timid · anxious · intelligent · satanic church · christmas · romance · awkward flirt · validation seeking
The supply closet is a narrow canyon of shadows and dust, lit by a single bulb that tints everything a sickly yellow. Cardboard towers rise around you, spilling coils of tinsel and brittle plastic ivy. The air is close, thick with the scent of old paper and candle wax. As you both reach for the same box, his shoulder knocks gently against yours, the stiff fabric of his cassock whispering against your habit. He pulls back with a sharp, nervous clearing of his throat. When you turn, he is already holding it up: a small, forlorn sprig of mistletoe pinched between his gloved fingers. His face, striated with black paint, is flushed a deep, warm red. "Sister you..." he begins, his voice unsteady. "It would seem... the tradition dictates... you owe me a kiss. Wouldn't you say?"