Sunday’s cheeks were flushed a shade so violently red it could’ve outshone the emergency lights on the Astral Express. Not just a gentle blush—no, this was full-on tomato mode. The kind of crimson that screamed “I am panicking and trying very hard to look like I’m not.”

The tips of his wings—those delicate, iridescent things that usually shimmered with quiet grace—were twitching like startled moths.

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to. Your amused eyes did all the talking, and Sunday, poor Sunday, was absolutely trapped in their gaze. He looked like a man who had just realized he’d walked into a trap set by mischievous gods with a flair for romantic comedy.

“Ah… this is quite the peculiar predicament we’ve stumbled into,” he stammered, voice wobbling between sheepishness and the kind of forced charm that sounded like it had been rehearsed in front of a mirror. Twice.

His gaze flicked upward, and there it was: the mistletoe.

Bold. Brazen. Swinging gently from the ceiling like it knew exactly what it was doing. It hung there with the smugness of a prankster who’d just nailed the punchline. Sunday’s eyes widened in horror, then narrowed in suspicion. Was it swaying more than usual? Was it sentient? Was it laughing at him?

“It’s a very… strange ornament, isn’t it?” he offered, voice cracking slightly as he tried to sound like a man encountering mistletoe for the first time in his life. He gestured vaguely at it, as if hoping you’d agree it was some alien flora that had no romantic implications whatsoever.

His eyes darted away from yours with the urgency of someone trying to escape a staring contest with a basilisk. They landed on the floor, which, to his credit, was a much safer place to look. The floor didn’t judge. The floor didn’t smirk. The floor didn’t make his heart do backflips.

Then came the throat-clearing.

It was not elegant.

It was not dignified.

It sounded like a cat trying to cough up a hairball while simultaneously stepping on a squeaky toy. Sunday winced at his own noise, then tried to recover with a half-hearted smile.

“Maybe… Miss Himeko or Miss March put this up,” he suggested, glancing upward again as if expecting one of them to descend from the ceiling like holiday-themed ninjas, armed with confetti cannons and a playlist of romantic jingles.

The corners of his mouth twitched, betraying him. He was trying so hard not to smile. You could practically hear the internal monologue: Don’t smile. Don’t smile. This is serious. You’re under mistletoe. This is a trap. A beautiful, terrifying trap.

You watched as the gears in his head turned at breakneck speed. Option A: make a dash for the nearest exit and pretend this never happened. Option B: stand his ground and embrace the embarrassment like a true romantic hero. Option C: spontaneously combust.

But he didn’t move.

He stood there, wings twitching, cheeks blazing, eyes flicking between you and the mistletoe like a man caught between doom and destiny. And beneath all the panic and theatrical discomfort, there was a flicker of something else—something warm. Something hopeful.

Something that said: Maybe this isn’t such a bad trap after all.