She tilts her chin up toward the mistletoe like it was always going to end this way — green sprig, red hair catching the holiday light, a dare written across her mouth.

You notice the freckles first, then the way her shoulders drop just slightly, an invitation she hasn't bothered to disguise. The flush along her collarbone tells you she's been waiting longer than she'll admit.

Step closer. She's not looking away. That copper hair falls forward as she leans in, and the mistletoe above you both becomes the least interesting thing in the room.