I looked at her the way I always did every last Friday of the month, when payday beers had turned warm in my blood, and it was time to watch her walk the opposite direction from O’Malley’s.

“You alright?” I asked as her heel slipped off the curb and she steadied herself on my arm.

She giggled.

“Aye,” she said. “Just buzzed.”

“You’ll be okay walking home?”

She smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes.

“Aren’t I always?”

Then she paused, as if something inside her lined up.

“Hey. Monday’s the first day of December. How would you feel if I texted you? One thought. One answer. Then you do the same the day after? Just to make December feel a little more worth it.”

She did things like this. Shooting from the hip. Ideas that felt half-formed, especially on beer nights. At work she was different—efficient, composed, always smiling.

“What kind of thoughts?”

“The honest kind. Just the one. Every day until Christmas. But only if you answer honestly, too.”

And somewhere between the beer and the way she looked at me, I agreed.

“Alright,” I said.

“Good. Then I’ll start.”

She turned to walk, but stopped to shout back one final rule.

“No talk about this in the office! Just one thought. One answer.”

I didn’t think too much about it until I turned my key and saw the apartment number. I had to grin at the irony. Apt. 24. Evan Hollinder.

Her first message hit before my eyeballs had adjusted to the light, before I’d managed to hit snooze for the third time.

“Why do I get nervous when I talk to you? Why don’t I say the things I’ve worked out in my brain?”

I stared at it. Then put my phone down. Brushed my teeth. Made coffee.

How many times can you erase messages? And would she be staring at the dancing dots?

“You once told me your brain works differently. Like it’s clawing toward perfection. Maybe your thoughts haven’t reached your level of perfection. Maybe, you need to find the level that says ‘good enough’?”

Honest? Yes. Not a single word of what I wanted to say.

December 2nd was a Tuesday. My Tuesday rituals are identical to every other weekday. I only remembered to text her right before heading out.

“I get nervous, too. Talking to you.”

I didn’t get out the door before she replied.

“Why? I don’t bite. Unless you ask me to.”

The following weeks carried more of the same, but with a shift I couldn’t ignore. She’d drop a line that brushed the edge of teasing—maybe testing how far my honesty would stretch—never explicit, just enough to tighten something in my chest before she hid it behind a joke or an apology. I answered carefully, pretending I didn’t notice how her thoughts kept circling hunger while mine kept circling her. Some of her answers sounded like apologies, but were slightly offhand, woven into messages.

“I’m wired differently. My thoughts spiral hotter, faster, deeper than they should.”

Some mornings, she hinted at wanting closeness, only to move past it the day after. Some days it took me hours to reply, but she always seemed ready. And always, I wished the rules allowed for just one clarification.

First thing, every morning, reaching for her to find her message or to send mine. But on the twenty-first day of our calendar? That Sunday morning? I froze. Stopped breathing.

“Why does regret taste so bitter? Why can’t I say no? Why don’t I stop myself? Why does letting someone fill me leave me this empty?”

Then, seconds later, she broke the rule.

“Sorry. Fuck…everything’s spinning.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and forgot about morning routines, work schedules, catching the bus—forgot it was Sunday and that none of it even mattered, erasing what I typed four times.

“One message, that’s the rule. No regrets.

You feel everything at full volume, and when something doesn’t match what you hoped for, it hits hard. That’s not weakness — it’s how you’re built, always giving too much, fearing you’ll disappoint.

Today didn’t line up with where your head’s been going.

That’s alright. I’m still here. You’re okay.”

I ended up doing nothing that Sunday but looping, accomplishing nothing. One message, one answer. That was the rule.

And all I could do was watch the minutes countdown to midnight.

“Are you okay?”

Instantly: “…”

Nothing more.

I looked for her throughout Monday. I didn’t care what the rules said about work hours, but she was either avoiding me. Or not in at all. I hoped it was avoidance.

I regretted the whole deal. What felt like a way to get closer had only pushed us further apart. Getting to know her had turned us into strangers.

I didn’t go to bed, just stayed in midnight limbo, something to dull my brain on TV.

It ticked in like a bombshell. A fucking grenade. Just after midnight.

“I’m so sorry. I wanted it to be you. I’ve wanted it to be you so long I can’t even…I’m shaking, feeling sick. I’m sorry for all the times I wished you’d pull me closer, ask if I wanted to come home with you, or when catching you at the coffee machine didn’t turn into a dinner invitation or a movie. Evan, not once? What was I thinking? I fear I’ve ruined it. Please tell me you don’t hate me. Please, Evan.”

My first instinct was to cry. But she wasn’t done.

“Evan, please.”

An onslaught of thoughts not even fully formed.

“Everything’s spinning. I can’t sit, can’t think, I can’t stop replaying everything. Say something. One thing. Please.”

“I’m sorry.”

I could only get one in: “Hang on. Breathe. I’m here.”

I needed breath as well. I didn’t know what to say, only that it mattered that I did, and soon enough to stop her from falling apart.

“Maeve. I couldn’t be him. Not when I see the storm raging, not when I’d only see the performance, not when everything about you looked like something to shelter, not take. I never walked you home because you said you were okay. I never asked you home because hearing you say no would crush the illusion. I wouldn’t even know what movie to pick.”

Hers came back too quickly, “I feel sick.”

“No. I’ve…I’m the one who’s sorry.”

“You? Why you?”

“Why sorry, I mean?”

Sometimes, you have to dare the undarable.

“Because since the first time you stood too close as I was getting coffee, the first time I heard your voice…you’ve been someone…I could love…”

It took too long, and came back too short.

“We broke the rules, Evan.”

“Are you okay?”

But there was only silence.

Her absence from the office on the twenty-third was massive. She’d called in sick. I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to break the rule. We’d exceeded our message limit. She’d told me to give her space. But the silence?

Christmas Eve was…work from home, if at all.

I stared at my phone. Maybe it was over. Maybe it didn’t matter what I wrote. Maybe I’d become like the other men she’d sought out only to feel hollowed. Misunderstood. Maybe just…”Merry Christmas, Maeve.”

“Maeve. They talk about the silence of Christmas as something to long for. It feels like it’s draining me. I feel like I lost something I hoped to feel, just when it was close enough to reach. I wish you’d allow for more than one message. More than one truth. Please?”

I pressed send.

I think she’d already prepared her answer.

“Evan. Open door 24.”

I didn’t have the decency to get dressed, just wrapped a towel around me, and sprang for the door.

She was a little flustered, twirling her hair between her fingers, but those green eyes? I was about to say her name, but she was on my lips before I could speak. Pushed me down to the floor, kicked the door shut behind us.

“Maeve,” I whispered.

“This isn’t a storm, Evan,” she breathed. “This is need. Three years of need. All I’ve wanted is for you to love me.”

Her mouth dragged along my jaw, desperate, unsteady, the kind of kiss that had weight behind it. Her fingers hooked the edge of the towel as her body settled lower, her skirt riding higher, bare heat testing the shape of me with a slow, aching grind. Her heat found me slick, certain, leaving no doubt what she wanted.

“Tell me you want this,” she whispered, grinding once, deliberate, the kind of pressure that knew exactly what it was asking.

“Please, Evan.”

I couldn’t find words. I didn’t need to. There was no storm to steady. No unraveling to undo.

My hands gripped her waist as she lowered herself onto me in one shaking, certain push.

“Maeve…yes.”

You won’t know what’s behind door 24 unless you dare to open it.