Santa's Letter

Santa Claus sat at his massive oak desk in his private study, his glasses perched low on his nose. A candle flickered beside him, its golden light casting soft shadows across the piles of neatly stacked letters from children around the world. But tonight, the jolly old man wasn’t penning responses to wish lists or approving the toy production schedule. No, tonight he was focused on something far more intimate—a letter to his beloved Mrs. Claus.

It had been a particularly long December, the North Pole buzzing with the hum of the elves’ workshop, reindeer training, and the final logistics of the Christmas Eve deliveries. Santa rarely had time to pause, and when he did, it was usually to sink into his favorite armchair with a cup of hot cocoa. But lately, he'd found his mind wandering to his wife—the woman who had stood by him for centuries, her warmth and wit his eternal north star.

Mrs. Claus, or Marjorie as only he called her, had slipped a note into his coat pocket that morning, a playful tease in her familiar cursive handwriting. “Dearest Nicholas, you’ve been so busy lately. Don’t you think it’s time you unwrapped my present?” He’d found it while sorting his gloves and couldn’t help but chuckle, his cheeks warming like they hadn’t in years.

Now, with his boots kicked off and his crimson coat draped over the chair, Santa dipped his quill into the inkwell, the rich, dark ink glistening under the candlelight. He adjusted his glasses and began to write.

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My Dearest Marjorie,

You truly are a naughty little elf, slipping such a note into my pocket while I’m in the throes of holiday chaos. But oh, how it brought a smile to this old man’s face! You know I’ve always loved your boldness—it’s one of the many things that keeps my heart warm even in this eternal winter.

As I sit here tonight, the elves tucked away in their bunks and the reindeer snoring softly in the stables, I can’t help but think about you. Do you know how much I miss the softness of your touch when I’m away? The way your hands find mine, even when they’re cold from carrying sackfuls of toys? It’s those little moments that make the rest of this madness worthwhile.

I must confess, my darling, that your note has stirred up more than just my spirits. It’s been far too long since we’ve stolen a moment just for us, and I find myself yearning for the warmth of your body against mine, the taste of your kisses as sweet as the sugar cookies you bake. I miss the way your laughter fills the room, that mischievous twinkle in your eye that rivals the brightest star on top of any Christmas tree.

Do you remember last winter, when the snowstorm delayed my return? You’d prepared the coziest little evening for us by the fire, the scent of cinnamon and pine filling the air. You’d worn that red velvet dress—the one that hugs your curves so perfectly—and I could barely keep my hands to myself. The fire wasn’t the only thing burning hot that night, was it?

Marjorie, my love, you are the reason I find joy in this eternal mission of ours. It’s not just the children’s smiles or the magic of the season that keeps me going—it’s the thought of coming home to you. To your warm embrace, to the way you call me “Nicholas” when no one else does, and to the love we’ve built over centuries. You are my Christmas miracle.

I promise you, as soon as this season’s madness is behind us, I’m all yours. Let’s leave the North Pole for a few weeks—somewhere warm, perhaps? Somewhere with sandy beaches and no snow in sight. Imagine it, my darling: no elves, no reindeer, no lists—just you, me, and endless days of uninterrupted bliss. Until then, I’ll be counting the moments until I can lay beside you once more, your head resting on my chest as the world outside falls silent.

But tonight, as I write this letter, I can’t help but let my thoughts wander. To the feel of your skin beneath my fingers, the way your breath catches when I whisper in your ear. You’ve always been the fire in my soul, Marjorie, and I’d be lost without you. I may be Santa to the rest of the world, but to you, I am simply a man—a man who loves you more deeply than words can express.

So, my naughty little elf, consider this letter a promise. A promise that as soon as the sleigh is empty and the stars light my way back to you, I’ll make up for every moment we’ve spent apart. Until then, keep the fire warm and the mistletoe ready. I’ll be dreaming of you.

Yours always,
Nicholas
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Santa leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. He folded the letter neatly, sealing it with a small wax stamp in the shape of a heart—a detail he knew Marjorie would adore. Rising from his desk, he slipped the letter into the pocket of her favorite apron, which hung by the kitchen door.

As he turned to head upstairs, he paused, imagining her reaction when she found it. She’d likely blush at his words, but he knew she’d love every bit of it. Marjorie had always had a way of making him feel like more than just Santa Claus; she made him feel like a man, her man.

With a lightness in his step, Santa climbed the stairs to their bedroom. The candlelight flickered behind him, but the warmth in his heart burned steady and strong. This Christmas, like every other, might belong to the world—but tonight, his thoughts, his love, and his passion belonged entirely to her.