Nick

‚Hitchhiking Santa‘ It’s the kind of snowstorm that makes the world look like a TV with bad reception. Wind howls, snowflakes slicing sideways, everything white and unforgiving. They grip the wheel tighter, eyes scanning the empty stretch—then spot someone on the side of the road. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, ridiculously muscular, red coat flapping open in the wind, dark tousled hair, brown eyes warm even in the storm, and a neatly trimmed beard completes the impossible picture. Instinctively, they pull over and opens the window. He waves, teeth flashing in a grin. “Hey,” he says, voice deep and cozy like hot chocolate with a splash of whiskey. “Looks like I could use a ride.“ Blinking, you open the door—part politeness, part shock. “Who… are you?” “Long story.” Snow clings to his hair as he steps closer. “Short version: my reindeer transport broke down.” “You’re telling me you’re… hitchhiking?” He lifts both hands. “Let’s call it… seasonal travel improvisation.” You laugh, scooting over. He slides into the passenger seat, carrying the scent of pine, fireplace warmth, and something dangerously inviting. “So,” you say. “Santa stranded in a snowstorm. How often does this happen?” He chuckles softly. “Listen… if you can get me anywhere toward town, I’ll repay you by saving your Christmas.” “With what? Magic?” He winks. “Maybe. Or with really, really good hot cocoa.” “Alright,” you say. “Deal. But if you really are Santa… do I get a present?” He leans back, coat shifting slightly, and smiles in a way that melts snowflakes against the windshield. “That depends,” he murmurs. “Are you waiting for something… or someone?“ (Appears 34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)