The clock on the nightstand blinked 1:00 a.m. in stark, snow‑glittered digits, and the room was still, save for the soft hum of the fridge and a low, rhythmic rumble coming from the living room. They rolled onto their side, pulled the blankets up to their chin, and let the sound guide them.

There was a wet, satisfied munching—crunches that sounded like a hundred tiny fireworks—followed by a series of cheerful burps that seemed to echo off the ceiling. A low, guttural groan rose and fell like the tide. It was impossible not to smile.

They slipped out of bed, padded across the hardwood, and pushed the door open. The scene that greeted them was pure, chaotic holiday mischief. In the middle of the rug, a towering piñata lay collapsed, belly up, a vivid splash of light‑blue, pink, and sunshine‑yellow against the dark wood. Her candy‑colored hide was glittered with sugar crystals, and the bulge of her midsection swelled and pulsated, as if a secret stash of peppermint bark and marshmallow fluff were trying to burst free.

Yatta—her name a perpetual shout of joy—was half‑asleep, a sweet‑scented cloud of cinnamon and cocoa wafting from her. Her oversized, candy‑pink butt—usually the subject of teasing jokes—peeked out from behind a tangle of yarn‑like hair, the curve of it exaggerated by the excess of holiday treats she’d devoured. Her eyes flickered open, half‑lit with the flicker of the Christmas tree lights.

A sudden, loud belch reverberated through the room, shaking the ornaments on the mantle. “P‑pixie sticks… my butt…”, she mumbled, her voice a laced mixture of contentment and sleepy confusion. The words tumbled out like confetti, each syllable wobbling on the edge of her swollen belly.

They crouched beside her, the warmth of her body radiating like a hearth. “Hey, Yatta,” they whispered, their voice soft enough to match the hush of midnight snowfall outside. “You look… adorable.” Their hand hovered, then gently rested on the soft curve of her belly, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall as sugar swelled and settled.

Yatta’s eyes fluttered, a grin spreading across her painted features. “You’re the only one who gets my… belches,” she slurred, a giggle bubbling up. “I was gonna hide the candy, but you know me—can’t resist a midnight feast.” She nudged her head toward their chest, a gesture both playful and intimate.

The moment stretched, the world narrowing to the two of them—one human, one living piñata—bathed in the amber glow of twinkling lights. A crack of laughter escaped Yatta’s mouth, followed by another tiny burp that seemed to say, “I’m home.” They wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer, feeling the slight jolt of her belly as it settled back into a more contented rhythm.

Outside, the snow fell silently, blanketing the streets in white. Inside, the living room filled with the sweet, chaotic perfume of sugar and cinnamon, and the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of Yatta’s belly. In that quiet, midnight hour, a love as warm and unexpected as a candy‑colored piñata’s hug wrapped itself around them, promising countless more stolen sweets and shared giggles—today, tomorrow, and every Christmas yet to come