The next afternoon, Juniper hesitated at the entrance to a café, trying to put herself in a more open state of mind. It helped that even outside it smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and chocolate. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, opened the door, and took in the scene. Twinkling lights lined the windows, and garlands framed the menu board above the counter. The place had a cozy charm, the kind that felt almost too quaint to be real. Eve stood from a table near the entrance. “Isn’t it cute? You should relax—you might actually enjoy this one.” Juniper shot her a skeptical look. “You said the same thing about sledding, and I ended up in a snowbank.” Eve grinned, raising her camera. “I stand by it. Now, go. He’s waiting.”

Juniper stared at the blinking cursor on her computer screen, the white space of her document mocking her lack of focus. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but instead of words, all she could summon was the memory of Eve’s lips brushing against hers—the warmth, the closeness, the way time had seemed to freeze for just that one perfect moment. And then the aftermath. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Eve had said, her voice tight, her eyes wide with panic. “I’m sorry,” Before Juniper could even process what had happened, Eve had disappeared into the snowy night, leaving Juniper standing outside the karaoke bar, stunned and speechless.

The karaoke bar was a sensory overload. Twinkling Christmas lights were strung across every surface, reflecting off garlands and ornaments that dangled precariously from the ceiling. A small stage at the far end of the room was framed by a glowing arch that spelled out Holiday Hits! in blinking red and green. Juniper stood near the entrance, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Who thought this was a good idea?” she muttered, eyeing the crowd of enthusiastic singers waiting for their turn at the microphone. Eve, standing beside her, snapped a photo of the stage before grinning at Juniper. “Marcus. Your date. Remember?”

The park was a postcard-perfect winter wonderland. Snow blanketed the ground in soft, glittering mounds, and children zipped down the sledding hill, their laughter ringing out over the crisp morning air. Juniper stood at the base of the hill, her gloved hands jammed into her coat pockets, silently cursing whoever invented snow. “I can’t believe I’m working on a Saturday.” Juniper muttered to herself. “You’re glaring at that hill like it personally offended you,” Eve said, appearing at her side with her camera slung around her neck.

The next morning, Juniper sat at her office desk, trying to decide how best to describe the disaster that was her date with Todd without outright calling it a disaster. She typed: “When ‘Tim’—name changed to protect the guilty—suggested an ugly sweater contest as part of our date, I didn’t think much of it.” Juniper leaned back, suppressing a groan. “How do I make this sound charming instead of tragic?” As if on cue, Eve walked in the opening of her cubicle. She was carrying a tote bag that jingled faintly with every step. “Hey,” Eve said. “You look way too serious for someone writing about ugly sweaters.”

The next day, Juniper sat at her desk glaring at her monitor as if sheer willpower could conjure up a legitimate excuse to bail on the assignment. She had just turned in the draft of her first article about the round of speed dating she had endured the night before. *Snowflakes and Soulmates*. Just saying it in her head made her cringe. The problem was that Max wasn’t wrong. These “fluff pieces” performed well, and despite her aspirations for more hard-hitting journalism, Juniper couldn’t deny that her last feel-good feature on therapy dogs had quadrupled the traffic of her investigative report on city zoning laws. She couldn’t fight analytics.

Juniper Carver stormed into her editor’s office, her heels clicking against the linoleum like tiny gavel strikes. “Max, tell me you’re joking,” she said, dropping a stapled memo onto his cluttered desk. “Snowflakes and Soulmates? Seriously?” Max Stevens, a middle-aged man with a coffee-stained tie and the air of someone who’d been in the newspaper business long enough to lose the sparkle of idealism, didn’t even look up. He clicked his pen twice, underlining something on a manuscript. “Nice to see you, too. How’s the holiday season treating you?” “Don’t deflect,” Juniper snapped, crossing her arms. “I want to write about real things. City issues. Politics. Not fluff pieces about awkward holiday dating.”