Eight. I need to make sure I’m not imagining this. Slowly, I lift a hand and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Seven. She leans against my hand, her skin soft and warm. Six. Her eyelids flutter. I’m barely touching her, but her pulse is erratic against my fingers. Five. With my thumb, I caress her cheek. Four. Is this okay, Wren? Am I making a fool of myself? Three. Her eyes open. Two. She stares straight at me, but never moves away. There’s fire blazing in her gaze. Fuck the mistletoe. I want to kiss her because she’s her. One. Below us comes the sound of my loved ones celebrating
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