. “Rehearsal over. Fantastic job, A-plus, award-winning dialogue. Good luck turning that in for your… fourth-grade English class.”
Her voice cracked on “English.”
Holly tried not to cheer.
The door slammed shut behind Max, leaving the kitchen silent.
Mike stood abruptly. “Uh, I'm gonna go… to my room. Good script, Hols!”
Holly folded her arms as she watched him scurry away, pleased as a cat with cream.
He sounded like someone whose heart had just done something dangerous—and who was trying very, very hard not to think about why.
***
Step 4: Alone Time
Holly pressed her forehead to the cold windowpane, breath fogging the glass as she watched Mike jam the shovel into another heap of snow. He was nearly done—just a few more strips of walkway to clear.
“Come on, Max… come on…” she whispered to herself, bouncing on her toes.
Today’s plan was small, just another moment to get them to be in the same space as each other. Max was mostly coming over to spend time with Holly, but every little bit helped, especially now that school was out.
And then—like the universe itself was cheering for Operation Mistletoe—a loud, sputtering engine roared from down the street. Holly grinned. Max’s ancient Volvo fishtailed slightly as it turned the corner, chugging bravely through the fresh powder.
“Perfect,” she breathed.
Outside, Mike had his Walkman blasting. He was bobbing along, shovelling with the laboured rhythm of someone who’d been working for an hour and was starting to question why he lived in Indiana at all.
He’d worked himself warm enough that he’d tossed his coat over the porch railing, leaving him in nothing but jeans, a hat, and a slightly-too-tight Star Wars T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and arms.
Holly squinted at him.
Huh.
She guessed he was getting kind of muscular. In a nerdy, gangly way. Those secret push-ups he did in his room were paying off.
Max clearly agreed, because when she stepped out of her car, crunching through the snow, she stopped dead in her tracks. Holly watched from above as Max paused and openly stared.
Oh yes.
She was absolutely checking out his arms.
“I knew it!” Holly whispered triumphantly to her stuffed animals.
As if summoned by the weight of Max’s stare, Mike finally turned. He startled, nearly dropping the shovel, and fumbled to rip his headphones down around his neck.
Holly eased her window open a crack, letting in a blast of icy air. She shivered but leaned in anyway—this was too important to miss.
Max smirked at him, arms crossing over her chest as she approached.
“You okay there, Wheeler?” she called. “You look like you’re on the verge of a heart attack. Maybe you should stop skipping P.E.”
Mike blinked rapidly, still catching up. “You’re here again?”
“Your sister has taste. Unlike you,” Max said, stepping around the snowbank with casual swagger.
Mike scoffed, but his cheeks were turning redder. “Taste in what? Free labour? ’Cause I’m literally doing chores right now.”
She shrugged one shoulder, leaning into him just a little. “Taste in people.”
He made a noise somewhere between a cough and a squeak. Holly clutched her windowsill, grinning so wide her face hurt.
The cushions dipped under Holly’s weight as she tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa a few minutes later. “So what are we watching today?” she asked eagerly.
Max set a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and grabbed the VHS case beside it. “The Princess Bride. I bet your brother hasn’t shown you this one, right?”
Holly’s mouth fell open. “Princess?”
“Yeah,” Max said, dropping onto the couch like she owned it, feet thunking against the table. “But this one’s way better than your fluffy Disney stuff. Buttercup’s a badass.”
Holly brightened immediately. She liked princesses, but a badass princess sounded even better.
Max aimed the remote at the television, and the screen flickered to life.
They were about ten minutes in when the front door squeaked open.
Mike stumbled into the living room, nose red from the cold, snow dusting his hair and shoulders. He was breathing hard, and his T-shirt clung to him where snow had melted along the collar and sleeves.
He brushed melting flakes from his eyelashes and clomped further inside, tracking wet boot prints behind him.
Max glanced over with a raised brow. “Jeez, Wheeler. You look like you lost a fight with a snowman.”
Mike pushed wet curls off his forehead. “Driveway’s done,” he announced dramatically, like he’d finished a heroic quest.
He kicked off his boots and came up around the TV to peer at the screen. “The Princess Bride? Didn’t take you for a sap, Mayfield.”
Holly rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her brain. “Shut up, Mike. It’s romantic!”
She’d meant it defensively… but it was also strategic. Mike needed to hear the word romantic around Max as much as possible. It was brain science. Or something.
“Yeah, shut up, Mike.” Max threw a buttery handful of popcorn at him. A few kernels stuck to his damp shirt. “And go take a shower, we can smell you from here.”
Throwing his hands up, Mike grumbled something that sounded like “ganging up on me” and trudged up the stairs.
Max shook her head. “He’s such a clown.”
Holly hid her grin under the blanket as she settled into Max’s side. The warmth, the movie, the soft snowfall outside… everything felt dreamy and perfect.
Then she started to think that maybe staying up too late reading Sweet Valley Twins had been a mistake, because her eyes were drooping fast.
On screen, Westley told Buttercup, “As you wish.”
Holly sighed contentedly.
Operation Mistletoe was practically guaranteed to succeed.
***
“She’s out like a light, huh?” Mike murmured.
Max shifted slightly, careful not to jostle Holly. “Yeah. She fell asleep right around the Rodents Of Unusual Size.”
Holly kept her breathing slow and even, her cheek resting against Max’s side. She was asleep… but not asleep asleep. They were talking—really talking—and she wasn’t about to miss a second of it.
The familiar creak of their dad’s recliner groaned as Mike sat down. He must’ve turned the TV volume low, because everything felt hushed, like the house knew something important was happening.
“You’re… really good with her,” Mike said, so softly Holly almost doubted she heard it.
Max was quiet for a moment. Holly could feel the gentle rise of her chest underneath her.
“So are you,” she whispered back. “She thinks the world of you.”
He let out a short, surprised breath. “I think you’ve taken my spot as her favourite, though.”
Max snorted. “Well, I did say she had good taste.”
Holly nearly ruined everything with a delighted giggle. She clamped her teeth together and stayed limp, her hands curled tight under the blanket.
They were being sincere. Open. And it wasn’t even forced by one of her plans this time—this was all them.
After a moment, Mike spoke again, quieter and more tentative. “Seriously, though… I really appreciate you being her friend. I know it’s not exactly thrilling hanging out with a fourth grader, but… she still gets nightmares all the time, and with Nancy away at college...”
Max shifted again, her voice gentler than Holly had ever heard it. “It’s not so bad being here all the time.”
There was a pause. But it wasn’t an awkward one, it was something heavier. Warmer. The kind of silence grown-ups had when they were saying things without actually saying them.
Holly’s heart hammered in her chest. This wasn’t just progress—this was basically a Christmas miracle.
“I should take her up to her bed if she’s this tired,” Mike said finally, throat clearing as he stood. Holly immediately relaxed every muscle in her body like a rag doll. “And then maybe… we could finish watching the movie?”
Max let out a soft, amused snort. “I thought it was sappy?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, and Holly could hear the smile in his voice, “but who could pass up Inigo Montoya?”
“Alright, Wheeler. But if you quote any lines at me, I’m leaving.”
“No promises.”
Then Mike’s arms slid gently under Holly, lifting her with care. She went pliant in his hold like a professional actress, head against his shoulder, blanket still tucked around her.
And while he carried her upstairs, she hid a victorious smile in the folds of the fabric.
Operation Mistletoe wasn’t just working.
It was thriving.
***
Step 5: Christmas Eve Kiss!!!
“You did what?” Mike’s voice cracked so badly Holly was sure only dogs could fully hear the ending.
“I invited Max over for Christmas Eve,” she repeated, tying a red ribbon around the lumpy clay seashell she’d made in art class.
It wasn’t perfect—okay, it looked more like a slightly melted pastry—but she’d painted it coral pink and sprinkled it with glitter, and Max would understand the intention.
Mike ran a hand through his hair. “But Christmas is for, like, families, Holly. You shouldn’t pressure her like that.”
Holly’s eyes narrowed. “Her mom is working!” she exclaimed. “And Mom and Dad said it was okay. Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not being weird!” Mike said. “It’s just… kind of an intense thing.”
Holly smirked at the crack in his voice. Intense, huh? She folded a piece of tape over her ribbon to secure it.
Mike plopped down in the chair beside her, leaning forward to inspect her gift. “Is that for Mom?”
“Nope,” she said proudly. “It’s for Max.”
He stared at her. “Max gets a present? Does that mean I have to get her something?”
Holly pressed her lips together, trying not to smile too smugly. Honestly, she hadn’t even thought of that. This was like… an unexpected bonus round of Operation Mistletoe.
“Yes,” she said gravely. “You do.”
Mike groaned. “Shi– I mean… shoot. Christmas Eve is tomorrow. I don’t– I don’t even know what she likes. Video games? She doesn’t have a console, though. Music? But she listens to weird stuff…”
Holly gasped theatrically. “Sounds like we need to go to the mall!”
The mall was absolute Christmas pandemonium—exactly how Holly liked it.
Wreaths, lights, fake snow everywhere. Santa's ringing bells. Grown-ups fighting over the last Cabbage Patch Kid. The smell of cinnamon sugar pretzels in the air. Perfect.
Mike held her hand tightly, both to steer her through the crowds and to keep from losing her in the sea of frantic last-minute shoppers.
“Maybe something from here?” Holly suggested, pulling him toward a glittering jewelry store filled with gold, hearts, and sparkles.
Mike recoiled like she’d tried to drag him into a shark tank. “I can’t get her jewelry! That’s like… too much. That’s like… a statement.”
Holly sighed dramatically. He was being so difficult. She made a mental note—once they were officially a couple, anniversaries and special occasions would be full of pretty jewelry, whether he liked it or not.
They walked through the mall, speeding past elaborate, festive window displays. Holly wanted to linger and press her face up to the glass of each one, but Mike tugged her along impatiently.
When they passed the fancy underwear store, he accelerated so fast he nearly yanked Holly off her feet, and his ears turned an excellent shade of pink.
All the better to use in teasing him later.
Then, suddenly, he skidded to a halt. Holly bumped into his back with a soft oof.
Mike was staring at the brightly lit entrance of Spencer’s Gifts, eyes wide like he’d just discovered a secret treasure vault.
“I know!” he exclaimed. “A sticker for her skateboard.”
He looked down at Holly, hopeful. “What do you think?”
Holly beamed. “I think it’s perfect.”
His face lit up with relief. Then he glanced nervously into the store. “Uh… I don’t think you’re allowed in there. Some of the posters are… Just stay here, okay?”
Holly pouted but sat obediently on the bench across the way. “Fine. But hurry.”
Mike disappeared inside.
Ten minutes later, he emerged triumphantly, holding something above his head like a trophy. “Check it out!”
Holly leaned forward to inspect it. The sticker was a man in a creepy mask brandishing… a giant cob of corn?
She blinked. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s Jason, the bad guy from one of her favourite horror movies,” Mike explained eagerly. “Only instead of a machete he’s holding corn, because, you know… Indiana.”
He looked proud. Really proud.
“Trust me,” he added, “she’ll love it.”
Holly smiled at the way his entire face glowed with excitement. This wasn’t just gift-buying.
This was effort. Effort for Max.
Holly hugged her mittens to her chest, nearly giddy.
Tomorrow was going to be perfect.
***
The Wheeler house glowed with Christmas cheer—soft lights, garlands, the tree sparkling in the corner like something straight out of a holiday catalogue.
Holly smoothed down the burgundy skirt of her brand-new velvet dress for the hundredth time and bounced on her toes as the doorbell rang.
“Max is here!” she shouted, sprinting toward the foyer.
Her mom laughed from the kitchen. “Holly, walk!”
Holly absolutely did not walk. She skidded to a halt, yanked open the door—and stared.
Max stood on the porch in a dark green sweater that made her hair look even brighter than usual. Her curls were brushed out and soft around her face, snowflakes caught in her hair like glitter. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. She even had on mascara.
Mike was going to spontaneously combust.
Max gave a warm smile as she stepped in, stamping snow from her boots and shifting a little wrapped gift under her arm. “Merry Christmas Eve, kid.”
Before Holly could reply, Mike jogged down the stairs. “Holly, when is M–”
His eyes landed on Max.
He missed the last step completely, caught himself on the railing, and then pretended he meant to do that.
“Uh. Wow. I mean… Hey.”
Max gave an amused chuckle. “Hey yourself, Wheeler.”
“You, uh, look different.”
“Is that your way of saying I look nice?”
“No,” Mike said too quickly, then faltered. “I mean– yes! I mean– shut up.”
Max snorted. “Smooth.”
Holly’s head swivelled between them. Yup, Christmas magic was definitely in the air.
They made their way into the dining room, where the table was set beautifully—candles, fancy folded napkins, Mom’s good dishes that weren’t allowed anywhere near the dishwasher.
Holly felt like her heart was exploding all throughout dinner. Max fit into her family so perfectly.
She teased Mike without mercy, showered their mom with compliments while somehow making it sound genuine, and she even managed to make Dad crack a smile by making some joke about politics Holly didn’t understand—Dad!
And all the while, Mike kept trying to sneak glances at her without being obvious, and Max kept catching him and raising her eyebrows until he choked on his mashed potatoes.
Holly lived for this.
When the plates were cleared, Mom clapped her hands. “Alright! One present each before dessert. Except for you, Max dear, you can open all of yours tonight.”
Max looked surprised as they all moved to the living room, like she wasn’t expecting to get any presents at all.
Once they’d settled, Max pulled out her gift for Holly first. Holly tore the newspaper wrapping off greedily, revealing a brand new sticker book with a beautiful, shimmering mermaid on the cover.
Holly squealed so loudly that Mike winced. “MAX YOU’RE THE BEST EVER!”
“You're welcome, kid,” Max chuckled as Holly tackled her in a hug.
Once they’d disentangled, Max reached under the tree and froze. “Uh, Mike? This is… from you?”
Mike rubbed the back of his neck, mortified. “Yeah. I mean, it’s stupid. You don’t have to like it.”
Max reached into the small silver gift bag and blinked. Then blinked again.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, staring at the sticker. “Is this… Jason Cornhees?”
Mike laughed nervously. “He’s from that movie you like, right? Friday the 13th? They only had this version and I thought it was funny since we live–”
“In Indiana,” Max finished, a grin spreading across her face. “Mike… this is actually amazing.”
His head snapped up, surprised. “Really?”
Max cradled the sticker like it was a rare artifact. “Yeah. It’s perfect. For my board, right?”
“Yeah.”
Their eyes held for a long moment. Holly practically levitated off the carpet with joy.
Then she thrust her clay seashell into Max’s hands, unable to wait a second longer. “This one’s from me.”
Max unwrapped the ribbon carefully, and her face softened. “Holly… I love it.”
“Even though it’s a little lumpy?” Holly asked hopefully.
“Especially because it’s a little lumpy,” Max said, ruffling her hair.
After everyone else had opened a gift, Mom stood and made her way back to the kitchen. “Mike, can you get the dessert plates out and then bring the trifle up? It’s in the basement fridge.”
Holly’s heart raced with excitement. This was it. The final phase.
Moving stealthily, she swiped Max’s half-empty can of Pepsi from the side table and hid it behind her back.
A second later, Max turned and frowned. “Where’d my drink go?”
Holly blinked innocently. “My mom probably tossed it while tidying. There’s more in the basement.”
Max sighed and stood, heading for the powder room first.
The instant she disappeared, Holly sprang into action, sneaking past her already snoozing dad. Silent as a mouse, she stepped into the shoes she’d left by the side door and slipped outside.
Her breath puffed out in big clouds as she sprinted around the back of the house.
She peeked in through the window in the basement door. Mike was crouched, leaning into the fridge to carefully take out the trifle.
Holly crept inside, tiptoeing to the space beneath the stairs just as the door at the top opened.
Max.
The timing couldn’t be more perfect. This was actually going to work!
Standing on her tiptoes, Holly reached over to the wooden post where she'd tied the end of her dad’s fishing line earlier that day.
It had been quite the feat—balancing precariously on a stack of chairs, looping it over a ceiling beam. And, at the end of it, dangled the sprig of plastic mistletoe that had been sitting in her desk drawer for the past month.
Max started descending the stairs just as Mike turned around, his eyes on the glass trifle bowl in his hands.
Holly slowly unwound the fishing line, lowering the mistletoe until it hung perfectly over the middle of the staircase landing.
“Oh,” Max said, halting abruptly when she noticed Mike.
He startled, nearly fumbling the trifle. “Uh, hey.”
Holly held her breath, bouncing with excitement as she peered through the gaps in the steps. Showtime.
Max stepped fully onto the basement floor. Right beneath the mistletoe.
“Thanks again for the sticker,” she said softly. “I feel kinda bad I didn’t get you anything.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” Mike swallowed, adjusting the trifle like it weighed a hundred pounds. “I’m, uh… glad you came tonight.”
Max smiled. And then her eyes drifted upward. “Oh.”
Mike followed her gaze.
His eyes widened. “Oh… uh…” He shuffled his feet, gripping the bowl a little tighter. “I wonder who put that there.”
Max laughed softly—the warm, teasing kind reserved for people she trusted. “Well… I guess we have to, then, right?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Mike swallowed hard. “Yeah… yeah, I guess we do. I mean, if you want.” His voice was shaky, and he shifted from one foot to the other, looking incredibly flustered.
Holly could barely contain her glee. Her hand clapped over her mouth as she watched the scene unfold. Oh my gosh… this is happening…
Slowly, almost hesitantly, they leaned toward each other. First a foot forward, then a hand adjusting nervously—Mike’s still holding the trifle bowl—and then, finally, their lips met.
It was awkward and sweet and so them. Max’s hands found his shoulders. Mike leaned just a fraction closer, a tiny, brave move.
Holly stifled a scream, pressing her back against the wall.
When they pulled apart, both of them were flushed—Mike’s ears practically glowing, Max’s cheeks pink and eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and happiness.
“Uh… Merry Christmas, Max,” Mike murmured, sounding both sheepish and completely enamoured.
Max smirked. “Merry Christmas, Wheeler,” she said, giving him a playful nudge with her shoulder before stepping around him to the fridge.
The stairs creaked above Holly’s head as Mike carried the trifle up, completely dazed. A few seconds later, Max followed, Pepsi in hand and a small, giddy smile on her face.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Holly dropped the fishing line and collapsed backward into the shadows beneath the stairs, shaking with silent, unstoppable joy.
She did it.
She did it.
Her entire body felt lit up like a Lite-Brite. She clapped both hands over her mouth to smother the shriek clawing its way up her throat, her legs kicking wildly in the air as she wiggled silently in place.
Her plan. Her month-long, carefully orchestrated, borderline-spy-level plan…
WORKED!
Operation Mistletoe wasn’t just successful.
It was legendary.
Holly rolled onto her knees and pressed her face into her hands to muffle the gleeful scream anyway.
Then she whispered, to the dusty beams and storage boxes around her, “YES. YES YES YES. I AM A GENIUS.”
She pumped her fists like that boxer at the top of the stairs. She would remember this moment forever.
She was nine years old and she had changed the course of romantic history. She was basically Cupid. Cupid with a fishing line.
Slowly, she crawled out from her hiding place, smoothing her dress and taming her static-filled hair, her grin stretching so hard her cheeks ached.
She padded towards the stairs, practically floating, because tonight? Tonight, she wasn’t just Holly Wheeler.
She was Holly Wheeler, Matchmaker Extraordinaire.
Operation Mistletoe: COMPLETE