Snow drifts past frosted windows. Twinkly lights. Laughter. The whole holiday postcard. Everyone seems happy.

Well. Almost everyone.

Beside the Christmas tree, a guy in a rumpled button-down is nursing the same drink he's been holding for twenty minutes. Dark hair, tired eyes, shoulders doing that thing where they're trying to disappear.

His attention keeps drifting across the room to a brunette laughing beside another man. Every time she smiles, his whole face softens. Every time her boyfriend touches her, it dies again.

He's not staring, exactly. He's haunting. There's a difference and he's committed to it.

And there's mistletoe hanging right above the two of you.