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The Digital World had a weird sense of humour.
It could throw you into a desert made of glass, hand you a prophecy like it was a lunch receipt, and then, when you were half-frozen, exhausted, and missing home so badly your chest ached, it would drop a hotel in your path.
Not a ruin. Not a trap. Not a glitchy illusion made of someone’s memories.
A hotel.
It sat at the edge of a snowy ridge like it had always belonged there, warm light spilling from its windows, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. A sign out front blinked WELCOME in soft gold lettering. Someone, something, had even wrapped it in garlands and lights.
A wreath hung from the door. Snowdrifts piled neatly along the steps like they’d been swept by an invisible staff member. And, just to really seal the deal, a tinny version of a Christmas song drifted out through the cracks in the door.
Mimi stared at it, mouth slightly open.
“No,” she breathed. “No way.”
Joe was already halfway into a lecture before he realised he was doing it. “This is obviously suspicious,” he said, pointing like the hotel might confess if he accused it loudly enough. “There is no logical reason for a fully functioning building to be here. In the snow. Decorated. Playing music.”
Tai, naturally, grinned like this was the best day of his life. “So we go in.”
Matt snorted. “Of course you’d say that.”
Izzy was already squinting, adjusting his glasses. “It’s… consistent. I’m not sure how else to describe it. Like it’s following a set of Earth rules.”
“Earth rules?” Joe echoed, exhausted.
“The Digital World doesn’t have Earth rules.”
Mimi hugged her coat tighter around her shoulders, eyes still bright. “Maybe it’s trying to be nice.”
Joe looked at her.
He always looked at her when she said things like that, like she might have just offered a key to a door nobody else had realised was there. It wasn’t that Joe didn’t want to believe in kindness. It was that he’d seen enough to know kindness could come with strings.
And still, Mimi’s sincerity hit him like warmth. Like a hand on his shoulder. Like someone saying, It’s okay to want good things.
His throat tightened before he could stop it.
“We should check for traps,” he said quickly, voice firmer than he felt.
Mimi tilted her head, watching him. She wasn’t offended. She never was. Instead she smiled, small and soft, like she understood him even when he didn’t explain himself properly.
“Okay,” she agreed. “You check for traps. I’ll check for… Christmas.”
Joe blinked. “That’s not-”
But she was already stepping forward, boots crunching in the snow, Palmon waddling after her like a cheerful little shadow.
Joe sighed through his nose and followed, because of course he did.
Because if Mimi Tachikawa was walking into an unknown, suspicious, too-good-to-be-true hotel in the middle of the Digital World, then Joe Kido was going to be right behind her, ready to pull her back if the floor fell out from under them.
He told himself it was responsibility. He didn’t examine the softer truth that lived underneath it.
Inside, the air was so warm Joe almost stopped breathing. It hit his face, his hands, his lungs, heated, scented faintly like cinnamon and pine. The lobby was wide and cosy in a way that felt almost unfair. A fireplace crackled on one wall. Plush chairs were arranged in little clusters like they’d been waiting for people to come sit and talk. Paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling. A tall tree glittered in the corner, decorated with ornaments shaped like little stars and tiny bells.
And behind a polished wooden desk stood… nothing.
No staff. No Digimon concierge. No creepy shadow figure offering a deal.
Just a lobby that looked like it belonged in a movie Mimi would’ve watched at Christmas with her family back home.
Mimi’s eyes glistened. Joe noticed immediately, because he always noticed. He just pretended he didn’t for the sake of keeping things normal.
She took two slow steps forward like she was afraid the whole place would vanish if she moved too fast. “This is…” she whispered, then laughed softly like she didn’t trust her own voice. “This is insane.”
“Insane is one word for it,” Joe muttered. But his voice lacked bite.
Even he couldn’t deny the relief that unfurled in his chest. The kind of relief that came from not having to be alert for five seconds. From not having to brace for impact.
Tai and Matt were already arguing about whether they should split up and explore, which meant they were back to normal too, loud and stubborn in their own ways.
Izzy drifted toward the tree, fascinated. Sora started checking the fireplace like she’d been born with “make sure everyone is safe and warm” written in her DNA. T.K. and Kari hovered near the stairs, awed.
Mimi stayed where she was. Joe watched her inhale, slowly, like she was trying to breathe the air and store it in her bones.
And something in him softened again, inconveniently and completely.
“Mimi,” he said, gentler than he meant it to be.
She looked at him. Not just glanced.
Looked, like she was always really looking. Like she could see the shape of his worry even when he hid it behind logic.
Joe cleared his throat, embarrassed by his own tone. “Stay where I can see you,” he said, defaulting back to what he knew. “Just until we’re sure this place is safe.”
Mimi’s smile didn’t tease him for it. It didn’t poke or prod. It simply warmed.
“Okay,” she said. “I will.”
Then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added, “But you have to do something too.”
Joe blinked. “What?”
Mimi stepped closer, close enough that Joe’s shoulders tightened automatically, as if proximity itself was a new kind of responsibility. Her scarf was dusted with melting snow. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. Her eyes were bright, but there was something calmer underneath them, something steady.
“You have to sit down,” she said.
Joe stared. “What?”
Mimi nodded toward one of the chairs by the fire. “Just for a minute.”
Joe opened his mouth to argue, because he had a list of tasks longer than the hotel’s staircase, check exits, check windows, count people, inventory supplies, make sure nobody wandered alone-
Mimi raised a hand, palm up, not demanding. Just offering.
And the worst part was: it made him want to take it.
“You’ve been tense for days,” she said quietly. “We all have. But you… you don’t stop. Even when it’s safe for a second.”
Joe felt heat creep into his face, defensive reflexes firing. “Someone has to-”
“I know,” Mimi said softly, cutting him off without sharpness. “That’s what I mean.”
Joe swallowed. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Mimi never made him feel stupid for being cautious. She didn’t mock the way he braced for disaster. She didn’t roll her eyes at his lists and plans.
She just… wanted him to breathe.
He looked at the chair. Then at Mimi.
And, because he was weak in exactly the way nobody ever accused him of being, he nodded.
“Fine,” Joe muttered. “For one minute.”
Mimi’s grin returned, quick and bright.
“Deal.”
The chair was too comfortable. That was Joe’s first complaint. His second complaint was that sitting by the fire made his hands stop shaking, and he hadn’t even realised they were shaking.
He stared into the flames like they might give him a reason to stay guarded. Like the hotel might suddenly reveal its trapdoor grin.
But all he heard was crackling warmth, distant muffled laughter from his friends, and, closest of allz Mimi settling into the chair beside him with a content sigh.
She leaned her elbows on her knees, hands wrapped around a mug Sora had somehow found and filled with something hot and sweet.
“Hot chocolate,” Mimi announced proudly, as if the Digital World had produced it just for her.
Joe eyed the mug suspiciously. “You’re drinking that?”
Mimi sipped, unfazed. “Yes.”
“It could be-”
“Delicious?” Mimi guessed.
Joe’s mouth twitched before he could stop it. Mimi’s eyes widened like she’d just witnessed something rare. “Was that almost a smile?”
Joe snapped back to neutral immediately. “No.”
Mimi’s laughter was soft, not loud enough to draw attention. Just warm enough to sit between them like a shared blanket. Joe stared at the fire again, but he felt the edges of his tension loosen, just a fraction.
Then Mimi spoke again, quieter.
“It’s weird,” she said. “How much this feels like home.”
Joe glanced sideways.
Mimi wasn’t looking at him. She was
looking at the tree. At the ornaments. At the lights.
“At home,” she continued, voice a little thinner, “everything is loud and… planned. There’s always people. My parents have parties. There are photographers. Everyone’s smiling for someone else.”
She paused, then smiled faintly. “But I still miss it.”
Joe’s chest tightened in a new way.
Mimi didn’t talk about missing home often. She didn’t complain. She didn’t drag the mood down.
But right now, in the safety of warm light and fake Christmas music, she let herself be honest.
Joe found himself speaking before he’d rehearsed the sentence. “I miss it too.”
Mimi turned her head.
Joe regretted saying it immediately, not because it wasn’t true, but because now Mimi was looking at him with that earnest attention again.
Like she was holding his words carefully.
“You do?” she asked.
Joe nodded once, stiffly. “Yeah. My… my parents probably have a whole schedule for the holidays. And my brother… he’ll be excited. He always gets excited.”
Mimi smiled. “You sound like you’re trying not to sound excited.”
Joe frowned. “I’m not excited.”
Mimi hummed, unconvinced.
Joe felt his face warm again, but not from the fire this time.
“It’s just…” he started, and then hesitated because he didn’t know how to say it without sounding pathetic. “It’s easier to handle dangerous stuff than… missing things.”
Mimi’s expression softened completely.
“Oh,” she whispered, and her voice held the kind of understanding that made
Joe’s throat tighten again. She didn’t say me too. She didn’t say it’ll be okay.
She just shifted a little closer, shoulder brushing his for a brief moment, so light Joe could pretend it was an accident.
But it wasn’t. And Joe didn’t move away.
Later, when the group had claimed rooms upstairs and decided, against Joe’s protests, that yes, they were absolutely staying here for the night, Mimi lingered in the hallway outside her door.
Joe found her there while he was doing his final circuit. Checking locks. Counting heads. Making sure nobody was missing. He stopped when he saw her.
“Mimi?” he asked.
She jumped slightly, then smiled like she was relieved it was him. “Hey.”
Joe hesitated, then nodded toward her door. “You should get some sleep.”
“I will,” Mimi said. “In a second.”
Joe waited. Impatient with himself. Patient with her. Mimi looked down the hallway, then back at him.
“You’re still checking everything,” she observed, not accusing. Just noticing.
Joe rubbed the back of his neck.
“Habit.”
Mimi’s smile tilted. “You checked the
lobby three times.”
Joe blinked. “I did not.”
Mimi’s eyebrows rose. Joe exhaled, caught. “Fine. Maybe. But-”
Mimi stepped closer again, and Joe’s protest died in his throat.
“You don’t have to stop being you,” she said softly. “I just… want you to know you don’t have to carry it alone either.”
Joe stared at her. He wanted to say something smart. Something reassuring. Something that didn’t sound like his heart was suddenly too big for his ribs.
Instead, what came out was simple.
“…Thanks.”
Mimi’s smile softened. “You’re welcome.”
She reached for the doorknob, then paused.
Above them, from the hallway arch where a garland was looped, hung a small sprig of mistletoe tied with a neat red ribbon.
Joe noticed it at the exact same time Mimi did.
He froze. Mimi froze too.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
The hallway was quiet, the only sound the distant murmur of their friends settling in for the night. Mimi stared up at the mistletoe. Then she glanced at Joe. And Joe, responsible, careful, overthinking Joe, felt every single thought he’d ever had scatter in his head like startled birds. Mimi’s cheeks flushed pink. Joe swallowed hard.
They were standing close enough that stepping away would be obvious. And neither of them moved. Not yet.
Joe was painfully aware of three things all at once.
First: the mistletoe.
Second: how close Mimi was standing to him.
And third: the fact that his brain had completely stopped functioning in any productive capacity.
He stared at the little sprig hanging above them like it might suddenly offer instructions. Like it might come with a manual.
Step one: don’t panic.
Step two: don’t overthink this.
Joe did neither.
“Oh,” he said, far too loudly for a quiet hallway.
Mimi let out a small, breathy laugh.
“Yeah,” she replied. “Oh.”
They stood there. Too close. Too aware.
Too still.
Joe’s instincts screamed at him to step back, create distance, reassert normalcy, do something. This was unfamiliar territory, and Joe Kido did not like unfamiliar territory. He liked plans.
He liked rules. He liked knowing what the correct response was.
This was not covered in any of his internal manuals.
“Well,” he began, then stopped, because he had no idea what he was about to say. Well what? Well this is happening? Well sorry for existing beneath seasonal foliage?
Mimi watched him, her expression open and gentle, like she wasn’t judging him for freezing up. Like she was willing to wait.
Which somehow made it harder.
“I-I think,” Joe tried again, hands curling awkwardly at his sides, “technically we’re supposed to-”
“Kiss,” Mimi supplied, quietly.
Joe’s face went hot immediately.
“I mean,” she added quickly, lifting her hands a little like she was backtracking,
“only if we want to. Obviously. It’s just… a tradition.”
Joe nodded far too fast. “Right.
Tradition. Yes. Cultural custom. Seasonal symbolism.”
Mimi smiled. “You’re spiralling.”
“I’m not spiralling,” Joe protested, then sighed. “Okay, maybe a little.”
She laughed again, softer this time, and something in Joe’s chest eased. Just a fraction.
“I don’t want you to feel weird,” Mimi said gently. “We don’t have to do anything.”
Joe swallowed.
That sentence- we don’t have to- should have been a relief. Instead, it made his chest feel strangely tight. Because the truth was: Joe didn’t not want to be here. He didn’t want to escape the moment. He just didn’t know how to exist inside it without messing everything up.
“I don’t feel weird,” he said carefully.
Mimi’s eyebrows lifted. “You don’t?”
Joe hesitated, then admitted, “I feel… nervous.”
Mimi’s smile softened completely.
“Oh,” she said again, but this time it sounded warm. Understanding. “Okay.”
She shifted her weight, giving him a little more space, not retreating, just easing the tension. “Me too.”
Joe blinked. “You do?”
“Yeah,” Mimi admitted, cheeks pink.
“You make me nervous sometimes.”
Joe stared at her, utterly baffled. “I do?”
Mimi nodded. “You care a lot. And you try really hard. And you always look like you’re carrying the world on your shoulders, even when you don’t have to.”
Joe didn’t know what to do with that.
He opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally managed, “…I don’t mean to.”
“I know,” Mimi said. “That’s kind of the point.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy.
Charged. The kind of quiet where something could happen if either of them moved the wrong, or right, way.
Mimi glanced up at the mistletoe again, then back at Joe.
“If it helps,” she said softly, “we can make it… really small.”
Joe frowned. “Small?”
“Just,” she gestured vaguely, clearly just as awkward as he felt, “a quick one. No pressure. No expectations.”
Joe considered this like it was a treaty negotiation.
Quick. Small. Clearly defined parameters.
That, at least, was something he could work with.
“…Okay,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Mimi’s breath hitched. She took a half step closer. Joe didn’t move, but he didn’t pull away either. Mimi hesitated again, searching his face, giving him every opportunity to change his mind. When he didn’t, she smiled, nervous and sincere, and leaned in.
Joe’s brain completely shut off. Her lips brushed his cheek, light, fleeting, warm.
That was it.
No sparks. No fireworks. No dramatic music swelling in the background.
Just… Mimi. Close enough that Joe could smell her shampoo. Close enough that her breath warmed his skin.
When she pulled back, Joe forgot how to breathe.
“Okay,” Mimi said softly, like she was checking in. “All done.”
Joe nodded, dumbly. “…Okay.”
They stood there for another second, neither of them quite ready to move.
Then Mimi laughed, a little embarrassed. “Wow. That was… less scary than I thought.”
Joe’s mouth twitched despite himself. “I was terrified.”
Mimi grinned. “I noticed.”
She turned to her door, hand on the knob now, then paused again.
“Goodnight, Joe.”
“Goodnight,” he replied, then added quickly, “Mimi.”
She glanced back at him, eyes warm.
“Sleep well.”
She slipped into her room, closing the
door softly behind her.
Joe stood there alone in the hallway, staring at the spot where she’d been.
His heart was still racing. His face was still warm. And his brain was desperately trying, and failing, to convince him that a kiss on the cheek shouldn’t feel like something monumental.
He touched his cheek, lightly, like the warmth might still be there.
“…This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
But he smiled anyway.
Joe did not sleep.
That wasn’t unusual in itself. Joe Kido was very familiar with lying awake, staring at the ceiling, mentally cataloguing worries until his brain finally shut down from exhaustion.
This was different. Because tonight, his thoughts refused to stay orderly. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again, the brief warmth against his cheek, the soft brush of lips that had lasted barely a second and yet had somehow rearranged something fundamental inside him.
It was just a kiss on the cheek, he told himself for what had to be the tenth time.
A friendly gesture. A seasonal custom. Entirely non-threatening.
So why did his chest still feel tight?
Joe rolled onto his side, tugging the blanket up higher even though he wasn’t cold. His room was quiet, the low hum of the Digital World’s strange night sounds filtering through the window.
He replayed the moment again, slower this time. The way Mimi had looked at him before leaning in, not teasing, not playful, but careful. The way she’d waited, truly waited, giving him space to step back if he wanted to.
He hadn’t.
That was the part his mind kept circling.
Joe prided himself on caution. On restraint. On knowing when to disengage. But when Mimi had stepped closer, he hadn’t retreated.
Because somewhere beneath the nerves and the spiralling thoughts, he’d wanted to stay.
The realization sat heavily in his chest.
Joe squeezed his eyes shut.
“This is inconvenient,” he muttered to the darkness. Feelings always were.
Mimi lay awake too.
She stared at the ceiling of her room, one hand resting over her heart like she could physically keep it from beating so fast.
Okay, she thought. That happened.
She turned onto her side, burying half her face into her pillow to muffle a quiet, embarrassed groan.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like that.
She’d told herself it would be easy, something small, gentle, harmless. Just a little kiss. Something warm and fleeting that wouldn’t scare Joe or make things complicated.
But the second she’d leaned in, she’d felt it: the tension in him, the way he’d gone utterly still, not frozen, but focused. Present. Like he’d been bracing himself not to flee, but to stay.
And that had made her heart ache in the softest way.
Joe was always like that, careful, considerate, constantly measuring the impact of his actions on everyone around him. Mimi had seen it a hundred times in battles, in planning sessions, in quiet moments where he thought no one was watching.
He never rushed. Never demanded. Never assumed.
That kiss hadn’t been impulsive for him.
It had been chosen.
Mimi swallowed, cheeks warming at the thought. She hadn’t missed the way his breath had hitched. Or how he’d stayed exactly where he was after she pulled back, like moving away too quickly might break something delicate between them.
She hugged her pillow closer.
Maybe, she thought, it didn’t have to mean everything.
But maybe, just maybe, it meant something.
Morning came quietly.
Joe sat at the edge of his bed, glasses
in hand, staring at them like they might offer answers if he looked long enough.
His reflection stared back at him, tired eyes, faint shadows beneath them, hair slightly mussed from a night of restlessness.
Nothing looked different. And yet. He slipped his glasses on and exhaled slowly. Don’t overthink this, he told himself. It was one moment. One kind gesture.
He stood, straightened his clothes, and forced himself into motion. In the common area, the others were already awake. Tai and Matt were arguing about something unimportant. Sora was laughing quietly at them. Izzy was typing away at his laptop.
And Mimi. Mimi was setting out food.
Joe froze for half a second before reminding himself that staring would be obvious and deeply embarrassing.
He looked anyway.
She glanced up at the same moment, eyes meeting his across the room.
There it was again. Not awkwardness. Not tension. Just… recognition.
Mimi smiled first. Small. Private. Like it was meant only for him.
Joe felt his chest loosen, just a little.
“Morning,” she said, tone light.
“M-morning,” Joe replied, then cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, sleep okay?”
She nodded. “Yeah. You?”
Joe hesitated, then allowed himself a
tiny, honest smile. “Eventually.”
Mimi’s eyes softened. Nothing else was said. Nothing had to be.
But as Joe moved to join the others, he realized something that made his steps feel steadier than they had in a long time.
The world hadn’t shifted dramatically overnight. No rules had changed. No declarations had been made.
But something gentle had settled between them, unspoken, mutual, and real. And for once, Joe didn’t feel the need to rush to define it. Neither did Mimi. Sometimes, it was enough to let a moment linger.