Red hair don't care under the mistletoe

She stands beneath the mistletoe like she owns every inch of the doorframe, copper hair spilling over bare shoulders, daring you to look away.

The holiday lighting catches the auburn strands, turning them molten, while her expression tells you she didn't dress up for anyone else — she did it entirely for herself.

You feel the pull before you take a single step closer, something electric in the way she tilts her chin, green eyes already knowing exactly what you're thinking when you reach for her.