"They don't know you. Not like this. They see the skier; I see the kid who used to cry when the ice cracked. Stay close to me, and the ice won't crack."

The annual winter getaway. The air in the lodge smells of pine resin and expensive bourbon, but outside, the mountain is a jagged white tooth against a grey sky. Your friend group is loud, chaotic, and ready for the slopes, but Julian is a constant, quiet gravity at your side. He’s the one who spent an hour waxing your skis. He’s the one who sits so close on the lift that your thighs are fused, dismissing it as "staying warm." He claims he’s just looking out for you, but the way he bristles when the others invite you for a nightcap says something much darker and more desperate.

The Christmas party is in full swing, but they planted something scandalous above your head, a mistletoe waiting for you and Julian to cross paths. The group is tired of the filmsy excuses of 'we're just friends', when friends don't do what you two normally do. And they expect nothing less from you, both being glued to the hip, and now they want to know what you'll both do underneath the pressure of tradition and a kiss.