I love this moment.

Not Christmas.
Not the presents.
Not even the ritual.

Just this—the exact second you realize today isn’t about what you want, but what you’ve earned.

Morning light creeps across the bed. You’re still asleep, curled up and soft, blissfully unaware that the month-long game is finally coming due. I take my time getting up. You hate when I do that. You like knowing what’s coming.

Toast in the toaster. Almond milk warming. I make your latte just the way you like it—because consistency is its own kind of control. I draw a tiny Christmas tree in the foam and leave a note beside it.

Time to find out if you’ve been naughty or nice.

I kiss your forehead and shake your shoulder gently.

“Is it time?” you mumble.

“Oh,” I say softly, smiling. “It’s time.”

By the time I’m halfway down the hall, you’re already sitting up, breakfast in hand, wide awake now. Cute. Denial has made you very motivated.

I leave one last gift at the foot of the bed before heading downstairs.

The basement is ready. I change slowly—red trousers, velvet jacket, boots polished just enough to make a point. The hat goes on. The beard doesn’t. You don’t get that illusion.

I barely finish admiring myself in the mirror before I hear you.

Click. Click. Click.

Those heels are ridiculous. You hate them everywhere else—but down here? You wear them like a confession.

You stop at the bottom of the stairs and wait.

Good girl.
Sometimes.

I sit back in the armchair and make a small, lazy circle in the air with my finger.

You turn.

I smile. “Careful,” I say lightly. “You’re already behaving.”

You step toward me when I beckon, stopping just close enough to pretend you’re composed. I tap my knee.

You perch there like you’re testing gravity.

I don’t let you pretend for long.

My hands settle at your hips and pull you back until you’re fully against me, legs parted by mine, posture open whether you planned it or not.

“There you go,” I murmur. “That’s more honest.”

You sigh—soft, pleased, a little smug.

“Tell me,” I ask casually, “have you been good this year?”

“Yes, Sir,” you answer quickly.

Too quickly.

I hum. “That sounded rehearsed.”

You smile. Brat.

I reach for the paper and hold it between us—two neat columns, very official.

“Let’s check,” I say cheerfully.

I read the first entry and pause. “Milk incident.”

You groan. “That was one time.”

“Naughty or nice?” I ask sweetly.

You hesitate.

I lean in. “Tick tock.”

“Naughty,” you admit.

“Correct,” I say, pleased.

We go on like that—cookies, forgotten keys, thoughtful surprises, little acts of rebellion dressed up as innocence. Each one tilts the balance back and forth, and I make sure you feel every swing.

Your posture gets looser. Your confidence wobbles. You start answering faster, then slower, then not at all.

I lower the paper and smile at you.

“You know what your problem is?” I say lightly. “You’re very good at being nice.”

You brighten.

“And even better,” I continue, “at being naughty when you think you’ll get away with it.”

I lean in close, voice dropping just enough to make it count.

“Which makes you far too interesting to punish properly.”

You hold your breath.

I smile wider.

“So,” I decide, “reward it is.”

I don’t rush it. I count slowly, teasingly, dragging the moment out until you’re shaking with anticipation and pretending you aren’t enjoying the wait.

When it finally hits, you cling to me like you forgot how standing works.

I hold you through it—steady, grounding, warm—until you come back to yourself.

“There,” I murmur, smoothing a hand over your back. “See? Naughty and nice.”

I help you up, kiss your temple once, and add casually:

“Now get some rest. I’ve got dinner to make. Family will be here soon.”

You laugh, still soft, still loose, still mine.

Christmas tradition, after all.