Page 37 of The Stuffing Situation

He was down to boxers and wonder.

Maya pushed him back onto the bed, climbing after him like she’d been waiting all her life for this moment to happen in a locked room surrounded by passive-aggressive Christmas decorations.

The twin bed groaned beneath them, loud enough to elicit another round of snickers from down the hall.

Felix flinched. “Was that, ”

“Don’t think about them,” she said, dragging her hands down his bare chest. “Just think about me.”

“I always do,” he murmured, voice low now, lower than usual. There was something raw in it. Something real.

Her hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers. He gasped, an almost-shy, startled sound that made her grin against his mouth.

“You’re very direct today,” he breathed.

She pressed her forehead to his. “I just said yes to forever. You don’t get to act surprised. I want tocelebrate.”

He pulled her close, hands sliding up under her shirt, palms reverent. “Then let’s celebrate.”

Clothes disappeared with fumbling hands and stolen kisses. Her shirt lifted, caught briefly on her elbow; his boxers kicked off with a flick of her foot. The chill of winter air met flushed skin, and the heat between them made it irrelevant.

Their mouths found each other over and over. Kisses that were hungry and soft and stupid with love. She sank down on him slowly, both of them gasping in tandem.

“Oh, fuck,” she breathed. “Still perfect.”

“I recalibrated to your preferences,” he groaned, half laughing, half lost already.

Her hips rolled. Slow and grinding, like they had all day. He met her in rhythm, each upward thrust a confirmation: he was real, he washers, hewanted this.

Wantedher.

The headboard thumped lightly against the wall, the old mattress giving an occasional groan of protest beneath their momentum. Outside the door: distant holiday music, paper tearing, someone yelling about missing batteries. Inside the room: heat. Sweat. The scent of skin on skin.

Felix sat up, one arm bracing her back as she moved. The other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her mouth back down to his. Their bodies were pressed so close she could feel every twitch of him, every stuttering breath.

“Maya,” he whispered like a benediction.

Her name sounded new every time he said it. As if he’d relearned it just to give it back to her.

She came first, silent, shaking, head tucked into his neck, moaning against his shoulder. Her body clenched tight around him, and he followed moments later, gasping, hand clutchingthe base of her spine like he’d break apart without the anchor of her.

After, they collapsed in a tangle of tangled limbs and plaid blankets. Chest to chest, their Legs looped, and hearts still racing. Maya exhaled slowly, her body heavy with pleasure and the dizzy warmth of absolute security.

“You okay?” she asked, brushing his damp hair from his face.

Felix blinked up at her, flushed and smiling.

“I am experiencing unprecedented post-coital bliss.”

She laughed. Loud, unfiltered. Kissed him again.

From outside the door came a knock and a not-so-muffled voice.

“Still intact in there?” Aunt Dana asked. “We’re out of cinnamon rolls and patience.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “Give us ten more minutes!”

“Make it five,” Grandma barked. “Or I’m naming the baby ChatGPT.”