It was a peaceful Christmas Eve. Snowflakes were falling like powdered sugar outside the windows, gently frosting the rooftops. Inside, the fireplace glowed warmly, the tree sparkled with lights, and Mariah Carey had just hit her final whistle note for the fifth time that evening.

The whole house smelled like cinnamon, cocoa, and vanilla candles you’d strategically lit for maximum ambiance.

And there he was—curled up on the couch, wrapped in a fleece blanket like a sleepy burrito. He wore his favorite reindeer onesie (with the floppy antlers and the little tail in the back), “Ho Ho Ho” slippers, and was double-fisting popcorn and hot chocolate like it was an Olympic sport.

Meanwhile, in the bedroom—you were preparing for battle.

Holiday battle.

The fluffy red robe hugged your body like a cloud, but beneath it? Danger. Fire. Santa’s naughtiest surprise. Red lace trimmed with white fur, strategically placed bows, and just the right amount of barely there to drive your husband into theatrical hysterics.

You took a deep breath. Showtime.

You walked into the room slowly, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, voice low and sultry: “Hey, babe…”

He turned.

And he SCREAMED.

“A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!!” he shrieked, launching the bowl of popcorn into the air like it was part of a Broadway number. Kernels rained down on the living room like festive confetti.

He stood up, staggered backward like he’d seen the face of an angel, and clutched his chest. “WHAT IN THE NAME OF SAINT NICHOLAS—IS THIS A VISION?!”

You tried—tried—not to laugh as he dropped to his knees dramatically, staring at you like you had descended from the heavens riding a sleigh made of glitter and temptation.

“I’ve been good this year!” he wailed, arms flailing. “I flossed, I took the garbage out without you reminding me, I even apologized to that one spider before I squished it!”

And then… it happened.

He stood up slowly, cleared his throat, and burst into song.

“Ohhhh, sweet baby Jingle Bells, I wasn’t ready for this sleigh ride—My wife is in lace, Lord give me grace, I think I just DIED—”

You clapped a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter as he grabbed a throw pillow and used it as a faux microphone.

“IT’S CHRISTMAAAS!” he belted, spinning in a full circle, antlers bouncing.

You let the robe slip just a little. The lace caught the firelight just right.

He gasped again—sharply. “You’re trying to kill me. You’re literally trying to end me with holiday cheer

You walked up to him, calm and collected, and gently pushed him back down onto the couch. Then you climbed into his lap, straddling him like the true queen of festive chaos you were.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” you whispered.

He blinked. Twice. Then again, slowly, like he was trying to process the gift that had just been bestowed upon him.

“I love you,” he breathed. “More than warm cinnamon rolls. More than extra marshmallows in my cocoa. More than unlimited data. I worship the ground you jingle on.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his ear. “Then unwrap your present.”

And that was it.

He howled like a wolf on a snow-covered mountaintop and declared, “THE TREE STAYS UP FOREVER! WE LIVE IN CHRISTMAS NOW.”

That night, the halls were well and truly decked—and not a single silent night was had.