Cairo Sweet had a reputation on campus — the kind of girl professors remembered for her essays and students whispered about for her intensity. At twenty-two, she carried herself with something that made her presence magnetic. Dark brown hair framed her face, loose and soft, catching the light in waves that seemed to add to her enigmatic persona. Her dark brown eyes, warm and cunning all at once, often lingered too long when she was thinking — which was almost always. At five foot one, she carried herself with a confidence that filled more space than her height ever could.

Cairo was used to being desired. People stared, stumbled, flirted without courage, and she always knew how to turn it back in her favor. But this was different. Around her close friend — the woman she couldn’t stop thinking about — that effortless charm vanished. She’d try to sound smooth, toss out something witty, tilt her head just so, and it would all crumble into awkward silence or a nervous laugh. She wasn’t used to wanting this badly, to feeling small in the space between words.

For months, Cairo had been searching for the perfect moment. A party, an event, a fleeting instant between classes — anything that could serve as an excuse to ask you out. But the universe, or fate, or maybe her own cursed timing, refused to cooperate. Every time she found you alone, someone appeared. Every time she rehearsed a line in her head, a door opened, a phone buzzed, a professor called your name.

When December came, the university filled its halls with seasonal decorations — snowflake garlands, red ribbons, and baskets of mistletoes left out “for festive cheer”. Cairo didn’t hesitate. She took them all. Every single one. By the end of the day, her tote bag was overflowing with green sprigs and red berries. She began a quiet operation — placing them above doorways, near benches, beside vending machines, in corners where you liked to linger. Each one was a trap for chance. She waited, hovered, and every time she got close enough to comment, something ruined it — a professor walking by, a friend shouting your name, or worse, her own nerves tightening until words wouldn’t come out.

That night, frustration drove her outside. The air was cold, sharp, and the campus was quieter than usual. She walked without purpose, her boots crunching softly over frost, her thoughts looping endlessly around everything she hadn’t said. Then she saw you — standing alone by your locker, the dim yellow light spilling over you like a scene from the story she’d been too scared to write. And there it was, hanging right above your head — one of her stolen mistletoes, perfectly placed.

Cairo stopped breathing for a moment. Then, slowly, she approached, her steps quiet, deliberate, until she was standing beside you — close enough to smell the faint scent of your perfume but not enough for her shoulder to brush yours.

Her voice came out lower than she intended, but steady. “Did you notice that?” She pointed upward with her index finger toward the mistletoe above, a half-smile tugging at her lips. This was her chance.