Which Mistletoe?

Six: Ugh, muffins?

Noah’s POV

Her lights are still on, and I can hear the drill going on and off—loud enough to echo down the street. I’ve been parked out here for five minutes. Five more and it officially becomes stalking.

“You can do this,” I muttered to myself, trying to hype up courage I absolutely did not have.

It’s ridiculous, really. After seven years, I’m right back to prepping myself before knocking on her door. Because she’s always been like this—predictable in the most unpredictable ways. The girl who randomly grabbed my arm in sixth grade because *she was cold.* The one who cuddled into me during every movie marathon in high school because *I’m comfy.*

Platonic for her.

More for me.

It took me another three minutes before I finally slid out of my truck, straightened the wreath I left earlier, and knocked.

I counted her footsteps. Two… three… four—

The door swung open.

She was sweating, her braid half undone, dust smudged on her nose. And still—still—she managed to look beautiful enough to knock the air right out of my chest.

“Hey,” she said breathlessly, tugging off her gloves and wiping her forehead. “Noah? What ar—”

I held up the string of Christmas lights.

She laughed—small, cute, and completely disarming—and widened the door for me to enter.

I froze three steps in.

Her living room… was a battlefield.

Five pieces of furniture. Zero finished ones. Screws everywhere. Boxes half torn. A shelf leaning like it’s contemplating its will to live.

“Don’t judge,” she warned, stepping over a rogue table leg.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I *know* you’re judging.”

“How did this even happen?” I asked, setting the lights down carefully between two defeated-looking shelves.

“I lost a part of *that* one,” she pointed. “A screw got stuck in *that* one. I lost the instructions for *that* table, and *this* one is just—” she threw her hands up, “—rude.”

I almost laughed, but the frustration in her eyes softened everything in me.

“But look!” She brightened. “This one is almost finished!”

I bit the inside of my cheek. I really didn’t want to ruin her moment.

“The legs are backwards.”

She dropped the drill like it offended her and tore the gloves off. “I give up. I’ll just sleep on the floor. Eat on the floor. Watch TV on the floor. Who even cares?”

I shook my head, smiling like an i***t. Why did she have to be this cute?

I picked up the drill and started undoing her work. Within a minute, the chair was standing properly.

“H–how did you do that?” she whispered, like I just performed a miracle. “That was fast.”

“Turns out if you use the right pieces, it’s easier,” I teased.

She rolled her eyes so hard it made me laugh. “Hand me the rest.”

I spent thirty minutes undoing the chaos and letting her handle the drill so she’d feel involved. We were nearly done with the living room set.

“Drill right… there,” I said.

She leaned in, resting her head almost under my chin to look closely. Her floral scent hit me hard—too familiar, too intoxicating—and I took a breath I shouldn’t have.

“There,” she said softly.

“G-good,” I managed. “Now this one.”

And then I suddenly became hyper-aware of everything—the warmth of her shoulder brushing mine, her hair falling to one side, the steady hum of her breathing. My heart thudded loud and fast. If she got any closer, she’d probably hear it.

“Is that good?” she asked, turning her face up.

Our faces were inches apart.

Her eyes lifted to mine.

I felt the floor tilt beneath me.

Her breath hit my chin. Warm. Too close.

My fingers froze around the drill. The room felt smaller, like the walls were quietly leaning in to watch.

Her eyes dipped to my mouth—just for a second.

But God, I felt it everywhere.

“El…” I whispered before I could stop myself.

Her lips parted—barely.

She didn’t lean in, but she didn’t lean away either.

We hovered there, caught in the kind of moment that used to only happen in my daydreams. Seven years of distance suddenly felt like nothing.

Then—

**KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.**

We jerked apart like the furniture had exploded.

I blinked, heart slamming against my ribs.

She blinked back, cheeks pink, braid falling apart even more.

Another knock. Sharper this time.

“Noah?” a too-familiar voice called.

My stomach dropped.

Elara raised a brow. “Is that—?”

“Yeah,” I muttered under my breath. “Lisa.”

She mouthed *ohhhh* and stepped aside as I trudged to the door.

Lisa stood there in a perfect coat and perfect hair, holding a bag of… muffins?

Of course she brought muffins.

“I saw your truck,” she said, her eyes flicking past me into the living room. “I didn’t know you were… helping someone.”

Her expression tightened when she caught sight of Elara, who offered a tiny awkward wave from behind me.

Lisa extended the bag toward me anyway. “Thought you might want these. Fresh from my mom’s bakery.”

“Uh… thanks.” I took them because refusing felt like it would cause an argument right there on Elara’s porch.

“Well,” Lisa said, eyes narrowing just a little, “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” I said quickly, stepping back. “Have a good night.”

She didn’t move until I closed the door.

When I turned around, Elara was biting her lip, trying *so hard* not to laugh.

“What?” I asked.

“You get… muffins? I assemble a chair backwards and you bring me Christmas lights, but she shows up with baked goods? Interesting.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t.”

“No, no,” she teased, stepping toward me with a badly hidden grin. “I think it’s cute. Very rom-com of you.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Accurate.”

Her eyes flicked down toward the muffins then back to me like she was deciding whether to push it further.

“I swear,” I groaned, rubbing the back of my neck, “if you make one more joke—”

“What? You gonna *drill* my furniture in an angry manner?”

I dropped the drill on purpose. “I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not,” she laughed, grabbing my arm before I could reach the door. “I still need help.”

“Do you?”

She looked at the five defeated pieces of furniture still waiting.

“…yes,” she admitted with a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately.”

I shook my head and picked up the drill again.

The awkward tension lingered—warm, charged.

But underneath it, something else pulsed between us.

Playful. Familiar. Dangerous in a way that made my chest feel too tight.