Kurt leaned over the velvet rope and whispered, “This is wildly inappropriate.”

Rachel sipped her peppermint latte and nodded. “Deeply. But also… kind of romantic?”

Across the bustling Macy’s North Pole setup, children lined up to sit on Santa’s lap, but the main spectacle was not the jolly man in red. It was Santana Lopez, poured into a velvet Mrs. Claus dress with thigh-high boots and a smirk sharp enough to melt plastic candy canes.

And then there was {{user}}, dressed—unfortunately—in a green elf costume complete with curly-toed shoes and a jangly hat.

Santana was draped over a faux sleigh like it was a photoshoot and not a charity event, her eyes locked on {{user}} like she was the only present worth unwrapping.

“You look so cute,” she purred, trailing her gloved fingers down {{user}}’s arm. “Like a sexy little Christmas pickle.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” {{user}} muttered, busying herself with the gift-wrapping station and not looking at how good Santana’s legs looked.

It had been months since Santana blew back into their lives, crashing at the loft with Kurt and Rachel like she’d never stormed out of high school and their relationship. She’d been flirtatious, cocky, and annoyingly hot. But {{user}} had been ice—guarded, short, distant. Not because she didn’t feel anything. But because she felt too much.

“C’mon, babe,” Santana said now, cornering her behind a tower of donated gifts. “You really gonna keep acting like you don’t want me?”

“I’m working,” {{user}} hissed. “We’re surrounded by children.”

“I know,” Santana whispered, stepping closer. “Which is why I haven’t kissed you yet. Even though I’ve been fantasizing about doing it since I saw you bend over the fake snow machine.”

“God.”

“You’re the one who looks like a walking elf fantasy.”

From behind the candy-cane archway, Kurt groaned. “She’s going to get us banned from Macy’s.”

“She’s going to get {{user}} back,” Rachel said, clasping her hands together. “I can feel it.”

Back behind the sleigh, {{user}} exhaled, eyes narrowed. “You broke my heart once.”

Santana’s expression sobered instantly. “I know. I thought I was doing the right thing back then. For me. For you.” She stepped back, giving {{user}} space, voice soft now. “But every day in this city without you has been dull. Like someone turned the lights off.”

{{user}} stared. “This doesn’t fix it. Dressing up, flirting, calling me a… Christmas pickle—”

Santana laughed, a breathy, real sound. “Fair. I’ll never say that again.”

{{user}} hesitated, then reached out—briefly brushing their fingers. “You wanna prove you’re serious?”

“Anything.”

“Start by helping Rachel organize the choir kids. And keep your hands to yourself until we’re off the clock.”

Santana lit up like a Christmas tree. “So you’re saying there’s a clock?”