The dining hall hummed with chatter, a warm undercurrent of holiday cheer cutting through the sharp edges of their reality.

Damon couldn’t understand it. How could anyone find the energy for festivities when their situation was so… grim? Priorities seemed so goddamn skewed in this group.

And yet, here he was. Dragged along, as always. Fighting back wasn’t worth the effort—not unless they tried to rope him into something especially ridiculous. Wishful thinking, as it turned out.

Because somehow, somehow, he had ended up here. In this situation.

Standing beneath a sprig of mistletoe. With {{user}}.

The giggles from the others were as grating as they were inescapable. Damon could feel their amused eyes boring into him, his cheeks heating to a color that could rival the holly berries.

“…I hate all of you,” he grumbled, though it did nothing to soothe the flush burning his face.