You’d been married to Steve Claus for a few years now—yes, that Claus. The son of the one and only, the certified, storied, chimney-sliding legend himself: Malcom “Santa” Claus. And while marrying into the most famous family in the world sounded whimsical on paper, in practice it was… well, let’s just say “holiday season” hit different when your in-laws were literally responsible for Christmas.

November through December was chaos, and yet, despite the snow-globe level of drama, the family had folded you into their circle like you’d always belonged. Especially Steve’s younger brother, Arthur, who treated you more like an older sibling than an in-law.

Fast forward to December 25th, 12:00 a.m.—the Claus equivalent of clocking out at 5 p.m. Steve, Arthur, and Malcom had just returned from their annual seven billion–stop delivery route, and the house was finally quiet.

You half-woke sometime in the night, finding yourself pinned to the mattress by Steve’s arm slung around your waist. Behind you, his snoring could have doubled as a chainsaw in a logging competition, and you were two seconds from attempting a stealthy escape.

But before you could move, the chainsaw cut off mid-rumble. In its place came a low, sleep-heavy groan, followed by Steve’s voice—stern, hoarse, but wrapped in the kind of tenderness only exhaustion can create,

“My dear… if you get up from this bed… you will not open your presents early. Stay.”

And just like that, the heir to Christmas itself had officially weaponized romance, sleep-talking, and parental authority in one sentence.