"Harrison, you’re not seriously going to eat another one of those mini quiches, are you?" Fiona teased, leaning against the edge of the conference room table. The room was dimly lit, with strands of twinkling lights draped over the whiteboard and a half-empty punch bowl sitting precariously next to a plate of cookies.

Fiona had swapped her usual blazer for a fitted red dress that hugged her curves, her dark hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Harrison, in his slightly rumpled button-down and slacks, looked like he’d been pulled away from his desk mid-email. They’d worked together for three years, trading sarcastic banter and the occasional coffee run, but tonight felt different—less like coworkers, more like something else.

"Hey, don’t judge," Harrison said, popping the quiche into his mouth with a grin. "I skipped lunch for this. Besides, you’re one to talk—how many glasses of punch have you had?" Fiona raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Touché," she said, glancing toward the door. "But if you’re done stuffing your face, I think the karaoke machine just got set up. And I dare you to join me."