It really was supposed to be a chill night—just the usual mix of your friends crammed into someone’s too-small living room, holiday lights strung unevenly across the walls. Robin had begged you to come, promising it would be low-key and fun. “Plus,” she’d added with a knowing grin, “Steve will be there.”

That alone should’ve been your warning.

Inside, the music was soft, the younger kids clustered on the couch arguing over a board game, and the older ones—Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, Eddie, Steve, and you—were hovering near the snacks and the bowl of very questionable punch. The rule was simple: keep the younger kids far, far away from it. At fourteen, they didn’t need to be anywhere near alcohol, and all of you took that seriously.

Still, every time Steve laughed across the room, you felt your stomach do this annoying flip. He had that effortless charm—messy hair, warm smile, the kind of confidence that seemed to follow him like a spotlight. But around you, that confidence… glitched a little. Robin swore it meant something. Nancy quietly agreed.

You weren’t convinced.

You headed into the kitchen for something non-alcoholic—mostly to get a break from Robin’s teasing—only to nearly collide with Steve himself. He stopped short, almost bumping into you, then looked up. Not at you… above you.

You followed his gaze.

Mistletoe.

Of course.

For a second, Steve just stood there, hand half-raised like he was about to point it out and then thought better of it. His usual smoothness was gone, replaced by this surprisingly shy half-smile.

“So, uh… may I?” he asked. His voice was careful, almost uncertain—so unlike the Steve who cracked jokes and tossed flirty comments around like confetti. His eyes flicked from the mistletoe down to you, waiting.

The room felt suddenly warmer, quieter, like the party had faded into a blur behind you both.