Beneath the Mistletoe
878 Words
The snow had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the town wrapped in a thick, untouched blanket of white.
I noticed it the moment I woke, sunlight bouncing off the snow so brightly it filtered through my curtains and painted the room in soft gold. The house was quiet downstairs, the kind of quiet that only happened when my parents had already left for the bakery without me. I checked the clock and groaned so much for being early.
By the time I pulled on my coat and stepped outside, the air was crisp and clean, the kind that filled your lungs and made everything feel sharper. The town looked impossibly charming, icicles clinging to shop awnings, wreaths dusted with snow, a few brave early-morning shoppers crunching along the sidewalks. The bakery came into view like a promise.
Inside, the bells jingled, and warmth greeted me instantly. Evan stood near the counter, stringing fresh mistletoe above the doorway, arms lifted, brows furrowed in concentration.
“Morning,” I said.
He startled slightly and laughed. “You caught me.”
“Decorating or losing a battle with gravity?”
“A little of both,” he admitted.
I shrugged out of my coat and joined him, steadying the ladder when it wobbled. “Need help?”
He glanced down at me, smiling. “Always.”
When he climbed down, the mistletoe hung perfectly centered over the doorway. We stood there for a moment, admiring it.
“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “That’s officially dangerous now.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”
His eyes flicked up to the mistletoe… then back to me.
“Very.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Good to know.”
Customers began trickling in, the day unfolding into its familiar rhythm. But everything felt just a little different now; every glance lingered longer, every brush of hands sent a quiet spark through me.
At one point, as Evan passed me a tray, his fingers curled briefly around mine. He didn’t pull away right away.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely steady. “I am.”
Snow fell again outside, light and slow. Inside, beneath the mistletoe, something fragile and hopeful took root.
And I had a feeling this Christmas was going to change everything.
The morning rush came and went in a warm blur of laughter, clinking cups, and the steady rhythm of the ovens. The mistletoe swayed gently every time the door opened, a quiet reminder hanging just above us, noticed by everyone, ignored by no one.
At least, not by me.
I caught Evan glancing up at it more than once, a smile tugging at his mouth like he was in on a secret. Each time our eyes met afterward, something unspoken passed between us, light and electric.
Around midday, the crowd thinned. Molly disappeared into the back to restock, Henry left early to attend his granddaughter’s school concert, and suddenly the bakery felt smaller. Quieter. Like it was just ours.
Evan leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “You holding up?”
“Better than expected,” I said. “I think the sugar cookies are finally accepting me.”
He laughed. “High praise.”
I wiped my hands on my apron, then hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Why here?” I asked. “Why this bakery?”
He looked thoughtful, gaze drifting toward the window where snow sparkled in the light. “I came to town years ago with no real plan. Took a temporary job here to get back on my feet.” He smiled softly. “But your parents saw something in me. Gave me responsibility. Trust.”
I nodded, understanding more than I’d expected.
“This place gave me stability,” he continued. “Purpose. It felt… worth staying for.”
His words lingered in the air between us.
“I think I get that,” I said quietly.
A comfortable silence settled. Then Evan shifted, suddenly self-conscious. “Clara, I don’t want to make things complicated for you. I know you’re still figuring out what you want.”
I met his eyes. “You’re not complicating anything. If anything, you’re making things clearer.”
His breath caught, just slightly.
The bells jingled then, breaking the moment. A young couple stepped inside, snow clinging to their coats. Evan straightened, professionalism snapping into place, but when he passed by me, his hand brushed my lower back, a quiet, reassuring touch.
Later, as the last customer left and Evan locked the door, we found ourselves beneath the mistletoe again.
He hesitated. “So… tradition says...”
I smiled, stepping closer. “I know what tradition says.”
This time, the kiss wasn’t tentative. It was warm and certain, filled with laughter and promise. When we pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine.
“Guess we’re doing this,” he murmured.
“Looks like it,” I said, my heart full.
Outside, snow drifted down, blanketing the town in quiet magic.
Inside the bakery, beneath the mistletoe, we chose to see where this might lead.
And for once, the future didn’t feel frightening.
It felt sweet.
- Writer
