Emma found the first envelope on December 1st, tucked neatly beneath her keyboard. Red paper. Gold star seal. No name.

Day 1: Make someone in this office lose their train of thought.

She snorted. Mischief already? Bold. Craig passed her desk just as she finished reading. Of course.

“What’s got you smiling like that?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder, smelling faintly of cedar and winter air.

Emma snapped the note shut, cheeks warming. “Just festive nonsense.”

His look lingered a beat too long—curious, amused, like he wanted to pry the secret right out of her hands. And maybe she wanted him to.

He walked away, but not without glancing back. More than once.

The notes continued—bolder, riskier, the kind of thrill she pretended not to crave.

Sara giggled as she passed, tossing a knowing, “Love’s in the air,” before diving back into her work.

Day 3: Stand close enough to someone that they have to step away first… or won’t.

She didn’t even have to think about who.

During the team meeting, she took the seat beside Craig, scooting her chair just an inch closer. His knee brushed hers under the table. He didn’t move.

He kept taking notes, eyes on the screen, jaw tight — but his leg stayed firmly pressed to hers like a silent challenge. When the meeting ended, he didn’t stand immediately. He waited. Let everyone else file out. Only then did he look sideways at her, voice low.

“Whoever’s sending those notes… they’re playing with fire.”

Her breath caught. “Why?”

“Because you’re taking them seriously.”

Day 4: Brush someone’s hand while passing something.

She didn’t even realize she’d leaned close until Craig’s pen was suddenly in her hand instead of his. He didn’t pull away. His eyes flicked from her fingers to her mouth, and the air between them tightened.

Day 8: Let someone catch you staring.

She chose Craig. Tie loose. Sleeves rolled. Concentration carved into his brow. She looked openly, shamelessly, until he felt it and glanced up.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

The real tipping point came on Day 18 during Secret Santa. Emma opened her anonymous gift and froze. Inside was a silk blindfold—midnight black—and a card:

For when you want to trust someone enough to let them lead.
—Your Advent Elf

Her pulse thudded. She didn’t need to look up to know Craig’s eyes were already on her.

When she did, he stood across the room, watching her with an expression she couldn’t read—except for the part that said: Tell me what that makes you think.

And she wanted to.

Day 22 ended everything subtle.

Rain streaked the windows. Everyone had left. The office hummed with that hollow quiet only after-hours can hold.

Craig approached her desk, one hand braced on the edge.

“You’re still here?” he asked.

“So are you.”

He looked tired, undone—tie loose, jaw shadowed. Or maybe he’d simply been thinking too much. Her note for the day sat in her pocket:

Find a way to get someone alone.

Craig’s gaze flicked toward the empty manager’s office.

“Emma,” he said quietly, “was today’s task… bold?”

She nodded.

He exhaled like he’d finally given in to something he’d been fighting for weeks.

“Come with me.”

In the dim office, city light pooled across the desk. Emma’s pulse raced. Weeks of tension—all the glances, the near-touches, the slow, coiling want—brought her here.

“Tell me,” Craig murmured, stepping close enough for warmth to reach her. “What these notes have been doing to you.”

She swallowed. “They’ve made me think about you. More than I should.”

His breath caught. He stepped closer until the air between them buzzed.

“And if I kissed you,” he said softly, “would that cross a line… or one you want crossed?”

Her voice barely came out. “I want you to.”

He kissed her—slow, sure, hungry in a way that matched her own. His hands rested at her waist; hers slid up his chest. He backed her gently against the desk. His forehead rested against hers, breath shaking.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” she breathed. She bent over the desk, and her skirt rode up just enough to reveal the lace edge of her stockings.

"Be a good girl," he murmured against the shell of her ear, fingers circling her waist like a belt she couldn't unbuckle. His breath was warm, uneven—coffee and mint from the gum he'd been chewing when he walked in. She could feel the ridge of his belt buckle pressing through her blouse, the heat of him soaking into her back as he crowded her against the desk.

She exhaled sharply when his hand slid down, thumb hooking under the hem of her skirt. The fabric whispered against her thighs as he pushed it higher, revealing the damp press of her underwear. "You've been thinking about this," he said, not a question. His palm settled heavy between her legs, the pressure just shy of cruel.

Her hips jerked forward, a silent plea. The desk creaked under her weight as she braced herself on spread fingers, the cold laminate biting into her skin. He chuckled low in his throat—the sound vibrated through her—and then his fingers were slipping beneath silk, parting her with deliberate slowness. "Fuck," he breathed, dragging a wet stripe up her center, "you're already leaking for me."

She whimpered when he curled two fingers inside her, the stretch sudden and sweet. His other hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back until she could see the ceiling tiles blur above her. "Look at you," he muttered, fucking her with shallow thrusts, his knuckles brushing sensitive flesh with every withdrawal. "Couldn't even wait 'til tea, could you?" Her reply dissolved into a gasp as his thumb found her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her thighs tremble.

The zipper of his sliders hissed open. She heard the tear of foil—too loud in the quiet office—before he pressed against her, hot and thick. He didn't ask. Just guided himself in with a groan, one hand splayed between her shoulder blades to keep her pinned. The first thrust was brutal, knocking a moan loose from her chest. "That's it," he gritted out, hips snapping forward again, "take it." Her elbows buckled; her cheek met the desk as he drove into her, the slap of skin echoing off the filing cabinets.

Sweat dripped down his temple, landing on her collarbone. She arched when his teeth sank into her neck, the sting blooming into heat as he fucked her harder, faster. His rhythm stuttered—she could feel him swelling inside her, his breath ragged against her skin. "Gonna fill you up," he growled, and the words alone sent her clenching around him.

Her nails scrabbled against the laminate as the coil in her belly tightened, pleasure cresting with every snap of his hips. He dragged her up by the hair, her back flush against his chest, and ground his palm against her clit. The orgasm hit like a live wire—her vision whited out as she came with a broken cry, thighs quaking.

He followed with a grunt, burying himself to the hilt as he pulsed inside her. Hot, wet, possessive. She could feel every twitch, every shudder as he emptied himself, his grip bruising on her hip. For a moment, the only sound was their panting breaths and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above.

He pulled out slowly, trailing a hand down her spine. She didn't move—couldn't—her legs still weak, the desk sticky beneath her. The foil wrapper crinkled as he tossed it toward the trash can, missing. "Clean yourself up," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before stepping back. The zipper sounded final.

But afterward, when she slipped out of the office, something unsettled churned low in her chest. Not regret. Something sharper, quieter. Something she couldn’t name.

The office was emptying out as she grabbed her things. She headed to the small storage room—and froze.

Her friend sat on the filing cabinet, an advent envelope dangling from her fingers.

“You slept with Craig,” Sara said softly.

Emma’s breath caught. “I didn’t know it would matter to you.”

Her friend lifted the envelope. “You never looked at the handwriting.”
A beat. A swallow. “I wrote them, Emma. Every note. Every dare. They were all from me.”

The confession hit like heat under Emma’s skin. She stepped closer, their knees almost touching.

“If I’d known,” Emma murmured, “I never would’ve gone near him.”

Her friend’s gaze dropped to her lips. “And now?”

Emma brushed her fingers along her friend’s hand—barely a touch, but electric. “Now I can’t stop looking at you.”

“Can I…?”

“Yes.”

The kiss was slow and molten, her friend’s hands sliding to Emma’s waist as Emma leaned in, breath shivering.

When they finally broke apart, her friend smiled, shaky and hopeful.
“So… twenty-four love notes forgiven?”

Emma kissed her again, soft and certain. “Every one.”