Chris Walker stares at the ceiling fan spinning above their bed, counting each rotation as if it might somehow fill the widening chasm between him and his wife. Beside him, Patty sleeps with her back turned—the same position she's maintained for weeks now, a physical manifestation of the emotional distance stretching between them. The sheets feel cold against his skin despite the warmth of another body just inches away. He'd imagined their empty nest differently: passionate nights reclaiming their marriage, spontaneous sex on kitchen counters, shower encounters that steam up the bathroom for hours. Instead, he's counting fan rotations at 2 AM with a hard-on that his wife hasn't touched in nineteen days.
Nineteen fucking days.
He shifts his weight, the mattress barely dipping beneath him. Patty doesn't stir. When had they become these strangers sharing a king-size bed? When Izzy and Liza left for college, he'd practically marked the calendar, anticipating the liberation that would come with having the house to themselves again. No more tiptoeing through lovemaking, no more stifled moans, no more quick fucks between soccer practice drop-offs and dinner preparations.
"It'll be like our second honeymoon," Patty had promised, her eyes bright with anticipation as they'd waved goodbye to Izzy's departing car at the start of the fall semester.
That was four months ago. Their second honeymoon has consisted primarily of Patty working late at her HR director job, Chris mindlessly scrolling through his phone while some procedural drama drones on the TV, and nights ending with perfunctory kisses that taste like obligation.
Chris runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, feeling the thinning spot at his crown that he's become increasingly self-conscious about. At forty-eight, his body betrays him in small ways—the softening around his middle that his weekend golf games can't seem to counteract, the creaking in his knees when he climbs stairs, the way his stamina isn't what it used to be. Not that Patty's given him much opportunity to test it lately.
He glances at his sleeping wife, studying the curve of her shoulder visible through her silk pajama top. Still beautiful at forty-seven, still desirable despite—or perhaps because of—the subtle changes time has etched into her body. The thought sends a fresh surge of blood to his groin, a Pavlovian response to years of conditioning. His cock throbs against the thin fabric of his boxers, begging for attention it won't receive tonight.
Last weekend had been the closest they'd come to intimacy in weeks. Patty had emerged from the shower wrapped in nothing but a towel, her hair dripping wet against her shoulders. Chris had approached from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing himself against her backside so she could feel his immediate response to her near-nakedness.
"Not now, Chris," she'd murmured, extracting herself from his embrace. "I have that conference call in twenty minutes, and I still need to review my notes."
He'd watched her walk away, the towel clinging to the curves he yearned to touch, his erection straining painfully against his jeans. Later, he'd taken himself in hand in the shower, closing his eyes and pretending it was Patty's fingers wrapped around him instead of his own. The release had been hollow, leaving him feeling more alone than satisfied.
Chris exhales slowly, careful not to wake his wife. In public, they're the perfect couple—successful, attractive, enviably in sync. At company functions, he plays the charming spouse, one hand placed appropriately at the small of Patty's back as they mingle. He remembers birthdays and anniversaries, brings her flowers for no apparent reason, and holds doors open for her. He is, by all external measures, a model husband.
If only they could see the thoughts that sometimes curl through his mind like smoke, dark and formless until they coalesce into fantasies that make him hard and ashamed in equal measure. Fantasies that have less to do with Patty these days and more to do with younger women—the barista who always remembers his complicated coffee order, the new marketing intern who wears skirts that showcase legs that seem to go on forever.
His colleagues would be shocked. His family would be disgusted. Patty would be devastated.
So Chris maintains the facade. He's good at it—has been since his first marriage ended, and he stepped into the ready-made family Patty offered. He became the dutiful father to her teenagers, never overstepping, always supportive but firm. The perfect blend of authority figure and friend.
But now the house echoes with silence. Izzy, being twenty-one and a junior in college, has blossomed from an awkward teenager into a confident young woman. And Liza, now eighteen and in her first year of college, visits even less frequently, consumed by her studies and new relationships. Without the buffer of children, the cracks in Chris and Patty's relationship have widened into chasms.
Chris shifts again, his erection now painful in its persistence. He considers waking Patty, sliding his hand beneath her pajama bottoms to cup her ass, pressing his lips to the sensitive spot behind her ear that used to make her moan. But he already knows how it will end—with a sleepy murmur of "I'm exhausted" or "Can we do this tomorrow?" Only tomorrow never comes.
He rolls onto his side, facing away from his wife, mirroring her position. Their bodies form parentheses with nothing but empty space between them.
Winter break looms just days away. Izzy and Liza will be home, filling the house with their energy, their drama, their demands for attention. Chris feels a flutter of anticipation at the thought of family dinners and holiday traditions—moments when he can pretend they're still the unit they once were.
Izzy had texted earlier, something about reviving their old tradition of Holiday Movie Night. Chris smiles at the memory—Izzy and Liza in matching pajamas, Patty's homemade eggnog that could knock a grown man on his ass, Chris himself in that ridiculous Santa suit that always made the kids laugh.
His cock finally begins to soften as his thoughts drift toward the upcoming holidays. Perhaps having the kids home will shake things up and remind Patty of the family they've built together. Maybe it will bridge the gap between them, reignite the passion that seems to have sputtered out like a candle deprived of oxygen.
Chris closes his eyes, willing sleep to come. In his dreams, sometimes, he's the man he wants to be—impulsive but not inappropriate, desirable rather than desperate, fulfilled instead of frustrated. In his dreams, Patty reaches for him, hungry for his touch.
But dreams, like expectations, rarely align with reality. And reality for Chris Walker is a cold bed, an unresponsive wife, and desires that grow more dangerous with each passing day of neglect.
****
Izzy walks through the door, and Chris feels it instantly—an electric current. She's changed since he last saw her. Her posture, her clothes that now hug curves he hadn't noticed before, the way her eyes catch his when he looks too long. He hugs her quickly, his hands rigid on her upper back.
"Welcome home, kiddo," he says, the nickname sticking in his throat. Only she's not a kid anymore.
"Good to be back, Dad," she replies, lingering in his embrace a moment longer than necessary. Her perfume—something new, more sophisticated than the fruity body sprays she used to favor—fills his nostrils, making his head swim.
Liza appears an hour later, letting her duffel bag thud against the hardwood floor in the entryway. She gives Chris a quick sideways hug, one arm briefly circling his back before dropping away. Her eyes are already scanning past him toward the kitchen, where her mother's voice drifts out. Unlike with Izzy, Chris feels nothing but simple, uncomplicated affection as Liza moves past him.
That evening, Patty meal-preps in the kitchen. Her wooden spoon scrapes against the bowl in rhythmic strokes. Chris watches from the doorway, struck by how efficiently she moves, reaching for ingredients without hesitation. When had they lost that unconscious harmony?
"Need any help?" he offers, stepping into the kitchen.
Patty barely glances up. "I'm almost done here. Maybe check if the kids need anything? Izzy was talking about watching a movie later."
The dismissal stings more than it should. Chris retreats, finding Izzy sprawled on the living room sofa, scrolling through her phone. She looks up, tapping the space beside her invitingly.
"I was thinking," she says as he sits down, careful to leave an appropriate distance between them, "we should do Family Holiday Movie Night again. Like we used to when Liza and I were in grade school."
The suggestion surprises him. "You remember that?"
"Of course!" Her eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm. "Mom's killer eggnog, you in that ridiculous Santa outfit, all of us piled on the couches watching cheesy Christmas movies." She leans toward him, her hand briefly touching his knee. "It was the best tradition."
Chris can't help but smile at the memory. "Your mother's eggnog should be classified as a controlled substance."
"That's what made it fun," Izzy laughs, the sound lighter than her new sophisticated appearance suggests. For a moment, she's the teenage girl he remembers, the one who was safe to love in a straightforward, paternal way.
The moment shatters when she stands, stretching her arms above her head. Her sweater rides up, exposing a strip of toned stomach that draws Chris's eyes like a magnet. He forces himself to look away, but not before registering the small jewel glinting in her navel—another new addition since she left for college.
"I'll go tell Mom," she says, either oblivious to or ignoring his discomfort. "Maybe we can do it tonight? I've already got Liza on board."
Before Chris can respond, she's gone. He exhales, disturbed by his reaction to the flash of her bare midriff. This is Izzy—his daughter, the teenager he guided through science projects and first dates, and now she's twenty-one, a woman in every legal and physical sense. The realization sits uncomfortably in his gut, mingling with desire he refuses to name.
When Chris enters the kitchen later, Patty is already pouring her infamous eggnog into festive mugs. The sweet, spicy aroma fills the air, underlaid with the unmistakable bite of bourbon—more than a generous amount, if his memory serves.
"Family Movie Night is officially happening," Patty announces, a rare smile softening her features. "Izzy insisted."
Chris reaches for a mug. "Going full strength on the bourbon, I see."
"It's tradition," she shrugs. "Besides, we're all adults now." Her eyes meet his, and for a fleeting moment, there's a warmth there he hasn't seen in weeks. "Well, except you when you put on that Santa suit."
He laughs, surprised by the teasing. "About that..."
"Izzy's already looking for it in the attic storage. Good luck telling her no."
The eggnog burns pleasantly down Chris's throat, warming him from the inside. By his third sip, the familiar buzz begins to build behind his eyes, loosening muscles he didn't realize were tense. Patty drinks deeply from her own mug, color rising in her cheeks.
"I didn't manage to find the whole thing," Izzy announces, triumphantly brandishing a floppy red Santa hat as she enters the kitchen. "But we've got this, at least." Her cheeks are already flushed, and Chris realizes she must have sneaked a cup of eggnog earlier. "And Dad, don't you still have those red sweats from when you tried to start jogging last January?"
"I think they're in my bottom drawer," he admits.
Izzy claps her hands together. "Perfect! She says as she takes a long drink from her mug, which Patty has just refilled. "This is amazing, Mom. Just like I remember."
Chris raises an eyebrow at her. "Careful with that stuff," he says, even as he tips back his own mug and empties it. The bourbon blazes a warm trail down his throat, already softening the edges of his concern as he heads upstairs to change.
He pulls on the red sweatpants and thermal shirt, tugging the Santa hat over his thinning hair. The mirror reflects a middle-aged man playing dress-up, and he winces. Forty-eight-year-old men should be beyond this kind of pageantry.
Yet something in his chest lightens at the thought of Izzy waiting downstairs, eager to resurrect their old tradition. His daughter—now a woman—still cherishes those memories enough to wish for them to return. He adjusts the hat, deciding he can sacrifice a little dignity for that.
Chris makes his entrance to the living room with an exaggerated "Ho ho ho," feeling both absurd and endeared by the genuine delight that spreads across Izzy's and Liza's faces.
Patty, ensconced on the sofa with her own mug, gives him an approving once-over. "Not bad, Santa. You taking requests?"
The teasing tone in his wife's voice surprises him—it's been weeks since she's spoken to him with anything resembling flirtation. The eggnog is working its magic on her as well, it seems.
Liza has claimed her territory on the floor, constructing a fortress of pillows around herself. Her Christmas pajamas—red and green fabric covered with gift box patterns—make her look younger than her college years. The glow of her laptop screen illuminates her face as she connects it to the TV and navigates to their traditional first film, the black-and-white opening of "It's a Wonderful Life" frozen on screen, waiting for everyone to settle.
While Patty arranges bowls of pretzels, chips, and Christmas cookies on the coffee table, before she claims one end of the sofa, her legs tucked underneath her, looking more relaxed than Chris has seen her in months. She's on her third mug of eggnog, and the edges of her words have started to soften.
"Everyone ready?" Liza asks, her finger hovering over the play button.
"Wait!" Izzy interrupts. "Where should I sit?" she asks, standing in the center of the room in a short black nightgown that seems both childish in its design and decidedly adult in the way it clings to her body. Her legs are bare despite the December chill, smooth and golden even in the low light.
Chris settles into his recliner, gesturing toward the empty space beside her mother. "There's room on the couch."
Instead of taking the empty space beside Patty on the sofa, Izzy stands in front of Chris, her expression suddenly determined.
"But I want to sit on Santa's lap," she announces.
The request hangs in the air for a moment. Chris feels his body tense, heat creeping up his neck.
"Izzy, you're not ten anymore," he says, aiming for a light tone that doesn't quite land.
"He's right," Patty agrees, though her words are softened by the significant amount of eggnog she's consumed. "You're a grown woman now, Izzy."
Izzy's lower lip pushes out in a practiced pout that shouldn't be effective on a twenty-one-year-old but somehow is.
"It's tradition," she insists. "Just because I'm older doesn't mean everything has to change." She takes another long sip of her eggnog, swaying slightly where she stands. "Please, Daddy? It's Christmas."
"It's December 15th," Chris corrects automatically.
"Close enough," Izzy counters. Her nightgown falls just mid-thigh, the thin cotton material clinging to her curves in a way that makes Chris acutely uncomfortable. "Come on, Dad. Just like old times."
Chris looks to Patty for support, but his wife merely shrugs, already reaching for the remote control. The bourbon in the eggnog has clearly impaired her judgment, erasing the objection she'd voiced moments ago.
"Izzy, I don't think—" Chris begins.
"You're not supposed to think," Izzy interrupts, giggling. "You're Santa. You're just supposed to be jolly and let me sit on your lap while we watch the movie."
She steps closer, her bare legs inches from his knees. "Unless you're worried that I might be on the naughty list?"
The innocent question carries an undertone that makes Chris's mouth go dry. He tells himself he's imagining it—it's just the eggnog clouding his perception, making him read inappropriate meanings into harmless words.
"Please?" Izzy persists, her eyes wide and pleading. "For old times' sake? It's not the same if I can't sit with you."
The alcohol buzzes pleasantly through Chris's system, dulling the sharp edges of propriety, making the request seem less unreasonable with each passing second. What harm could it really do? It's just family tradition. If Patty doesn't object—and she clearly doesn't, already half-focused on the television screen—then perhaps he's overthinking this.
"Fine," he relents, shifting to make room. "But just for a little while."
Izzy's smile is triumphant as she lowers herself onto his lap, the weight of her adult body nothing like the featherlight child she once was. She settles against him, her backside pressing directly against his thighs, her legs draped over the arm of the chair. The nightgown rides up dangerously, and Chris finds himself staring at the expanse of smooth skin now exposed, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Perfect," Izzy sighs, leaning back against his chest. The movement brings her head just beneath his chin, her hair tickling his neck, the scent of her shampoo—something fruity and feminine—filling his nostrils. "This is exactly how I remember it."
But it's nothing like what Chris remembers. The 16-year-old who used to perch innocently on his knee has been replaced by a woman whose every curve and movement sends inappropriate signals through his body. He sits rigidly beneath her, trying to create whatever space he can, hyperaware of the thin layers of fabric separating them.
"Everyone comfortable?" Liza asks, oblivious to Chris's discomfort, as she hits play.
Izzy shifts, nestling more firmly against Chris, her bottom pressing directly against his groin. "Very," she murmurs, reaching for her eggnog mug on the side table.
As the movie's opening credits roll across the screen, Chris reaches for his own mug and drains it in desperate gulps, hoping the additional alcohol will numb his growing awareness of Izzy's body. Instead, the bourbon only seems to heighten his senses—the warmth of her skin, the subtle pressure each time she moves over his thighs.
He tries to focus on the movie, on his wife seated just feet away, on anything but the inappropriate responses his body threatens to reveal. But as Izzy adjusts her position again, seemingly innocent yet somehow pressing more firmly against him, Chris knows with growing dread that this innocent family tradition has transformed into something far more dangerous than he could have anticipated.
Twenty minutes into the movie, Izzy shifts on Chris's lap, stretching forward to...
