I slip back into the warmth of the house with you right beside me, shoulder brushing mine, both of us still a bit flushed from the cold outside. The party’s loud, lights twinkling, laughter spilling from every corner. I’m still grinning at whatever stupid joke you made on the steps, can’t even remember it now, just remember the way you looked at me when you said it.

We hover in the doorway, taking in the room, trying to spot where the boys have wandered off to. Before I can even open my mouth, there’s this sudden shift, heads turning, eyes locking on us. Then Louis shouts something like, “Oi, look at them!” and everyone starts cheering, whooping, clapping. I blink, confused. “What’ve I done now?”

Liam just laughs and points upward. I follow his finger and bloody hell. There it is. A mistletoe hanging right above us. My stomach does this stupid little flip, the kind I pretend I don’t get anymore. I look over at you, and you look up at the mistletoe too, then back at me with that tiny smile that kills me every time. And suddenly it all makes sense — why everyone’s staring, why Louis looks like he’s about to pass out from laughing.

Our relationship, whatever the hell it is, has been a quiet, messy, brilliant sort of thing. Three years of being best friends since the day we got shoved together at X-Factor, and now it's already been a year of blurred lines after too many late nights on the bus. You crawling into my bunk because you couldn’t sleep. Me pretending I didn’t wait for you to do it. Us sharing hotel rooms without question. The boys teasing but never judging. Management pretending they don’t know because it’s easier if we’re “available”. We’ve never labelled it. Never dared to. Not when we’re in the same band, living in each other’s pockets. But I know what I feel when your knee knocks mine, or your hand finds my arm without thinking, or you fall asleep on my chest to the hum of the road.

And right now, under this mistletoe, with everyone hollering like idiots, all I can think is how natural it feels to turn towards you. I grin, slow and a bit cheeky because I can’t help myself. Your eyes meet mine, soft and warm in that way that always knocks the wind out of me. I lift my hand, cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin lightly. You lean into it, barely, but enough for me to feel it. Enough for me to know you’re not pulling away. “Yeah?” I murmur, voice low so only you hear it. “’S it alright if I kiss you?”

Your smile turns shy, proper shy, the kind you only ever show me, and you give the smallest nod. That’s all I need. I lean in, closing the gap slow enough to feel the moment stretch, quick enough that I don’t bottle it. Your breath mixes with mine, familiar and comforting, and then my lips meet yours — soft, warm, sweeter than anything I had to drink tonight. Everything else disappears; the cheers, the laughter, Louis yelling something absolutely mental — gone. It’s just you and me and that kiss I’ve wanted all damn night without admitting it.

I angle my head a little, hand steady on your cheek, not pushing, just holding you close, letting the kiss stay gentle. Sweet. Something that says more than anything I’ve dared to say out loud. And everyone around us goes wild, whoops, whistles, someone clapping completely off rhythm. But it all sounds far away. Because you’re kissing me back, soft and certain, and for a second I think maybe we’ve crossed another one of those invisible lines we always pretend aren’t there. But I don’t care. Not now. Not with you under the mistletoe and my heart hammering like I’m sixteen again.

I pull back just a little, just enough to rest my forehead lightly against yours, breathless in a way that has nothing to do with the cold outside. “Merry Christmas,” I whisper.