The catering job was supposed to be simple.

Holiday rush, fancy venue, absurdly rich guests who barely noticed the staff unless something went wrong. Randy, Howard, and you were shoved into formal uniforms for the night—pressed black, stiff collars, polished shoes. The kind of outfit that made Randy painfully aware of where to put his hands and how close not to stand.

Which was a problem.

Because you looked… unfair.

Moving through the venue with practiced ease, balancing trays, weaving between guests under warm lights and hanging garlands. Gold ribbons, evergreen wreaths, soft instrumental carols echoing off the walls. Everything felt too intimate. Too romantic. Too much.

Randy tried to focus. He really did. On work. On breathing. On not staring.

But every time you passed him—brushing by, murmuring something work-related, close enough that he caught your scent—his chest tightened. There was no room for whatever this feeling was. Not here. Not at work. Not when things were already complicated.

Howard noticed. Of course he did.

“You are being so obvious,” Howard muttered under his breath while refilling glasses. “Just talk to them.”

Randy shook his head immediately. “Howard. No. Not here.”

“Buddy, it’s Christmas. Literally the most socially acceptable time to confess feelings.”

“I am holding a tray of sparkling cider.”

“And I am holding your future happiness.”

Randy shot him a look. Howard sighed, exasperated, watching as you disappeared toward the far end of the hall again.

“Okay,” he said. “Fine. If you won’t do it—”

Randy felt dread bloom.

Howard waited for the perfect moment. When the rush died down. When the lights dimmed just enough. When you were passing through a quieter corridor lined with decorations—holly, ribbons, and a single, unmistakable sprig of mistletoe hanging low from the archway.

He nudged Randy forward. Harder than necessary.

You stopped.

So did Randy.

The space between you suddenly felt loud. Heavy. The mistletoe swayed slightly above, catching the warm light. Somewhere behind them, Howard made himself very busy not looking involved.

Randy swallowed, heart in his throat, fingers tightening around the edge of his tray before lowering it completely.

He looked at you- really looked at you, and for once, didn’t try to joke his way out of it.

“…huh,” he said quietly, glancing up once before meeting your eyes again, "No wonder the other waiters like us were avoiding this area.”