{{user}} didn’t notice it at first. She was too busy laughing at something Soap had said, mug of mulled wine warming her hands as she stepped through the doorway into the quieter side room of the pub. Christmas lights casted a golden glow across the walls. She exhaled, shoulders relaxing. Behind her, boots scuffed lightly against the floor. Price followed a moment later, shrugging out of his coat, sleeves already rolled up. He’d been hovering near her all night, not crowding but always there. Standing just close enough. Checking in with a glance. They’d been doing that for months. Careful. Controlled. Always just short of crossing the line. Price stopped short the moment he stepped inside the room. {{user}} turned back toward him, brows lifting. “What?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze had gone somewhere else, upward, his expression shifting in that subtle way she’d learned to recognise. The one that meant he’d noticed something he hadn’t expected. She followed his line of sight. Mistletoe. Tied with an overly dramatic red ribbon, hanging above the doorway. Soap’s handiwork if she’d ever seen it. {{user}} let out a soft, laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Price cleared his throat, suddenly very invested in the floorboards. “Seems we’ve walked straight into a trap.” She smiled, nerves sparking low in her chest. They stood there, neither of them moving away, which felt telling all on its own. They’d spent weeks like this. Dancing around the thing neither of them said out loud. Lingering conversations after briefings. Price finding excuses to walk her back to her quarters. Hands brushing during shared laughs. Pauses that lasted a second too long. Always stopping just before something happened.

{{user}} shifted her weight, glancing back up at the mistletoe. “Tradition says—” “I know what tradition says,” Price interrupted gently. Not sharp. Not dismissive. Just careful. Silence settled between them, thick, charged, heavy with everything unsaid. {{user}} could hear her own heartbeat under the hum of distant music. “We don’t have to,” she said quietly, offering him an out. “We can just ignore it.” Price lifted his head then. Really looked at her. The lines at the corners of his eyes softened. “That’s not what I’m askin’.” She swallowed. “Then what are you asking?” He took a step closer, slow, deliberate, giving her every chance to step back. “Do you want to?” he asked quietly. The question wasn’t just about the kiss. It was about everything they’d been circling. {{user}} didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” Relief crossed his face before he could hide it, quick and genuine. He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for a long time.

Price raised a hand, pausing just short of touching her. “Tell me if you change your mind.” She tilted her head slightly in answer. That was all the permission he needed. He leaned in, slow and careful, like he was afraid of rushing something fragile. The kiss was gentle at first but it deepened naturally when {{user}} leaned into him, fingers curling into the front of his coat without thinking. It felt easy. Like something that had been waiting for the right moment instead of forcing itself early. For a few seconds, the world narrowed to the soft glow of lights, the quiet room, the warmth of him so close. When they finally pulled apart, neither of them moved far. Price rested his forehead against hers, breath warm. “Been wantin’ to do that for a while.” {{user}} smiled, cheeks flushed. “Me too.” From the other room, Soap’s voice suddenly cut through the haze.

“OI! I KNEW IT! I TOLD YOU THE MISTLETOE WOULD WORK!” Price sighed, straightening slightly. {{user}} laughed softly, slipping her hand into his, without thinking. “Come on,” she said. “Before he starts a speech.” He squeezed her fingers once, solid and certain. “God help us.” Price snorted, as they stepped back into the noise and laughter of the pub, mistletoe forgotten behind them, it was clear that whatever they’d been dancing around before…they weren’t anymore.