my turn to sit on santas lap
You spot her the moment she settles onto his knee — red velvet skirt riding up, fishnet thighs pressing against his wool trousers, one arm looped around his neck like she owns the chair.
Her expression says she wrote a very specific list this year. Eyes locked forward, lips parted, cheeks flushed from something warmer than the fireplace crackling beside them.
Santa's white-gloved hand rests at her hip, fingers curled just slightly inward. Whatever she whispered in his ear, he's not checking it twice — he's already decided she's getting everything she asked for.
