objects in session: 11.0

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“Seriously,” Lorelei muttered, her eyebrow arching in exaggerated disbelief. “Every year you drag me into these ridiculous traditions, and now we’re… what? Supposed to kiss under some parasitic plant I didn’t even bother to hang?” The question held a defensive edge, a slight tremor the breeze couldn’t account for.

Viktorie’s grin bloomed, wide and uninhibited, her eyes catching the reflection of the plaza’s twinkling lights like scattered stardust. "Exactly! And it's fun! It’s just a little mistletoe thing, Lorelei. Totally harmless!" She leaned in slightly, a playful glint in her gaze, an almost irresistible enthusiasm radiating from her. “Come on, sassy-pants. Friends can do this, right?” The word "friends" hung in the air, a convenient, fragile bridge over unspoken depths.

Lorelei’s lip gave a tell-tale twitch, the corners of her mouth warring with the stern line she usually maintained. She rolled her eyes, a performance for the benefit of anyone watching (and for her own internal defenses), but she didn't step back. Her heart, however, did a complicated little flip. "Fine. Friends… nothing more. Don’t get any ideas," she managed, the warning undercut by a surprising tremor of warmth in her voice that betrayed more than she intended. It was a line she'd practiced for years, a shield against feelings she feared, but tonight, it felt thinner, more brittle.

Viktorie’s hands drifted, a feather-light invitation, towards Lorelei’s shoulders. She didn’t push, respecting the invisible boundary, yet her readiness to guide Lorelei closer was palpable. “Just a quick one,” she promised, her voice a low, teasing murmur as she leaned in, her scent – warm, joyful, distinctly Viktorie – filling the space between them. “A friend one. Promise.” The playful assurance was a balm and a dare.

And then, it happened. Their lips met in a fleeting, tender press. It was soft, a breath of laughter trapped between them, brimming not with the casualness of long-time friends, but with a stirring, potent intimacy that had been simmering unspoken for years. Lorelei stiffened, a fractional moment of internal panic, her ingrained resistance flaring, before a surprising, delicious warmth spread through her, melting her sass into a quiet, almost vulnerable surrender. Viktorie pulled back first, a triumphant, knowing grin playing on her lips, her eyes dancing with victory. Lorelei let out a soft huff, a last vestige of her accustomed defiance, but she couldn't quite hide the small, unbidden smile that crept onto her face. Her cheeks, she realized, were faintly, deliciously pink.

“Ugh… fine." Lorelei muttered, shaking her head, the words a whisper against the festive din. “Happy now?”

Viktorie laughed, a bright, clear sound that chimed like the bells of the season. “Very. Totally. The absolute best!”

Lorelei’s gaze softened, a delicate shift only Viktorie would notice. The battle within her had quieted, at least for now. “Alright… yes, friends do this… and I guess I don’t hate it,” she admitted, the confession feeling monumental, a brave step into uncharted territory.

Nearby, the river, a shimmering ribbon through the Egyptian-themed plaza, caught the holiday lights, reflecting a thousand golden embers. For a brief, magical moment, under the watchful gaze of the mistletoe, the world outside them seemed to recede. All that remained was the quiet hum of the festival, the warmth of the air, and the profoundly thrilling, perfectly balanced feeling within Lorelei’s chest.

Laughter, bright and effervescent as winter air, wove through the crowded plaza, a festive current carrying the sweet, comforting scent of cinnamon sugar and hot cocoa. Beneath the twinkling holiday lights, Themistoklis smoothed the lapel of his impeccably tailored coat, an act of practiced grace that proclaimed the prince he aspired—and often managed—to be. Beside him, Boontung was a study in unexpected refinement. His usually unruly hair was tamed, his uniform—certainly "borrowed" by Themistoklis—was pressed to a shipshape perfection. Yet, even in this borrowed finery, Boontung exuded a raw, almost unwilling polish, a quiet strength that made the formal wear look less like a costume and more like a second skin. Tucked between their contrasting presences, Dulcinea seemed to shrink, her fingers a frantic blur against the hem of her sweater, her gaze darting like a trapped bird between the two men.