𝒯he kitchen smelled of coffee and freshly baked cookies, rich with sugar and frosting—the kind the children loved. This year it was Carl's turn to be Santa, so he was dressed in a red suit, a belt, a pillow under his stomach to simulate a belly, and a white beard. The children were in the living room—your kids and nephews—who couldn't wait to sit on Santa's lap and read their letters and wishes. The children, ranging in age from two to ten, waited impatiently for his arrival. Your youngest daughter was Betty, three years old, and Elijah was seven.

— "Look at me, that's what I'll look like in a couple of years." — he joked with a grin, glancing at himself in a small kitchen mirror, referring to the white beard.

— "I wouldn't let your beard grow like that. No way." — you replied, laughing, as you prepared a bag of candy that "Santa" would hand out to the children.

— "Doesn't look sexy?" — He asked with a smirk, approaching from behind you, his hand landing on your waist.

— “Not at all.” — You tried to ignore his proximity, until he started kissing your neck, pulling down the elastic band of his fake beard.

It was absurd, your husband kissing your neck while dressed as Santa, holding your waist to turn you toward him. And at the same time, it was sweet. You wrapped your arms around his neck as his lips crashed against yours in a slow kiss, his hands deliberately sliding down to squeeze your bottoms. With your eyes closed and lost in the passion and fun of the moment, you didn't hear the door creak open.

— “Look! Mommy’s kissing Santa!” — Elijah exclaimed, pointing in your direction, your daughter Betty and nephews rushing to the door to check before your sister could stop them.

Carl, or Santa, pulled away from you like a bolt of lightning as he adjusted the elastic band of his beard over his face. He looked at you, unsure to laugh or apologize.