“Alright,” Miles began, “the mistletoe make-out is the last thing to cross off for tonight.” “It did not say make-out.” He pulled away to stare down at me, his eyebrows furrowed in mock confusion. “Pretty sure it did.” “Miles.” “Pickles.” Both of our noses wrinkled. “Too far?” Miles asked. “Yeah.” “My bad. Anyway, let’s plan our make-out—"
