objects in session: 11.0

ctrl + escape.

The air around them, previously buzzing with Waylon's confident energy, seemed to thicken, to hum with a different frequency as Orisabunmi advanced. Each step was deliberate, a quiet counterpoint to the city's festive chaos. Her presence wasn't loud or demanding; it was simply there, an unyielding force that superseded all others. She offered no smile, no verbal retort, merely a subtle lift of her chin, her eyes, dark and fathomless, fixing on him with an unwavering intensity.

The shift was instantaneous, a sudden, jarring tilt to Waylon's perfectly ordered world. It wasn't just his practiced charm that faltered but the very ground beneath his feet, the familiar script flipping to an unwritten page. The festive lights, moments ago a flattering backdrop, now seemed to highlight the sudden tremor in his composure. "Oh… uh…" The smooth, weaponized grin wavered and then dissolved, leaving a bewildered, almost impressionable expression in its place. His accustomed finger-gun gesture, an automatic flourish of cool, froze mid-air, a marionette suddenly cut from its strings. He opened his mouth, prepared to unleash a torrent of witty banter, of practiced flirtation, but the words tangled into an incoherent mess, stumbling over each other like drunken dancers. "Y-yeah, the mistletoe… uh… the mistletoe is… green." He winced inwardly at the sheer banality.

Orisabunmi remained silent, her stillness a potent counter-argument to his sudden disarray. Then, with the unhurried grace of a queen, she extended one hand, palm open, fingers slightly curled. There was no push, no pull, just an implicit, unshakeable expectation. It was an invitation, yes, but more so, a quiet command that resonated deep within Waylon's usually untouchable core.

A strange, unfamiliar sensation rippled through Waylon – less a physical collapse and more an absolute surrender of spirit. The sheer weight of her gaze, the quiet, unwavering dominance she exuded, didn't make him feel small; it made him feel seen, stripped of every artifice. Bashfulness, a foreign emotion, bloomed hotly beneath his skin. Without conscious thought, almost as if drawn by an invisible thread, he sank to one knee before her, the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses now reflecting only the bewildered awe in his own eyes. "O-okay… okay… I… I understand!" he managed, the words catching in his throat. Every carefully constructed wall had crumbled, leaving him utterly disarmed.

Orisabunmi's perfect composure remained unbroken, a testament to her unyielding self-possession. She tilted her head, a gesture so subtle it was almost imperceptible, then leaned in, closing the minuscule distance between them. In that moment, all the carefully constructed bravado Waylon had worn like a second skin for years simply dissolved, melting away like frost under the morning sun. He met her halfway, his lips finding hers in a contact that was at first soft, hesitant, a question whispered in the silence. Then, as if a dam had broken, the tentative press deepened, blossoming into a kiss that was surprisingly fierce, utterly consuming. His usual flirty bravado, his confident ease, vanished, replaced by a seismic rush of genuine awe, a trembling, nervous warmth that spread through his entire being, electrifying every nerve.

When they finally broke apart, the air shimmering between them, Waylon was a landscape of dishevelment. His sunglasses, usually so perfectly positioned, now sat askew on his nose, revealing the wide, dazed wonder in his eyes. A flush crept up his neck, painting his cheeks a deep crimson beneath the twinkling city lights. He attempted speech, a breathy, inadequate attempt. "Wow… you… you really know how to… uh…" He trailed off, the grand architect of witty comebacks utterly speechless, utterly undone.

Orisabunmi straightened, her movements precise, unhurried, as if the preceding moments had been nothing more than a casual observation. Her composure remained as unshakable as the earth itself. "It's called presence," she stated, her voice quiet but carrying the unwavering resonance of truth. Then, without another glance, without another word, she simply turned and walked away, leaving Waylon exactly where she had left him: still kneeling on the cold pavement, utterly smitten, completely humbled, and irrevocably changed, under the silent, knowing gaze of the mistletoe.