objects in session: 11.0

ctrl + escape.

The second mistletoe, a verdant sprig plump with waxy white berries, danced ever so slightly above them, nudged by the soft, almost imperceptible breath of the evening breeze. Calventia, a figure of serene dignity even amidst the bustling holiday crowd, leaned her weight lightly against the handles of Jean-Louis’ wheelchair, her elbow brushing the warm wool of his shoulder. A soft, contented sigh, a quiet melody of peace, escaped her lips, which were curved into a small, playful smile, her eyes half-lidded as if dreaming.

A current of restless energy, a bright, untamed spark within the soft fog of his mind, hummed through Jean-Louis, causing him to bounce gently in his seat. The impulse to speak, to share, fizzed and bubbled, yet his thoughts, like water through a sieve, struggled to form coherent ideas. “Uh… hey… C-Calventia… look… m-mistle… mistletoe!” he finally managed, a small, unsure hand pointing upward, his timing a beat behind the moment, as always.

Calventia’s chuckle was a murmur against the evening’s soft hum, a sound of pure, unadulterated affection. “Yeah, I see it, my love.” she murmured, her voice a soothing balm. She leaned in, a tender gravity in her motion, until their foreheads almost brushed, the faint, familiar scent of her hair—a memory of summer and lavender—filling his senses. “No rush, Jean. No need to hunt for words or worry over big things. Just… be here. With me.”

He blinked, a slow, deliberate processing inside, then again, as if clearing cobwebs from his vision. His usual bright eagerness flickered, subdued by the quiet depth of her presence, like a restless bird settling under a warm, steady hand. “O-okay… only… here… w-with you,” he echoed, nodding, a little slower than usual, his cheeks flushing a faint rose under her unwavering, gentle gaze.

Calventia didn’t wait for him to fully grasp the weight of her words. Instead, she leaned in further, a graceful curve of her body, resting her hands, warm and reassuring, on his shoulders to anchor herself by his side. Her whisper, “That’s perfect,” was a silken thread weaving through the air, smooth and rich and utterly certain. And then, in a slow, loitering descent, her lips met his. It was a kiss not of demand, but of gentle offering—soft, tender, unhasty, as if she were a skilled conductor, guiding the chaotic symphony of his spirit into a perfect, quiet harmony. She carried him gently through the suspended moment, rather than letting his own eager energy sweep them away.

Jean-Louis’ hands, light as butterflies, found purchase on her arms, a mixture of wide-eyed awe and hesitant joy blooming in his face. When she finally drew back, a breath of air separating them, he grinned, bright and guileless. “That… that was… re-real… nice…” he said, slightly breathless, his vocabulary simple, yet his feeling profound.

Calventia laughed, a silver chime in the quiet space they’d made, her fingers softly brushing a stray curl from his forehead, a tiny, loving adjustment. “Of course it was, Jean-Louis. You don’t need to worry about anything, ever. Just… let yourself feel it, dear one.”

With that, she eased back, just enough to give him space, to let him absorb the moment: the soft, twinkling embrace of the holiday lights, the distant, murmuring thrum of the holiday crowd, the crisp, sweet air – all a gentle hum beneath the echo of her unwavering love.

A gentle current of crisp air wove through the festive plaza, carrying with it the rich, sweet perfume of caramelized nuts and the sugar-spun delight of holiday confections. Above them, a third sprig of mistletoe, plump and vibrant green, undulated with a subtle motion, a silent conspirator in the festive air. Lorelei folded her arms, her gaze fixed on Viktorie with an intensity that usually bordered on playful challenge. But tonight, that familiar, sassy glare had softened, its sharp edges blurred by something akin to reluctant warmth, a quiet yielding that felt foreign and exhilarating.