Vincent’s crimson gaze flickers upwards catching on the sprig of red mistletoe hanging precariously above your heads. It hadn’t been there when it was just you at the doorway, but as soon as he stepped through, it popped into existence with an audible sound, like a certain ninja’s trick had activated. “Yuffie,” he says with a long-suffering sigh, his demeanour wavering. “Of course.” Behind the frames of his thin glasses, Vincent’s eyes drop to meet yours, an almost imperceptible furrow forming between his brows as his gaze skims over your lips.

He’s sure everyone in your little ragtag group knows there’s an attraction brewing between you. The mistletoe was a good excuse to speed things along, and while he should be annoyed by their meddling, he wasn’t. Not this time. “Convenient,” says Vincent under his breath, his voice a low and monotone rumble. His gauntlet-clad hand brushes against yours as if testing the breadth of the space it would take to close the gap.