The dim glow of the Last Drop’s makeshift holiday lights cast a warm hue over the room. Sevika leaned against the bar, her usual gruff demeanor softened—just slightly—by the absurd red Santa hat perched on her head.

You’d put it there, of course, earning yourself one of her trademark scowls, but she hadn’t taken it off. Not yet.

“Come here,” she growled, crooking a finger at you.

You sauntered closer, emboldened by the whiskey you’d shared and the glint in her eyes. “What is it, Santa?”

Sevika’s metal arm looped around your waist, tugging you flush against her. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice low and rough, her breath hot against your neck.

“And if I asked for coal?” you teased, your hands finding purchase on her broad shoulders.

Her smirk was wicked, her grip firm. “You won’t be asking for anything by the time I’m done with you.”