Mistletoe Mishap

Chapter 24:Candy Cane Crossroads

I didn’t rush.

That might have been the strangest part of all.

After leaving the quad, I walked at my normal pace—hands tucked into my coat pockets, breath puffing softly in the cold air, boots crunching faintly over gravel and frost. The campus had settled into that late-morning lull where lectures swallowed most of the noise, leaving behind a quiet hum that felt almost reverent.

Strings of lights were wrapped around the lampposts along the path, pale gold against the gray sky. Someone had hung red bows on the railings leading up the steps to the humanities building. It should have felt festive. It did—just not overwhelming.

I noticed things now.

That, too, felt new.

Inside, the building smelled faintly of old books and heating vents. My footsteps echoed softly as I moved down the hallway, students passing in ones and twos instead of clusters. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and let myself breathe.

I didn’t feel like I was bracing for impact. I wasn’t scanning faces. I wasn’t trying to disappear.

“Ivy.”

I stopped.

Jasper stood a few steps behind me, one hand braced lightly against the wall, the other holding his books loosely at his side. He looked… different. Not tense. Not distant.

Intent.

I turned fully to face him. “Hey.”

He hesitated, like he was choosing his words carefully. “Do you have a minute?”

I considered saying no. Not because I didn’t want to talk to him—but because I finally felt like saying yes or no was actually my choice.

“I do,” I said.

We stepped into a quiet alcove near the windows, winter light spilling across the floor in long, pale bands. Outside, snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the lawn, refusing to melt.

Jasper leaned back against the wall but didn’t cross his arms. Didn’t retreat into himself.

“I’m not here to… interrogate you,” he said. “Or make it weird.”

I almost smiled. “That’s reassuring.”

He exhaled softly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I just—” He paused. “I feel like I missed something.”

I waited.

“Not with him,” he added quickly, reading something in my expression. “With you.”

That landed quieter than anything he could’ve said.

“I didn’t announce it,” I said. “If that’s what you mean.”

“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”

I studied his face. He wasn’t defensive. He wasn’t trying to stake a claim. He just looked… unsettled. Like someone realizing the room had changed while he wasn’t paying attention.

“You don’t hang back anymore,” he said. “You don’t look at the floor when you talk. You don’t rush through sentences like you’re apologizing for them.”

I shrugged lightly. “Maybe I was tired of that.”

“That’s fair,” he said. Then, quieter, “I think I liked knowing where I stood.”

I met his gaze. “Did you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“That’s the thing,” he said finally. “I thought I did.”

Something loosened in my chest—not relief, exactly. Understanding.

Before either of us could say more, a voice echoed down the hallway.

“There you are.”

Sam approached from the stairwell, scarf looped loosely around his neck, coat unbuttoned despite the cold. He slowed when he saw Jasper, his expression flicking briefly from curiosity to assessment.

“Hey,” Sam said easily, nodding at Jasper. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

Jasper straightened, polite but clearly aware of the shift in energy. “We were just talking.”

Sam smiled—not sharp, not smug. Just open. “I figured.”

He turned his attention back to me. “I was heading toward the café. Thought you might want to escape before the next lecture wave hits.”

I didn’t miss the way he framed it as an option.

“I do,” I said.

Jasper stepped back instinctively, giving space. “I’ll—” He paused. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You will.”

He nodded once, something thoughtful passing over his face before he walked away down the hall.

Sam watched him go, then looked at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Actually… yeah.”

“That’s good,” he said, like it genuinely mattered.

The café was warm and humming, holiday music playing softly from unseen speakers. Someone had draped tinsel along the counter, and a small artificial tree sat near the register, its lights blinking out of sync.

We ordered drinks and claimed a small table near the window.

“You seem lighter,” Sam said after a moment.

I stirred my cup, watching the steam curl upward. “I think I stopped trying to manage how everyone sees me.”

He smiled. “Dangerous move.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m considering making it a habit.”

He leaned back, studying me—not like a puzzle, not like a spectacle. Just… attentive.

“You don’t owe anyone consistency,” he said. “You’re allowed to change.”

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

“High bar,” he teased. Then, softer, “I mean it.”

We talked—not about school, not about expectations. About music he listened to when he couldn’t sleep. About how winter made everything feel closer and farther at the same time. About nothing that needed to be impressive.

At some point, I realized I wasn’t thinking about how I looked or what I should say next.

I was just there.

When we stood to leave, Sam hesitated. “I don’t want to assume anything,” he said. “But I’d like to keep doing this. Talking. Spending time together.”

“I’d like that too,” I said, without flinching.

As we stepped back into the cold, I caught sight of Jasper across the quad, mid-conversation with someone else. He glanced up—and this time, he didn’t look away when he saw me.

Neither did I.

I walked on.

For once, the season didn’t feel like something happening to me.

It felt like something I was finally stepping into.