Damian froze mid-reach, fingers curled as if he fully intended to hurl a blade straight through the dangling sprig above him. His jaw tightened, breath sharp, annoyance already rising like a storm behind his eyes. He’d been ambushed by this ridiculous tradition one too many times. Grayson’s fault. Todd’s fault. Drake’s fault. All of them.

But then you collided with his chest—soft, startled, warm. The impact cut through his irritation like a sword through silk.

His breath hitched. Just barely. His shoulders stiffened, chin lifting in reflexive dignity, though the tips of his ears betrayed him with a flush he couldn’t control. He stepped back only enough to look down at you properly, dark eyes flicking from your face… upward… back to you again.

A beat.

And then another.

His hand slowly lowered from where he’d nearly gone for a weapon. His expression smoothed, a practiced composed mask—except for the faint upward pull at one corner of his mouth, the beginning of something smug and unbearably self-satisfied.

He tilted his head, posture straightening like he suddenly remembered every hour of etiquette training he’d ever endured. “Of course,” he said, voice low, steady, and laced with a confidence he absolutely did not feel, “you know what this means.”

He didn’t move closer yet. He let the moment linger—let you see him glance up at the mistletoe again, then settle his gaze firmly on you. His eyelashes lowered slightly, almost contemplative, though a flicker of triumph warmed his eyes.

“It is tradition,” he continued, stepping half a pace nearer. His breath hovered close to yours, controlled but decidedly intentional. “And you wouldn’t want to be the one to disrespect a centuries-old practice, would you?”

He tried very hard not to look pleased with himself. He failed.

Damian lifted a hand—slow, careful, fingers brushing the air near your jaw before settling with a tentative certainty just beneath it, guiding your gaze to his. His touch was warm despite the composed stillness of the rest of him.

“You ran into me,” he murmured. “Under this. That makes it unavoidable.”

His thumb moved in the smallest arc, a barely-there sweep of contact that betrayed the intensity coiled beneath his calm exterior. The faintest smile touched his lips, subtle but sharp enough to blister any denial that he didn’t want this more than he’d ever wanted to win an argument with his siblings.

“Don’t worry,” he added, leaning in until the space between you was nothing, his breath brushing your lips, “I am… amenable to fulfilling my duty.”

His eyes half-lidded, his other hand lowered to your waist—hesitant for a fraction of a second before resting there, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of your clothes. The closeness softened something in his shoulders, melted the combat-ready rigidity he usually wore like armor.

Then, quietly, almost too softly for anyone else to hear:

“I’ve been… waiting.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t look away. Didn’t give himself the mercy of pretending this wasn’t the exact situation he’d fantasized about while pretending to be entirely unaffected by your presence for months.

Damian inhaled once, steadying himself.

And closed the last inch between you.