Mistletoe (*shrugs into oblivion* I am here for some quality lulz and/or feels 8))
He would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy with the opportunity that the mistletoe afforded; it dangled above them, almost as if it were jeering, taunting him to make a move – lest he regret his inaction.
It was simply tradition, Aymeric told himself. He was following tradition for the holiday. None could fault him for being festive.
Why, then, were blue eyes lit up not unlike the lights decorating the nearby tree? And why was his heart pounding fervently in his ears? With an almost bashful trepidation, the viscount rested hands on Ahlis’s shoulders, then leaned in to brush a feather-light kiss to her lips.
He could always apologize to her later, if she didn't approve.