Oliver slips a chuckle as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a tiny bouquet of green leaves tied at the stems with a red bow. Fucking mistletoe. My eyes trail slowly from the greenery up to his face, chest heaving, grip tightening on the edge of the dresser. His expression is a deep, penetrative stare, laced with a singular question that has rendered me silent. Oliver takes my silence as an invitation and places the mistletoe right above my head, on top of the bookshelf beside us. When his arm draws back down, his hand lands on my jaw, cupping it in his palm, his thumb grazing my cheek
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