objects in session: 11.0

ctrl + escape.

Just overhead, a fourth sprig of mistletoe swayed gently, a festive, leafy trap dangling them into the holiday's age-old custom.

“Well,” Themistoklis purred, his head tilting, a smile playing on his lips that was half mischief, half undeniable charm. “What a… fortuitous little snare we’ve stumbled into. Three souls. One sprig.” He gestured languidly toward the greenery. His voice, a low current, was rich and indulgent. “Rules are rules, after all.”

Boontung snorted, a rough sound, yet noticeably softer than the cutting edge it once held. “Hah. You just like making excuses to be a menace.” Still, he didn’t shift away, his broad shoulder a solid, reassuring anchor against Dulcinea’s, a silent protection beneath his gruff pronouncement.

Dulcinea’s cheeks flared crimson, her gaze dropping to the cobbled plaza. “I-I can’t… I’ve never…-”

Themistoklis leaned in, just a breath, his eyes glinting with a calculated charm. “Oh, but you’ve given before, haven’t you, dear Dulcinea?” His voice dropped, a velvet whisper tracing a shared memory. “I still recall… that Sunday morning. A small box of cupcakes, placed so delicately at the altar. Sweet, soft, a taste of… profound care.” He smirked, his eyes crinkling at the corners with knowing delight. “I wonder who could have left those just for me?”

Her eyes, wide with sudden recognition, met his. She remembered. Her hands, more active than ever, worried the fabric of her sweater as her voice, a threadbare whisper, confessed, “…Me.”

Themistoklis’s lips curled into a slow smile, his princely patience now laced with an almost teasing cruelty. He tilted his head closer still. “Speak up, love. Don’t hide such sweetness.”

Her voice cracked, louder now, a fragile bell ringing. “Me! It… it was me.”

The smug grin softened, melting into something undeniably warmer, more genuine. “Mm, I knew it. Still, hearing you say it… makes them taste even better.”

Boontung’s low chuckle rumbled, a surprising vibration beside her. “No wonder he’s never stopped bragging about those cupcakes. Should’ve guessed it was you, Dulcinea. The sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.” The last words, spoken with a rare, unexpected gentleness, were followed by his hand, hovering for a moment, then settling lightly on her shoulder.

Caught between their twin presences, a warmth began to bloom in Dulcinea’s chest, her timidness finally beginning to melt. She looked up, a small, genuine smile curving her lips. “You’re both… ridiculous,” she whispered, but the affection in her voice was unmistakable.

Themistoklis raised a sculpted brow, the mistletoe’s shadow falling like a benediction over their small circle. “Ridiculous, perhaps. But rules are rules, darling.” He leaned in, a slow, deliberate movement, just as Boontung mirrored him from the other side. Their lips met hers, one after the other—a gentle, sweet press that first caused Dulcinea to tremble with surprise, then to softly, irrevocably, melt into the affection.

The crowd nearby whooped with festive agreement and laughter, but the three remained, locked in their own quiet, shimmering orbit. Themistoklis, his thumb tracing a feather-light path across her flushed cheek, smirked. “Mm. Sweeter than any cupcake.” Boontung rolled his eyes, a familiar exasperation, but a soft smile played at his lips. “Told you she was the sweetest.” Dulcinea, blazing crimson from her collarbone to her hairline, ducked her head, but her feet stayed planted, utterly unwilling to move away.

The festive din, a symphony of distant carols and clinking glasses, seemed to recede, drawing a velvet curtain around Sakura and Vequain. They found themselves ensnared beneath the last sprig of mistletoe, its emerald leaves a delicate counterpoint to the warm, honeyed glow of a nearby string of lights that haloed them like an intimate stage. Sakura's heart performed a nervous staccato against her ribs, her fingers fussing with the embroidered hem of her deep plum dress. A blush, a familiar betrayer, crept up her neck, painting her cheeks a vivid rose. She managed a small, hesitant smile, a wisp of a gesture caught between shyness and a desperate hope.