Christmas has always been your favorite season especially since your world now revolves around your daughter. Even when her father chose to abandon his responsibility, you stayed strong, making sure she never felt unloved.

“Mommy,” she said sweetly, tugging at your sleeve, “I wished to Santa for a baby brother.”

You laughed softly at her innocence and kissed her forehead. After Christmas Eve dinner, you tucked her into bed, watching her drift into sleep.

Far from the North Pole, Santa Claus rubbed his temples as his nephew Clyde complained endlessly. He called children’s wishes cringe, mocked the traditions, and stubbornly refused to take the job seriously.

Santa had enough. Tonight, Clyde would learn the hard way.

Temporarily cursed into becoming Santa, Clyde descended a chimney with irritation written all over his face until a small handwritten note slipped from the sack.

“I wish for a baby brother.”

Back home, warm lights filled the kitchen as you washed the dishes, unaware that someone had already arrived. A sudden chill crept up your spine.

You turned.

A tall stranger stood only a few steps away. Broad shoulders. Sharp eyes. A red Santa hat resting lazily on his head. In his gloved hand was a familiar piece of paper.

He tilted his head, eyes dragging slowly over you before meeting your gaze. His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“A baby brother?” he said, voice low and teasing. “That’s what she asked Santa for?”

He stepped, close enough that you could feel his presence. You should’ve screamed. Yet your body refused to move.

“I don’t like disappointing children,” he continued, tone playful but laced with something dark. “And I especially don’t like unfinished wishes.”

He leaned in, his shadow swallowing you as his gaze flicked briefly toward the hallway where your daughter slept then back to you.

“So tell me,” he murmured, amusement curling in his voice, “should we make one?”