objects in session: 11.0

ctrl + escape.

"Hey." Vequain's voice was a low, steady current in the buzzing quiet, a perfect counterpoint to her turmoil – calm, dry and as unyielding as polished stone. His gaze, undemanding and impossibly direct, traced a torpid path from the delicate curve of her collarbone down the sweep of her dress to the tips of her shoes. That unreadable intensity, that perfect placidity in his eyes, always managed to send a peculiar, delightful shiver through her. "That dress... it's... pretty divine."

Sakura's breath hitched, a stray strand of hair finding itself twisting around her finger. "D-Divine? Me?? You mean... it doesn't... fit right? Is it... too snug in some places?" Her voice, typically sweet and clear, now trembled with an almost imperceptible waver. Her eyes, wide with sudden self-consciousness, darted downwards. "I, um... I tend to... collect a little extra... here... and here..." She gestured vaguely, awkwardly, to her midsection and hips, a silent apology taking root in her mind for not being quite what she imagined he might prefer.

Without so much as a flicker of expression, Vequain's eyes, an anchor in her sea of doubt, found hers again. His voice, a low rumble, delivered a single, unadorned word..

"Plump."

Sakura froze, her entire face igniting with a mortifying crimson. "Plump... you mean... fat? Y-You're calling me-" Before the accusation could fully form, he blinked, once, slowly, his expression utterly unchanged. "No, Sakura. I mean full-figured. Shapely. With generous curves. Well-upholstered, if you prefer. Rounded. Perhaps... voluptuous. Even... stacked." The words, delivered with the earnestness of a man reciting scientific classifications, hung in the air, each one a hammer blow to her self-doubt, surprisingly, in the most flattering way.

From the fringes of the hushed crowd, Waylon, always ready to fan the flames of drama or delight, burst forth with an enthusiastic shout. "He's calling you busty! Buxom! Like, look—a fat hourglass!" He punctuated his exclamation with grand, exaggerated gestures, shaping an invisible woman in the air with his hands. Orisabunmi, perched like a sentinel nearby, landed a swift, sharp smack on his arm, her expression a masterclass in deadpan disapproval. "Waylon." she hissed, her tone a low, dangerous whisper that conveyed absolute offense without raising a single decibel that made Waylon grin nervously. The air crackled with the romantic tension Vequain had ignited, now delightfully complicated by the very public, very Waylon-esque translation.

A jubilant ripple of mirth swelled through the crowd, quickly erupting into a joyous roar of laughter. Sakura, her cheeks burning a furious scarlet, launched a frantic, feathery swat at Vequain’s arm. “Okay I get it! Sh-shush! Both of you!” she pleaded, her voice a mortified gasp, her arms winding protectively around her waist in a futile gesture against the tide of their amusement. A delicate blush, as soft as cherry blossoms, painted her skin, mirroring the inherent warmth that seemed to perpetually radiate from her, a sweetness so genuine it could soften even the hardest edges. Indeed, even Vequain, usually a fortress of composure, felt the subtle tremor of a smile pull at the very corner of his lips, a fleeting, almost imperceptible crack in his customary calm.

Vequain, a statue carved from quiet observation, maintained his usual unfazed demeanor, yet something profound shifted in the depths of his eyes—a glacial thaw. His gaze, now assuredly fixed on her, delivered his words with the kind of stark honesty Sakura found both unnerving and utterly captivating: “Curves suit you, Sakura.” There was no artifice, no coy flourish, only a precise observation laced with an affection that resonated deep within her, a truth spoken plainly.

A dizzying wave washed over Sakura, the ground beneath her suddenly less substantial. Her breath hitched, dissolving into a nervous, breathless giggle as her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The words, unbidden and urgent, tumbled out before she could second-guess such a monumental confession: “I… I… love you…”

Vequain’s slight, deliberate nod was a profound gesture, an echo of her raw sincerity, and his voice, though still calm, held an unmistakable weight, thick with emotion. “I love you too.”

The collective breath of the crowd released then, morphing into a powerful wave of boisterous chanting, a playful, insistent drumbeat urging them closer: “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

With a final, tremulous glance, Sakura took the single, daunting step that closed the distance between them. Vequain, ever the bedrock of stillness, kept his hands poised at his sides, a silent invitation for her to set the pace, to lead them into this brave new territory. Their lips, tentative at first, then soft and warm, met beneath the sprig of mistletoe, a silent agreement to linger in the golden, ethereal light that bathed the festival grounds. In that singular instant, the boisterous clamor of the world seemed to dim, the vibrant festival lights blurring into soft halos, the insistent teasing of their friends receding to a gentle hum. Everything narrowed, focusing on the quiet, potent magic of their shared breath, their softened lips, and the profound promise held within that first, tender kiss.

Sakura softened against him, a pliant warmth that fit perfectly into the curve of his embrace. Her cheeks burned, painted crimson with a flush that spread to her ears, and a frantic hummingbird fluttered in her chest. She was utterly, adorably sheepish, yet utterly present. Vequain remained a statue of calm, his stoicism an unyielding fortress. Yet, deep in his eyes, a sliver of something akin to dry amusement, a silent, knowing chuckle, betrayed the unruffled exterior.

When they finally, reluctantly, drew apart, the warmth of the kiss still tingled on Sakura’s lips. Her cheeks glowed, not just with residual heat but with an inner light, her smile blossoming, radiant and unmarred.

“Miracles..” she whispered, her voice barely a breath, shimmering with the fragile magic of the moment. “They really do happen.” Awe and pure, unadulterated joy threaded through every syllable.

Vequain's lips, still damp from their kiss, curved imperceptibly. “Apparently.” he conceded, the single word a dry, perfect counterpoint to her wonder.

And with that, the last sprig of mistletoe, its simple magic now fulfilled, wove a final, shimmering spell. It sealed not just the festive night, but the flourishing journey that had brought them here, binding their interwoven pasts into a single, radiant future. It was the exquisite, whispered promise of everything that was yet to come.

The End.