Me:Didn’t take much, you’ve dropped just enough hints for me to suspect you’re a firefighter
Fireboy:Guilty as charged.
Me:Hot. Wait—do you do a calendar?
Fireboy:Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.
Me:You’ve 100% practiced your smolder in the mirror, haven’t you?
Fireboy:Every morning.
Another giggle bubbles out of me just as Ana leans in. “We still on for drinks tonight?”
I wince. “Do we have to?”
“Yes,” she says, deadpan. “Boss’s orders. Team bonding, festive joy. Forced happiness. You know the drill.”
“I’m allergic to forced happiness.”
“You’re allergic to December.”
“Correct.”
But she’s right, and our boss already cornered me about showing up. Something something “community spirit”, something “client relations.” And as much as I’d like to spend my evening in my pajamas, listening to Fireboy’s voice and pretending the world doesn’t exist, I don’t have a get-out clause.
The day crawls. Meetings. Emails. Three feedback loops from a client who thinks clip art is a personality. December in the design world is basically every man for himself.
By five, I’m mentally dead. By five-thirty, I’m dragged to Clementine’s—a bar drenched in twinkle lights and playing peppy festive music at the volume of a plane taking off.
The whole team’s here, already two cocktails deep. My boss hugs me too long, one coworker calls me “Frankie girl” like he’s my seventy-year-old uncle, and someone keeps trying to convince me to participate in Secret Santa. I dodge all attempts with the agility of a caffeinated cat.
Halfway through my drink, my phone buzzes again, and warmth hits me right under the ribs.
Fireboy:Still alive?
Me:Barely. Being held hostage by tinsel and capitalism.
Fireboy:Rate the experience.
Me:2/10. No escape routes and watered down cocktails. Send help.
Fireboy:Describe the nearest exit and I’ll fast-rope in.
I snort into my glass, and Ana gives me a knowing smirk. I shrug it off, but I can’t wait to get home. On my couch, wrapped up in my fluffy blanket, safe from Mariah Carey and human interaction.
And I want his warm voice in my ear, melting away my day. And that soft, ridiculous smile he pulls out of me without trying.
The night drags, and the guys from accounting get louder. One leans in too close to tell me he “likes creative girls,” and Ana swoops in like a guardian angel to rescue me. I owe her my life.
By the time I get home, my toes are numb, my makeup’s smudged, and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed and hear the man whose name I don’t even know.
I fall into my couch and message him before I can overthink it.
Me:I survived. Mostly.
His reply comes fast.
Fireboy:You home?
