Underword Mistletoe Trouble [Wreath]
The office party already smells like bad decisions and discounted sugar cookies, cheap champagne fizzing in plastic like it has something to prove,
Somebody spiked the punch until it leaned sideways, the speaker in the corner coughs out holiday covers that make the originals sound nearly smooth.
Tinsel droops from the ceiling like it tried to escape and got tired halfway, the copier wears a Santa hat that should probably file for HR protection,
Half the staff pretends to be extroverts for the night, laughing a little louder than they mean to, polishing their masks to a high, nervous perfection.
Someone from HR hung mistletoe in exactly the worst place, dead center of the doorway between the bar table and the most trafficked hall,
A leafy trap waiting for victims shuttling refilled drinks and complaint stories, a booby prize that might turn into a confession or a near miss for all.
People start inventing detours, hugging the walls like shy criminals, ducking their heads and pretending they dropped something very vital on the floor,
But the tradition slinks through the crowd like a rumor with glitter on it, reminding every half lonely mouth that there might be one reckless moment more.
You stand there eyeing the doorway like it owes you rent, tie loosened, shirt sleeves folded up, a little buzz riding your bloodstream in small warm waves,
Thinking about all the years the holidays have been more obligation than magic, more dishes and debt than wonder and the stories Hallmark saves.
You tell yourself you’re just here for free food, for the bartender with perfect eyeliner who mixes drinks like she knows the exact line between break and mend,
But your gaze keeps drifting to the mistletoe gauntlet, where chance and rumor might suddenly lean together and let you rewrite the term “just a friend.”
She arrives in stages, first a laugh from somewhere near the snack table, then a flash of that sweater that fits like it has a crush on every curve it touches,
Hair up in a messy twist that stubbornly lets a few strands fall, red lipstick that has no trouble at all turning a room full of burned-out adults into gawking clutches.
You’ve traded sarcastic emails all year, inside jokes hidden between pivot tables and quarterly reports, little landmines of tension under the daily grind,
There is nothing pure about the way your heart starts triphammering when you see her scanning the crowd, pretending not to look for you, pretending she didn’t already find.
She spots the mistletoe and rolls her eyes, mouth tilting into that sideways almost-smile that says she’s already writing five jokes about this in her head,
Then she catches you staring, raises one eyebrow like a dare, and tilts her chin toward the doorway as if to say “You wouldn’t,” even though you already bled.
You raise your glass in a small salute that stops one breath short of corny, step into the choke point like you’re walking into a crime you fully plan to commit,
The whole party blurs around the edges while you stand under those dangling leaves, heartbeat drumming out a drumline that won’t quit.
She pretends ignorance as she walks toward you, talking to someone else, pausing for fake conversation about spreadsheets and how the boss can’t dance at all,
Every step timed like choreography, every glance a quick spark thrown your way, finally she breaks off and heads straight into your small haunting under that green call.
You could move aside and kill the moment, you could make a joke about allergies or pagan rituals and laugh it off with your hands jammed deep in your pockets,
Instead you stay put, close enough that you can smell winter air still trapped in her scarf, your denial of fate cracked open like old lockets.
“You know this is a trap, right,” she murmurs, voice low enough that it dodges the Mariah track and everyone else’s noise, eyes flicking up to the greenery and back down,“You step under here and HR gets you, or Cupid does, or you wake up tomorrow with regret and stale confetti stuck to your crownless crown.”“You talk like you’re not already halfway in,” you reply, the words sliding easier than your pulse suggests, your mouth finally catching up to what your bones knew all week,“It’s not my fault they hung that plant right between us and the bar; I’m just a victim of interior design and questionable holiday mystique.”
Her laugh curls straight through your ribs, sharp and sweet and a little out of control,
She steps in close enough that every breath you share writes a joint confession on the air, something reckless, something whole.
People are definitely watching; you can feel that weird shift in the room when tension becomes a spectator sport, when everyone pretends to look away but angles their heads just right,
But the moment shrink-wraps itself around the two of you, the background turning into soft blur and noise, the mistletoe humming overhead like a quiet little light.
She reaches up and pinches the stem between two fingers, looks you dead in the eye as she says, “House rules, you know,”And you recognize the crossroads when it arrives wrapped in plastic and tradition, hanging from the ceiling like a dare in bow.
You lean in slow enough for her to back off, fast enough that the magic of it doesn’t wither,
Her hand slides to the back of your neck with a grip that says very clearly she didn’t come here tonight to dither.
The kiss lands somewhere between a joke and a confession, warm and firm and carrying every unsent message you never risked sending from your office chair,
It tastes like cheap wine and peppermint lip balm and all the little flirty comments that hid behind “haha” and “no worries” and “I’ll fix that file, don’t despair.”The party roars somewhere far away; someone whistles, someone claps like they’re watching a fireworks show,
But your whole universe is the press of her mouth, the small sound she makes, the way every tense line in your shoulders lets go.
When you separate, breathing a little unsteady, she keeps her forehead resting against yours long enough to make sure this isn’t written off as holiday haze,
Her thumb brushes your jaw once, claiming the story, then she steps back, cheeks flushed and pulse visible in the hollow at her throat, eyes still blazing through the daze.“That was reckless,” she says, but the smile that blooms on her face would get you through five more winters without heat,“Reckless is driving home in this weather,” you answer, “that was overdue,” and the rhyme between your relief and her grin feels secretly complete.
Later, after too much punch and too many awkward goodbyes, the office emptying into the cold like a drained parade,
You stand in the doorway again, now alone with the coat rack and the paper plates and the tinsel cascade.
You look up at the mistletoe, now just a limp cluster of leaves taped to a tile that lost its magic the second she left with your number written on her wrist,
Still, you mutter a low, private thank you to whoever thought weaponizing botany would be fun, admitting for once you’re glad you didn’t resist.
Outside, the night bites through your coat, but it feels less hostile than usual,
Your phone buzzes with a message from her: “Next time, no plant required,” which feels downright beautiful.
You walk home under streetlights shining on dirty snowbanks and half-frozen gutters, listening to your own grin trying not to split your face,
Knowing that for every holiday weighted with loss and stress and ghosts, sometimes something small and stupid like mistletoe can tilt the universe back into place.