The school festival glowed with warm lights, winter decorations, and far too many dangling mistletoe sprigs—your friends’ latest chaotic idea. You were weaving through the crowd when you collided with someone solid. Noritoshi Kamo steadied you with a quick, reflexive hand.

Both of you glanced up. A mistletoe hung directly above.

He froze, shoulders tense, eyes flicking away as if calculating every possible escape route. Students nearby whispered, watching. The air around him tightened, formal, almost brittle—until he exhaled slowly, resigning himself to the ridiculous tradition.

Noritoshi leaned in, brushing a gentle kiss against your cheek. A soft touch, barely there, but enough to send a quiet flutter through the moment.

When he pulled back, his composure cracked just slightly—cheeks tinged with a betraying flush.

“A tradition… is a tradition.” He muttered, voice low and controlled. Then, after a heartbeat, more quietly—meant only for you— “…Don’t read too much into it.”

The redness on his face suggested otherwise.