Mark dreamt he was being squeezed by a boa constrictor. He awoke to find the nightgown twisted around his body like a rope wrung from both ends, cotton fabric coiled and cinched until he could barely breathe. He sat up, trying to pull it straight, the fabric sliding over his skin.

Having wrestled the nightgown into submission, the rest of it all came back to him. The missing suitcase. Emma's note. Being trapped in this role for two more days.

He threw back the covers and went to the bathroom, the nightgown flowing around his bare legs. In the mirror, his reflection looked tousled, androgynous. His hair was a mess of waves from sleeping on it styled. His face, bare of makeup, looked softer than he remembered.

Mark splashed water on his face and tried to wake up properly. It was seven-thirty. Claire's delivery was supposed to arrive this morning.

His phone buzzed. A text from Emma.

Emma: morning! Claire should have dropped off clothes by now, check the door. also, u should talk to Elise at Classic Beauty. her team does hair/makeup for all the pageant kids. opens at 9.

Mark: I look like I slept in yesterday's hairstyle

Emma: then it's perfect timing to visit a salon 😊

Mark found a garment bag hanging on his door handle. He brought it inside and unzipped it.

This was not Emma's practical wardrobe.

There were several outfits: dark indigo jeans in a tight women's cut, paired with a cream blouse that had flutter sleeves and a bow at the neck. A burgundy pleated skirt that would hit above the knee, with a fitted black sweater. A wine-red velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline and delicate crystal details. Formal, for the festival.

There were shoes. Black ankle boots with a chunky three-inch heel. Brown knee-high riding boots. Classic black pumps with a thin heel he was fairly certain wouldn't support his weight.

Underneath were packages of tights, delicate panties, and several matching bras of various styles and colors.

A note from Claire: "These should get you through the rest of your stay. I erred on the side of style. Show these small-town folks what LA fashion looks like! -Claire"

Mark sat on the bed, holding the velvet dress. It was beautiful. Soft and feminine and exactly the kind of thing an attractive woman might wear to a Christmas pageant.

There was no way in hell he was wearing it.

Mark took a breath and started with the basics. New underwear. Black, high-waisted this time, more fitted than yesterday's, lace accents that tickled as they settled into place. A matching black bra, which he was getting marginally better at fastening. The forms slipped into the soft cups with their now-familiar weight.

He looked at his options. The dress was too much. Too obviously feminine. The jeans caught his eye. Actual pants. The most masculine option available, even if they were women's jeans.

Mark pulled them on. They were tight-incredibly tight-the stretchy denim clinging to his legs as he worked them up. He had to lie on the bed to zip them, sucking in his stomach. The waistband sat high, squeezing his middle. The fabric molded to every curve of his legs and hips.

He stood and looked in the mirror.

The jeans fit well through the legs and hips, emphasizing curves he didn't remember having. But at the crotch-

Mark frowned. He could see the clear outline of his penis through the tight denim. The jeans were designed for a woman's body, flat in front, and his very male anatomy was very obvious.

He couldn't wear these. Not without giving himself away immediately.

"Damn it," Mark muttered, struggling to peel the jeans back off. They clung stubbornly, and he had to shimmy and pull to get them down his legs.

Fine. The skirt then.

The burgundy skirt was shorter than Emma's had been, hitting a few inches above his knee. It was pleated, the fabric falling in neat folds that swished and moved with every movement. He stepped into it and zipped it up the side. The pleats settled around his hips, the skirt flaring slightly when he moved. More leg showing than yesterday, which made Mark immediately uncomfortable.

He was going to freeze in this. Tights. He needed tights. He found a new black pair in the bag, sheer and delicate, and slowly rolled them up his legs.

The fitted black sweater came next. It was soft, clinging to the breast forms and tapering at his waist. The neckline was a simple scoop, showing his collarbones and the delicate gold necklace. He stepped into the black ankle boots with their three-inch heels.

Mark looked at himself in the mirror.

More feminine than yesterday. The shorter skirt showed a lot more leg. The fitted sweater emphasized his narrow waist and the swell of the breast forms. His hair was a disaster, though-flattened on one side, wild on the other.

He tried to fix it with water and a comb, but it was hopeless.

And his body-

Mark turned to the side, examining his profile. His waist definitely looked smaller than yesterday. His hips wider, filling out the skirt perfectly.

That wasn't possible. Bodies didn't change overnight. It was just the waist of the skirt sitting so high, he wasn't used to it. That's all it is.

Mark forced himself to stop looking. He was imagining things.

He grabbed his coat, phone, and purse-the weight familiar now on his shoulder-and headed downstairs.

At nine-thirty, Mark walked into Classic Beauty. The space was small but cheerful, decorated with tinsel and twinkling lights.

"You must be Holly!" A woman in her fifties approached, blonde hair styled in perfect waves. "I'm Elise. Emma said you wanted to chat about the salon's role in the pageant?"

"That's right," Mark said, pulling out his notebook. "I understand you do hair and makeup for everyone?"

"We do! Every single one of them. It's organized chaos, but we love it." Elise gestured to a chair. "Please, sit. We can talk while I work."

"While you work?"

"Well, honey, you can't do interviews looking like you just rolled out of bed." Elise smiled warmly. "Let me give you a proper blow-out, maybe trim those ends a bit. We can talk during-I promise I'll give you everything you need for your article."

Mark's heart hammered. "I really don't want to take up your time-"

"Nonsense. Multitasking." Elise was already sectioning his hair with clips. "Jamie! Can you come do Holly's nails while I handle her hair?"

A younger woman with pink streaks in her dark hair appeared. "Sure thing. Hi, I'm Jamie."

"Holly," Mark managed, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

"Let's get you set up." Jamie pulled over a small table and arranged her supplies. "Hands here, please."

Mark placed his hands on the white towel while Elise began working on his hair behind him. It felt strange-two people working on him simultaneously while he was supposed to be conducting an interview.

"So," Mark said, trying to focus, "how many children are usually in the pageant?"

"About twenty," Elise said, trimming his ends with quick, precise snips. "Ages five to twelve. We start planning in November."

Jamie had started removing yesterday's polish, the acetone smell sharp in the air. "The littlest ones are always angels," she added. "They're so cute in the wings and halos."

"Luke Shepherd's daughter Lily is an angel this year, right?" Mark asked.

Elise's hands paused briefly in his hair. "She is. She's been so excited about it." Her voice softened. "I'm glad she'll have this memory. With Luke selling the farm and everything..."

"You've heard about that?"

"Everyone's heard." Elise resumed cutting, her scissors making soft snicking sounds. "It's all anyone can talk about, really. We're trying to stay positive, but..." She sighed. "This might be our last real festival. Without the farm as a draw, I don't know if tourists will keep coming."

"What color for your nails?" Jamie held up several bottles.

"Whatever you think," Mark said.

"Berry. It's festive." Jamie shook the bottle and began painting. The brush strokes were cool and precise, coating each nail in deep burgundy. "So are you going to write about the farm situation in your article?"

"I'm not sure yet," Mark admitted. "I'm still gathering information."

"You should talk to Luke," Elise said, blow-drying a section of his hair now, the heat warm against his scalp. "Though he doesn't like talking about it. He's pretty closed off since Emily died."

"I'm interviewing him this afternoon, actually."

"Good luck with that." Elise worked methodically, creating volume with her round brush. "He can be... difficult."

"Okay, don't move your hands at all," Jamie said, applying topcoat. "They need at least twenty minutes to dry. I'm going to do your brows while you wait."

"My brows?"

"They need shaping," Elise said matter-of-factly. "Nothing dramatic."

Jamie positioned Mark's head back and examined his eyebrows. She held up tweezers. "This'll sting."

It did. Each hair she plucked sent a sharp pain across his brow bone. Mark tried not to flinch, his hands still carefully immobile on the armrests, berry nails gleaming wetly. He couldn't take notes like this, couldn't do anything but sit still while Jamie reshaped his brows.

"So what made you want to cover a small-town festival?" Elise asked, curling another section of his hair.

"My editor thought it would make a good holiday piece," Mark said, trying to hold still for Jamie. "Human interest, community traditions, that sort of thing."

"Are you enjoying Pine Hollow so far?"

Mark thought about the past day and a half. The charade, the stolen suitcase, the way people had welcomed him so warmly. "It's been... interesting."

"That's diplomatic," Jamie said with a laugh, still plucking. "Emma mentioned your luggage situation. That must be stressful."

"Claire's been very generous."

"Claire's the best," Elise agreed. She stepped back to examine his hair-now styled in soft, glossy waves with professional layers framing his face. "There. Much better. Now, Jamie's going to do your lashes while I attend to another customer."

"Lashes?"

"They'll make your eyes look amazing. Now close your eyes and don't move." Jamie positioned his head into the light. "This takes concentration."

Mark closed his eyes and felt Jamie's fingers on his face. The process was painstaking-he could feel liquid being applied to his eyelids, cool then warming as it dried.

"So the pageant is on the last night of the festival?" Mark asked, eyes still closed, trying to maintain the interview.

"Right before the dance," Jamie said. "The kids perform at seven, then everyone heads to the dance at eight. It's the highlight of the whole festival."

Jamie worked in silence for a while. It took twenty minutes per eye-forty minutes total of sitting perfectly still, feeling like weight was accumulating on his lids.

"Okay, open," Jamie said finally.

Mark blinked carefully. His lashes felt heavy, thick. When he blinked, he could feel them moving, brushing against his skin. Jamie handed him a mirror.

His eyes looked completely different. Larger, more open, framed by dark, full lashes that curled dramatically upward. Combined with the shaped brows-no longer heavy but defined and arched-his face looked softer. More delicate. Feminine.

"Let's do your makeup," Elise said, returning. "Don't want you heading to the tree farm without your full face on."

She narrated each step as she applied it, apparently assuming Mark was interested in learning the latest makeup styles and techniques. Foundation smoothed with a damp sponge. Concealer under his eyes. Powder to set everything. Neutral eyeshadow in browns and taupes. The new lash extensions made his eyes even more dramatic with the shadow. A thin line of eyeliner. Pencil to fill in and define his newly-shaped brows. Highlighter on his cheekbones. Soft pink blush. Finally, a rosy lipstick that complemented the berry nails.

Mark looked at himself in the salon mirror. The styled hair with its professional layers. The shaped brows and dramatic lashes. The polished makeup. The berry nails.

"Thank you," he said. "Both of you. This was... very helpful. For the article, I mean."

"Of course," Elise said warmly. She handed him a small makeup bag. "This should get you through the next few days. Powder for touch-ups, the lipstick, some remover wipes."

Mark stood, testing his balance in the heels, his reflection catching his eye again. The woman in the mirror looked polished, professional, ready for anything.

Except he wasn't a woman. And Mark didn't feel like he was ready for anything.

His jawline was still there if you looked closely. His shoulders still a bit broad for the sweater. But the overall effect...

"I hope you'll write something that shows what the festival really means to us," Jamie said quietly. "While we still have it."

There was that phrase again. While we still have it.

"I'll do my best," Mark promised.

By the time he walked out of the salon in a daze, Mark had great material for his article and looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine.

He hurried to his car, the heels clicking on the sidewalk, his styled hair bouncing with each step, the short skirt swishing around his thighs. Next up, the interview with Luke at his farm. He needed to get moving.

He caught his reflection in a shop window as he passed and stopped.

That woman-polished, pretty, with perfect hair and dramatic lashes and a short skirt showing off her legs-was him.

And in fifteen minutes, Luke was going to see him looking like this.

Mark's stomach fluttered with something that might have been nervousness or anticipation or both.

He got in his car and drove toward the tree farm, his heart pounding, ready or not for whatever came next.

The drive to Shepherd Tree Farm took Mark through the outskirts of Pine Hollow, past the last cluster of houses and into open country. Snow-covered fields stretched on either side of the road, dotted with evergreens. He turned down a long driveway marked by a weathered wooden sign: "Shepherd Tree Farm - Christmas Trees & Wreaths."

Mark's hands were tight on the steering wheel, his berry-colored nails bright against the black leather. The farmhouse came into view, a two-story structure with white siding and dark green shutters, smoke curling from the chimney. Beyond it were rows and rows of Christmas trees, their branches heavy with snow. A red barn stood to one side.

He pulled into the cleared parking area and killed the engine. For a moment, he just sat there, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. The dramatic lashes. The perfectly styled hair with its professional layers. The shaped, filled brows. He looked more convincing than ever.

And he was about to spend the afternoon alone with Luke.

Mark grabbed his purse and notebook, then stepped out of the car.

The cold hit him like a wall.

Wind whipped across the open fields, cutting through his sweater instantly. Mark wrapped his arms around himself, shivering hard. His coat-where was his coat?

The salon. He'd left it at the salon, so dazed from hours of being plucked and painted that he'd walked out without it.

"Shit," he muttered, his breath misting in the air. Too late to go back now. Luke was expecting him at noon. Mark walked quickly toward the farmhouse, his heels sinking into snow-dusted gravel, the wind making his carefully styled hair whip around his face.

Movement caught his eye. Luke was by the barn, stacking firewood. He wore jeans and a dark green flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up despite the cold. When he heard Mark's car door, he looked up.

And stopped. Just froze mid-motion, a piece of firewood in his hands, staring.

Mark felt heat creep up his neck despite the cold. He could see Luke taking it all in: the styled hair, the dramatic lashes, the burgundy pleated skirt blowing in the wind, the fitted black sweater, the boots with their three-inch heels.

Luke set down the firewood slowly, still staring. Then he seemed to catch himself and walked over, his expression shifting back to something more guarded. "You're late."

"I'm sorry. The salon took longer than-" Mark shivered hard, wrapping his arms tighter around himself.

Luke's eyes narrowed. "Where's your coat?"

"I forgot it. At the salon. I wasn't thinking-"

"City people." Luke shook his head, but there was something almost amused in his tone. "You're going to freeze. Come on."

He walked toward the farmhouse without waiting, and Mark followed carefully, his heels wobbling on the gravel. Luke held the door open, and Mark stepped into blessed warmth.

The interior was cozy. Hardwood floors, exposed beams, a stone fireplace with a fire crackling. Photos covered the mantle and walls. Luke and Lily. An older couple. And a beautiful dark-haired woman who must have been Emily.

"Wait here." Luke disappeared down a hallway and returned a moment later with a puffy winter coat, deep purple with faux-fur trim around the hood. He held it out. "You'll need this if we're going outside."

Mark hesitated. "I couldn't-"

"It was my wife's." Luke's voice was matter-of-fact, but something flickered in his expression. "She'd have wanted someone to use it. Better than sitting in a closet."

Mark took the coat, the fabric soft and well-cared-for. He pulled it on. It fit perfectly. The sleeves were the right length, the shoulders aligned, the way it closed around his body felt natural.

Luke looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Looks good," he said finally, then cleared his throat. "Coffee?"

"Please."

While Luke was in the kitchen, Mark looked around. The house felt lived-in, loved. Lily's drawings on the refrigerator. A basket of toys in the corner. Books stacked on the coffee table. This was Luke's life, real and grounded and nothing like Mark's sterile apartment in Los Angeles.

Luke returned with two mugs. "Cream and sugar?"

"Just black."

They sat at opposite ends of the couch, the space between them deliberate. Mark pulled out his notebook. "So, tell me about the farm. How long has it been in your family?"

"Three generations." Luke's tone was professional, distant. "My wife's family started it in 1962. Her grandfather, then her father. I took over when we got married."

"And how long-"

"She died three years ago." Luke sipped his coffee. "Anything else?"

Mark tried a different approach. "What varieties of trees do you grow?"

"Douglas fir, Noble fir, some Nordmann firs." Luke's answers were brief, factual. "We plant new trees every year to replace what we harvest."

This was like pulling teeth. Mark tried again. "I heard from several people in town that the farm is really the heart of the festival. That families come back year after year-"

"They do."

"Can you tell me what that means to you? The tradition of it?"

Luke was quiet for a moment, looking into his coffee. "It meant something to Emily. Her family built this place. Created something that mattered to people." He looked up, his eyes meeting Mark's. "But traditions don't last forever."

"Because you're selling."

Luke's jaw tightened. "Who told you that?"

"Sarah. And Claire. And Tom, and Jennifer, and pretty much everyone I've talked to." Mark kept his voice gentle. "It seems like the whole town knows."

"Then I guess you don't need to hear it from me."

"I'd like to. If you're willing to talk about it."

"It's not really relevant to your article," Luke said, standing. "You're here to write about the festival. Not my personal decisions."

"The farm is part of the festival. And losing it-"

"Will be fine." Luke's voice was harder now. "The town will adapt. They'll find something else to draw tourists. Life goes on."

"Does it?" Mark asked quietly.

Luke looked at him sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just wonder if you're really okay with this. Selling your wife's family legacy to a tech company that's going to put your neighbors out of business."

"That's none of your concern."

"Maybe not. But I've talked to a lot of people in the past two days. And they all say the same thing. Luke's a good man, but he's been different since Emily died. Closed off. Going through the motions." Mark stood, closing his notebook. "I'm not trying to judge you. I'm just trying to understand."

Luke's expression was tight, controlled. "Look. You came all this way. I'll show you the farm. Give you the full tour. And you can write whatever you want about traditions and community and the importance of Christmas spirit." His tone was bitter. "But don't pretend you know anything about what I've been through."

He grabbed his work jacket from a hook by the door. "Coming?"

Mark followed him outside, the purple coat warm against the wind. Luke walked quickly between the rows of trees, pointing out different varieties with clipped, professional explanations. Mark took notes, asked questions, tried to keep up in his heels.

"These ones are seven years old," Luke said, touching a branch. "They'll be ready next season." He paused. "Not that it matters. They'll all be clear-cut by spring. Make room for the servers and the power lines."

"You don't sound happy about that."

"I'm realistic about it." Luke kept walking. "The farm barely breaks even anymore. Big box stores sell artificial trees for half the price. People don't want to drive out to the country and cut their own tree when they can pick one up while grocery shopping."

"But the people I've talked to-"

"Are being sentimental. Which is sweet, but sentiment doesn't pay the bills." Luke stopped walking and turned to face him. "You want the truth? I'm tired. This place reminds me every day of what I lost. Emily loved this farm. It was her dream, her legacy. But it's not mine. And I can't keep running it just because it makes other people feel good about tradition."

There was pain in his voice, raw and real. Mark took a step closer.

"What if it's not just about other people?" Mark asked. "What if it's about Lily? About giving her roots, a place that's hers?"

"Lily will be fine. Kids are resilient." But Luke's voice wavered slightly.

"Are they? Or do they just learn to hide their grief because their parents are hiding theirs?"

Luke's eyes flashed. "You don't know anything about my daughter."

"You're right. I don't." Mark held his gaze. "But I know what it's like to go through the motions. To chase the next thing, the next story, the next city, because staying still means feeling everything you're trying to avoid."

The moment stretched between them, something shifting in the air. Then Luke's expression closed off again. "We should head back. It's getting cold."

They walked in silence, the purple coat keeping Mark warm, the wind carrying the scent of pine. At the farmhouse, Luke stopped.

"Look, I appreciate you coming out here. And I'm sorry if I was..." He trailed off. "It's been a long few years."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Luke looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment Mark thought he saw something in Luke's eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. Something that made his heart beat faster.

Then the moment broke.

"Dad!"

Lily burst out of the house, bundled in a pink puffy coat and boots. "You're back! And you brought Miss Marks!" She beamed at Mark. "Hi! Did you see the farm? Did Dad show you the trees? Did you pick a favorite?"

"He showed me everything," Mark said, smiling despite himself. Lily's enthusiasm was infectious.

"Are you coming ice skating tonight?" Lily asked, bouncing on her toes. "We're going to the rink in town. Everyone goes on festival weekend. It's so fun!"

"Oh, I don't think-"

"Please?" Lily looked up at him with huge, hopeful eyes. "You can skate with us! Dad's teaching me to go backwards."

Mark glanced at Luke, who looked trapped. "Lily, Miss Marks probably has other plans-"

"I don't, actually," Mark heard himself say. Maybe this would be his chance to get the real story out of Luke. "I'd love to come. If that's okay with your dad."

Luke's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He looked at Lily's excited face, then at Mark, then sighed. "If you want to come... we'll be there at six."

"Perfect," Mark said.

"Yay!" Lily grabbed Luke's hand. "This is going to be the best festival ever!"

"I should go," Mark said, suddenly feeling like he was intruding. "Thank you for the tour. And for the coat." He started to take it off.

"Keep it," Luke said. "You'll need it tonight. For skating."

"Are you sure?"

"It's just a coat." But the way Luke said it suggested it was more than that.

Mark walked back to his car, the coat warm around him, his heart beating against his ribs. In the rearview mirror, he could see Luke watching him drive away, Lily waving enthusiastically beside him.

This was getting complicated.

Mark touched the soft fabric of Emily's coat, felt the weight of the lash extensions, looked at his berry nails on the steering wheel.

Everything was getting complicated.

But for the first time since arriving in Pine Hollow, Mark wasn't entirely sure he minded.

Mark spent the afternoon conducting interviews: the mayor, the fire chief again for a few follow-up questions, a woman who ran the community center. Everyone was warm and welcoming, and no one looked at him twice. The skirt, the heels, the makeup, it was all just part of who they expected Holly Marks to be.

By five o'clock, he was back at the inn. He had an hour before meeting Luke and Lily at the ice rink. Mark went to his room and looked at himself in the mirror.

The makeup was holding up well-Elise's work was professional-but his lipstick had faded. Mark pulled out the cosmetics bag and carefully reapplied the rosy lipstick, trying to remember Elise's instructions. It took three tries, but the result was passable.

Mark stood and looked at the burgundy skirt he'd been wearing all day. Ice skating seemed like it would be easier in pants. He pulled out the dark indigo jeans from Claire's wardrobe, the ones that hadn't fit that morning.

Maybe he'd try again.

He stripped off the skirt and tights, then pulled on the jeans. The denim slid on more easily than he expected. Still tight, but manageable. The dark fabric stretched as he worked them up his legs, over his hips. When he reached to zip them, he had to adjust himself carefully, tucking everything downwards and backwards, as flat as possible.

He looked in the mirror.

The jeans fit. Really fit. His hips filled them out, creating curves that looked natural. His waist was narrow where the high waistband sat. And at the crotch-he turned to check from different angles-nothing obvious showed. The tight denim smoothed everything into a flat, feminine line.

"The jeans must have more stretch than I thought," Mark told himself. "Or I've gotten better at... arranging things."

He kept on the fitted black sweater from that morning and pulled on the brown knee-high boots. He zipped them over the jeans, the leather soft and supple. The look was casual, feminine, put-together.

Mark studied his reflection. The dark jeans tucked into the boots made his legs look impossibly long. His lashes were still dramatic, dark and full without any mascara. His eyebrows were perfectly shaped arcs. His hair fell in glossy layers around his face, still holding the style from this morning's blow-out.

He looked like he was getting ready for a date.

The thought should have bothered him more than it did.

Mark grabbed Emily's purple coat-it went well with the black and denim-and his purse, then headed downstairs.

The town square was beautiful at night-strings of white lights, the glow from surrounding shops, classic Christmas music playing from speakers. The temporary ice rink was crowded with skaters. Families, couples, teenagers.

Luke and Lily were waiting near the rental booth. Lily spotted him first and waved. "Holly! You came!"

"I promised, didn't I?"

"Have you ever been ice skating?"

"Not really, no."

"That's okay! Dad's really good. He can teach you." Lily grabbed his hand. "Come on, let's get you skates!"

Mark rented a pair of white figure skates and they found a bench. Mark laced his carefully, watching as Luke helped Lily with hers.

"So Lily," Mark said casually, pulling out his mental reporter toolkit, "are you excited about the pageant?"

"So excited! I get to wear wings and everything." Lily bounced in her seat. "Dad says I have to practice my line every night."

"What's your line?"

"'The angel said unto them, Fear not!'" Lily proclaimed dramatically. "I have to say it really loud so everyone can hear."

Mark glanced at Luke, who was focused on Lily's skates, but there was the ghost of a smile on his face. "That's a big responsibility."

"I know! Dad says I'm going to be perfect."

"I said you'd do great," Luke corrected gently. "Not quite the same thing."

Mark tried to leverage the moment. "It must mean a lot, continuing traditions like the pageant. Especially with the farm-"

"Ready?" Luke stood abruptly, cutting him off. His expression had closed. "Lily, stay where we can see you, okay?"

Right. Not talking about the farm. Mark mentally adjusted his approach.

They made their way to the rink entrance. Lily shot onto the ice immediately. "Come on!"

Luke stepped onto the ice, then turned and offered Mark his hand. Masculine courtesy.

Mark took it. The moment his skates hit the ice, his feet tried to slide out from under him. Luke's grip tightened, steadying him.

"Small steps," Luke said. "Don't lock your knees."

Mark tried to move forward. His ankles wobbled, his skates wanting to go in different directions. He'd spent the day trying to keep his balance in heels. This was worse.

"You really weren't kidding about never skating," Luke said.

"I'm from Los Angeles. We don't have a lot of ice."

"Fair point." Luke adjusted his grip, supporting more of Mark's weight. "Just relax into it. Push and glide."

They made slow progress around the rink. Mark focusing on not falling, Luke providing calm instruction.

After a few minutes, Mark tried again. "So how often do you bring Lily here?"

"Every winter. She loves it."

"That's sweet. Family traditions are-"

"Holly." Luke's tone was patient but firm. "I'm not doing an interview right now."

Mark felt his face flush. "Right. Sorry."

They skated in silence for a bit. Mark felt awkward, caught being too obvious. He was just trying to do his job, but Luke clearly had seen through it.

Lily circled back around them. "Dad! Remember that movie where the bad guys slip on the ice?"

"Which one, Lily-bug? That describes about five different movies."

"The one with the funny kid! He's all like-" Lily made an exaggerated surprised face and waved her arms.

Luke laughed. "The Wet Bandits."

"Yeah! That one's so funny."

Mark had no idea what they were talking about. Lily skated off again, and Luke glanced at him.

"You have no idea what we're talking about, do you?"

"Not really, no."

Luke looked genuinely surprised. "Wait, you've never seen Home Alone?"

"I've heard of it. Never watched it."

"That's..." Luke seemed to be struggling with this information. "That's like saying you've never had pizza."

"I've had pizza."

"But you haven't seen Home Alone." Luke was looking at him differently now. Curious, slightly baffled. "What about A Christmas Carol? Miracle on 34th Street? It's a Wonderful Life?"

"Nope."

"Elf? The Grinch? Even the claymation Rudolph?"

"I think I might have seen parts of some of these playing in airports," Mark admitted. "But no, not really."

"Are you Jewish?"

Mark laughed. "No. Just never really got into Christmas."

Luke had stopped skating, just holding Mark's hands to keep him steady while he processed this. "How is that possible? You're named Holly."

"Just my name."

"Still." Luke shook his head, but there was something almost amused in his expression now. "A woman named Holly who doesn't watch Christmas movies and doesn't celebrate Christmas, sent to cover a Christmas festival. That's..."

"Ironic?"

"It's something." Luke started skating again, pulling Mark along. "Must be lonely sometimes. Being on the outside of something everyone else shares."

Mark hadn't expected that. The empathy in Luke's voice, the understanding. He looked up and found Luke watching him with an expression that was no longer guarded. Just open, curious.

"Maybe a little," Mark admitted.

"Well," Luke said, and there was warmth in his voice now, "that's fixable. Christmas movies are easy. You just have to actually watch one."

"Is that an offer?"

Luke's expression shifted-something that might have been panic, or interest, or both. "I-maybe. Someday. If you're-"

Mark's skate caught on a rough patch of ice. His feet went out from under him, his balance completely gone. He was falling-

Luke caught him. Arms around his waist, pulling him close, steadying him before he could hit the ice.

For a moment they were inches apart, Luke's arms solid around him. They both froze.

Luke's eyes were very green this close. Mark could see the exact moment Luke registered how close they were, could feel his breath, could see something shift in his expression. Awareness, attraction, fear.

"I-" Luke started.

"Dad! Can we get hot chocolate? Please?"

Lily had appeared beside them, oblivious. Luke released Mark quickly, stepping back, his expression shuttering.

"Sure. Yeah. Hot chocolate sounds good."

He carefully offered Mark his hand again and guided him off the ice. The moment was over, and Luke's walls were back up.

They got hot chocolate from a vendor and found an empty bench. Lily sat between them, chattering about her friends, about school, about the pageant. Luke sipped his cocoa and looked anywhere but at Mark.

Mark could feel the tension radiating off him. Whatever Luke had felt during that moment on the ice, he was fighting it hard now.

"Holly!"

Mark turned to see Emma approaching, holding her own cup of cocoa, Jessica beside her. She was bundled in a long coat and scarf, her cheeks pink from the cold.

"I thought that was you," Emma said, her eyes taking in the scene: Mark in the tight jeans and black sweater, sitting next to Luke, Lily between them. Her smile was knowing. "How was the skating?"

"I only fell once," Mark said.

"She did great," Luke added with a smirk. "Natural athlete."

"I wouldn't go that far." Mark felt Emma's assessing gaze and tried not to squirm. "Luke caught me before I actually hit the ice."

"How chivalrous." Emma's smile widened. "Pine Hollow at Christmas... there's something in the air. The town has a way of giving people what they need, even when they don't know they need it."

Mark blinked at her.

"Oh! We're decorating the community center tomorrow morning for the pageant. Could use an extra pair of hands. You interested?"

"Sure. What time?"

"Nine? It's not glamorous-hanging garland, arranging flowers, setting up the stage. But it's a good way to see how everything comes together."

"I'd like that."

"Perfect." Emma glanced between Mark and Luke, something knowing in her expression. Luke was very focused on his hot chocolate. "Well, don't let me interrupt. Good night, you three."

She walked away, and Mark watched her go, wondering what she was thinking. Emma had orchestrated so much of this-the makeover, the stolen suitcase, the suggestions of who to interview. Was all of this part of her plan? Or was something else happening, something even Emma hadn't anticipated?

"She's intense," Luke observed. "But she means well. Emma's always been protective of Pine Hollow."

"I've noticed."

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, drinking their cocoa, watching people skate. Lily leaned against Mark's side, her energy finally waning.

"We should probably head home," Luke said reluctantly. "It's a school night, and someone's going to be exhausted tomorrow."

"I'm not tired," Lily protested, then yawned.

Luke smiled. "Sure you're not." He looked at Mark. "I can walk you back to your inn. If you want."

It wasn't enthusiastic, but it was an offer. Mark took it. "Sure. Thank you."

They started walking, Lily skipping ahead of them, pointing out Christmas lights and decorations. Luke kept his hands in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.

"I'm sorry," Mark said after half a block. "About earlier. Talking about Lily to try to get you to talk about the farm. That was..."

"Transparent?" Luke's tone was dry but not angry.

"Yeah. Pretty transparent."

"It's your job. I get it." Luke was quiet for a moment. "But Lily's not part of the story. She's just a kid who's going to lose the only home she's ever known because her dad can't keep it together."

The rawness in his voice made Mark's chest ache. "Luke-"

"Forget it." Luke shook his head. "Not your problem."

They walked in silence for another minute. The inn came into view ahead, warm light glowing from the windows. Lily had run ahead to look at a particularly elaborate window display.

Luke chuckled to himself. "You know, you showed up in Pine Hollow with no clothes, no coat... I'm surprised you even remembered your notebook. You're lucky this town is so welcoming."

Mark affected an exaggerated Southern belle accent: "Ah have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Luke laughed, more genuine this time. "Yes, you're a regular Blanche DuBois."

"I-wait, you know-"

Luke's expression shifted to mock offense. "What, tree farmers can't know Tennessee Williams?"

"No, I didn't mean-"

"We have books out here, Holly. Some of us even read them." But there was warmth in Luke's voice now, teasing.

Mark laughed, relieved. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong."

"It did." Luke smiled. Really smiled, for the first time all evening. "But I'll forgive you. This time."

They'd reached the inn. Lily ran back to them, and Luke put his hand on her shoulder.

Mark smiled. "Goodnight, Luke. Goodnight, Lily. Thanks for including me tonight."

"Goodnight, Blanche," Luke said, his eyes meeting Mark's. There was something in his expression. Warmth, humor, the ghost of that moment on the ice.

Then he turned and walked away, Lily's hand in his, leaving Mark standing on the inn's porch with his heartbeat loud in his ears.

He climbed the stairs to his room, exhausted but somehow energized. The evening had been awkward, tense, but it had ended well. Luke had smiled. Had teased him. Had walked him home.

Maybe he'd get Luke to open up. Maybe he'd get his story after all.

Back in his room, Mark stripped off his boots and peeled off the jeans, grateful to be free of the constricting denim. Then the sweater. Finally, he reached for the bra clasp.

The relief when he unhooked it was immediate. Mark shrugged out of the straps, pulled the bra and forms away from his chest, and-

Stopped.

The weight didn't disappear. Not completely.

Mark gaped down at his chest. There was still a swell there. Small, but undeniable. Real.

He touched them carefully. Soft tissue, warm to the touch. His fingers found his nipples-more sensitive than they'd ever been. When he pressed gently, he could feel the tissue beneath, warm and supple.

These weren't the forms. These were his.

Mark stared in the mirror. Small swells, not even an A-cup, but definitely there. The nipples were darker, more prominent. When he turned to the side, he could see the curve of them, the way they moved naturally with his body.

His hands were shaking. Did the breast forms cause this? Could this be a reaction to the silicone?

He ran his hands down his sides, feeling the narrow waist, the wider hips. Touched his face, softer skin, more delicate features. His thighs rounder, fuller. He pushed his panties to the floor and found himself smaller, his penis noticeably reduced, his testicles drawn up tight against his body.

His body had changed. Was changing. This wasn't clothing creating an illusion. This was real.

Emma's words echoed in his head. Magic. Emma had talked about magic. The town giving people what they needed.

Had Emma done this? Was this some kind of spell, some small-town witchcraft?

Or was he losing his mind?

Mark pulled on the white nightgown with shaking hands. The fabric settled against his new breasts, the lace collar soft against his throat. He looked at himself in the mirror.

A woman in a nightgown. Not a man in costume. A woman.

He needed answers.

He picked up his phone and typed and deleted ten different texts. Turns out there isn't any good way to ask someone "are you turning me into a woman" over SMS.

Tomorrow morning, he'd confront Emma. Demand to know what was happening to him, what she'd done, what "giving people what they need" actually meant.

He climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling, questions churning through his mind. When sleep finally came, it was fitful and shallow.

In the darkness, the magic continued its work.