The dress code for the office NYE party is always ugly Christmas sweaters. It’s a tradition that goes back several years to one fateful day when someone in the office—Shane, probably—lamented that he never got to see anyone’s ugly Christmas sweaters because people were always gone for the holiday. It’s a quirky idea that stuck, mostly because everyone was glad to have another excuse to wear their ugly Christmas sweaters before packing them up for another year.

In the past, James and I got matching ones, wearing anything from slightly inappropriate designs like snowmen that had carrot stick dicks and boobs, to cute and wholesome ones like Santa and Mrs. Claus. I have no idea if Celeste will want to wear matching Christmas sweaters, since we never wore coupley outfits when we dated in college. But I buy a pair for us anyway. I can always return them if she says no.

Because it’s so last minute—and almost a week past Christmas—the sweaters I find at a nearby thrift store are basic but still, I think, pretty cute. Both are bright Christmas red with white text on them. One says SANTA while the other one simply says BABY. And the best part is, they’re professional enough to wear while talking to the higher-ups without explicitly denoting any sort of relationship label whatsoever.

I send Celeste a picture of the sweaters a few hours before the party.

Adorable, she replies, along with a laughing emoji.

Who should wear “Santa” and who should wear “Baby?”

Celeste replies almost instantly with Well, you’re obviously “Baby.”

Back in college, Celeste usually called me Gem. But on rare occasions, she called me “Gemma baby,” especially when she was feeling particularly romantic or when we were in bed together.

My heart speeds up. I don’t know how or when it happened, but at some point down the line, Celeste and I stopped being strictly professional with each other. It makes my stomach flutter nervously, but if I’m being honest with myself, I kind of like it. It’s nice to not have to be so stiff and formal around Celeste anymore. Regardless of whatever’s going on between us.

Since no one else—including Burrito—is at the apartment tonight, I invite Celeste over so she can change into her sweater before we head out for the party. When I answer the door with my BABY sweater on, her face softens.

“Very cute,” she says.

That is definitely not the response I have when she comes out of the bathroom in her sweater. With her black leather skirt, tied-back hair, and knee-high white leather boots, she gives her “Santa” sweater an edge that screams more “Daddy” than “St. Nick.”

I never thought I could find someone in a Christmas sweater so hot before, but I stand corrected.