Jack begins to pull away, to end this joke of a mistletoe kiss, but some instinct in me holds on, falling forward as she steps back, my lips still pressed to hers. And then her hand is on my waist, to keep me upright. Just one hand, through the layers of my cardigan and my shirt, but it’s enough. Enough to zap feeling into my unfeeling bones, to light up my limbs like the strands of Christmas lights on the tree, to send heat pulsating between my legs, to the place where my other lonely ache lives.

Jack’s hand is on my waist and her mouth is on my mouth, and she tilts her chin just enough that I feel the drag of her lips. I want to open my mouth for her. I want to open everything for her, to be that open version of myself I became with her in the snow last year.

And then I remember our audience. I let go, killing the symphony of longing inside my chest. There’s a startled flash of wide eyes in my vision before Jack drops her gaze.

Behind us, the family is whooping and whistling as enthusiastically as they did during Christmas carols, somehow oblivious to the lingering tension between us.

She presses two fingers to her bottom lip, then drops her hand when she catches me watching her mouth. I want to kiss her there again. And again. And again and again.

It’s a good thing no one is actually asking me to choose between Jack Kim-Prescott and two hundred thousand dollars. Because in this moment of mulled wine and mistletoe kisses, I think I know which one I would pick.

A Webcomic

By Oliverartssometimes

Episode 5: The Dream
(Christmas Eve, 3:54 p.m.)

Uploaded: January 21, 2022

“So you’re planning to murder me?”

Jack cranes her beautiful neck to shoot me a look. “Yep. I always spend a whole day slow-burn flirting with my victims before harvesting their organs.”

“Wait. Have you been flirting with me all day?”

With the hand not threaded through mine, Jack reaches up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Yes, Elle. I have. And when I go home tonight, I will reflect gravely on my utter lack of romantic game. Now, come along.”

She gives my hand a squeeze and pulls me forward. We’d been doing that since we left the Burgerville bathroom: holding hands. Walking through the snow with our fingers intertwined like the cross-stitch on my scarf. We’ve gotten off track again, wandering the opposite direction of the bridge that will take us back home.

And now we’re standing on a deserted street corner in front of an abandoned building. “It’s getting dark,” I say. “It would make sense that you’d want to wait until nightfall to lure me back to your murder den.”