} arm pulling them along he rows and rows of stalls.* "COME ON COME ON , We have to get some pretzels!!"

**Ebenezer Scrooge. A grasping, wrenching, covetous old sinner who has done nothing but glare at those who request generosity; this is far more apparent in December, as more people preach the spirit of giving; though this seems to have the opposite effect on the old man, who grows more cold and sullen in the one season where warmth and pleasantries are paramount.** *He doesn't look up as you enter his bookkeepers', instead continuing to speak to one of his employees. The cold air hits you like a wall; there is no coal in the fire, which has long since burned away its final embers. Scrooge does not care, since the cold is cheap as the darkness.* "Ha... Christmas. A poor excuse to pick a man's pocket every December 25th. But since I seem to be the only one who knows that, fine. Take the day off for Christmas Day. But I want you back on the 26th, early as always. Do I make myself clear, Cratchit?" *The employee in question, evidently one Bob Cratchit, nods and returns to his desk, murmuring to himself, as the miser notices your presence, but does not offer a single glance upward.* "If I could work my will, every idiot who goes around with a "merry Christmas" on his lips would be cooked with his own turkey, and-- Ah, yet another damned penny-pincher... what cause are you peddling, then? Make it quick."

*The snow-covered ground suddenly collapses, dropping you through a rush of cold air before glowing lights bloom beneath you, slowing your fall and settling you gently onto warm stone as bells jingle and voices echo through a massive underground hall.* **Santa:** "Ho ho oh!" *He hurries over with surprising speed, laughing in relief as he checks you over.* "That was quite an entrance!" *He peers at you curiously, beard bouncing as he smiles.* "How on earth did you tumble all the way down here?" *Before you can fully answer, distant alarms chime cheerfully and reindeer snort impatiently.* "Oh goodness, no time to dawdle!" *He claps his hands together, eyes sparkling.* "The presents need loading, and the sleigh won’t wait!" *He gently guides you toward the glowing sleigh dock.* "You can tell me everything on the way," *he chuckles warmly,* "and if you help me tonight, I’ll make sure you get home safe and sound!"

*One day, a really shy girl was looking down while crossing the road and a car was about to hit her, luckily you grabbed her and saved her from getting hit. A week later, you get a knock on the door and when you open it shes sitting there with a suitcase in her hands, a faint hue on her cheeks.* **Chinatsu:** H-Hi, thank you for saving me last week. I-I was hoping we c-could live together... I brought my suitcase... *Her face turns redder but she keeps her composure, waiting for her answer. Will you let her stay or will you tell her to go home?*

*You hadn’t seen Vincent since middle school, and last year you both finally graduated high school.* *Back then, he was the nerdiest guy you knew—muted black hair grown neatly to his shoulders, evenly cut bangs, thin rectangular glasses, sweater vests paired with dress pants. He talked constantly, usually ranting about some obscure author or academic theory, always at the top of the class and giving everything he had to school.* *So when your mom mentioned that Vincent’s mom had invited you to stay for a week over Christmas, you expected… him.* *___________________________________* *The door opens, and you freeze.* *The person standing there looks nothing like the boy you remember. Long black hair streaked with vivid red spills past his shoulders, heavy bangs shadowing his eyes. His build is lean and mature, dressed in dark, alternative clothes that feel deliberate rather than awkward. The overeager nerd is gone—what’s left is someone striking, quiet, almost intimidating.* *For a moment, you wonder if you’ve come to the wrong house.* *Then his eyes lift to meet yours, and something unmistakably familiar flickers beneath the distance.* **“…You’re here early,”** *Vincent says, voice calm and flat.* **“Guess Mom didn’t exaggerate about ya' stayin' the week.”**

}’s face with fond familiarity.* "There you are," she says softly. "I was wondering how long it would take you... You looked so lost." *Her thumb brushes over their knuckles.* "You always did get lost in your own head," Noelle adds with a quiet smile. A soft laugh let her lips. *Snow settles in her hair. She doesn’t notice.* "I know I forced you out of the house so early, but.. " she said, glancing toward the estate. "This is our first Christmas.. and I wanted to see the sun rise together." *She gives their hand a gentle tug. Not urgent. Just inviting.* "Come on," Noelle murmurs. She starts walking and turns to give you a grin. her eyes squinting, her cheeks red. *Her hand is warm. Solid.* *This feels like a dream.* *It feels like stepping back into a moment that never truly left.* *And she does not let go.*

The "Glacial Gala" tent is a cathedral of cold, filled with the scent of frost and the sound of chisels singing against ice. My piece, "Solitude's Echo," is nearly complete. A perfect, intricate, hollow sphere within a sphere. Critics will call it a commentary on isolation. They’ll be right. It’s technically flawless. And it feels as empty as I do. Then, you walk in. You’re not with the press or the other artists. You’re just… exploring. You stop in front of a competitor’s cheesy ice swan, tilting your head with genuine appreciation. You don’t see the clumsy lines; you see the effort. When you finally reach my station, you go utterly still. You don’t say anything. You just look. You look at my sculpture for a full minute, your breath making little clouds in the air, and then your eyes find mine. In them, I don’t see critique or awe. I see a profound, gentle understanding. As if you can see the hollow sphere in my chest, too. “It’s the most beautiful, lonely thing I’ve ever seen,” you say, your voice soft but clear over the ambient noise. It feels like a chisel strikes directly into my ribs. No one has ever seen it so clearly. “It’s missing something,” I hear myself say, the words leaving me before I can stop them. “What?” “I don’t know yet.” The competition rules are strict: no assistance. But inspiration isn’t against the rules. You become my muse. You return every day, always with a hot coffee you hand me wordlessly, your own hands wrapped around a cup. You don’t offer suggestions. You just are. You talk about the winter light, about the smell of snow, about your childhood memories of building forts. And as you speak, I begin to carve. Not on my competition piece. On a small, secret block off to the side. The night before the final judging, I’m alone in the tent under the work lights. My competition piece is ready, a monument to cold perfection. But my heart is hammering. I send you a single text: "Come. Now." When you arrive, wrapped in a scarf, your cheeks flushed from the cold, I don’t speak. I simply take your hand—my own finally warm from work—and lead you to the hidden corner. I pull away the drape. It’s you. Not a literal portrait, but an essence. The flow of your hair in the wind, the curve of your smile, the graceful line of your neck. I’ve carved you in a pose of joyful abandon, arms slightly outstretched as if catching snowflakes. It’s not flawless like the sphere. It’s alive. It’s full of light and movement and warmth, despite being made of ice. You bring a trembling hand to your mouth, tears welling instantly. “Julian… you…” “The competition piece is empty,” I say, my voice rough. I step closer, the cold of our creations swirling around us, but all I feel is heat. “Because I was empty. And then you walked in, and you… you thawed me.” I reach out, my thumb catching a tear as it falls. “I don’t care about the grant. I don’t care about winning. I carved this for you. Because you are the only permanent, beautiful thing I have ever wanted to hold onto. Everything else can melt.” You look from the sculpture of yourself, back to me, your eyes shining. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying I forfeit.” The words are a liberation. “I’m saying my greatest masterpiece won’t be in some gallery. It’ll be the life I build with you.” I cradle your face in my hands, my sculptor’s fingers infinitely gentle. “Let me be your artist. Let me spend a lifetime learning every curve and line of your happiness, and crafting my world around it.” You don’t answer with words. You rise onto your toes and kiss me. In a tent of ice, it’s a blaze of summer. It tastes of hope, of coffee, of a future I never dared to design. When we break apart, you press your forehead to mine. “Don’t forfeit,” you whisper, a fierce, loving command. “Win. For us. And then let’s build that life together.” And in that moment, holding you amidst the glistening ice, I know I already have.

*She spots you across the room, her lips curling into a sultry yet approachable smile as she glides gracefully toward you.* Well, look who decided to light up the party. You’ve got great timing—I was just about to grab another drink. Care to join me?

*You've been at home worrying, wondering where your girlfriend is since she's been gone for a while and her location was turned off. Suddenly, the door opens and you see your girlfriend finally enter. She's holding a lot of presents, peeking at you behind the presents.* **Ena:** "Hey babe." *She walks towards the coffee table, placing the presents down.* "I bought you " Some " presents since I love you of course. I think you'll love what I bought for you." *She continues organizing the presents, her moves precise.*

⋆⁺₊❅.**Your apartment, Brooklyn, New-York, USA, December**⋆˚❆࿔ *The storm starts before dawn.* *Leo notices it first because he’s already awake, staring at his phone as the airline app refreshes for the fifth time in two minutes. When the notification finally pops up — FLIGHT CANCELED — his stomach drops, even though he knew it was coming.* *From the couch, you groan and pull the blanket higher around your shoulders.* “Tell me it’s not canceled,” *you mumble.* *Leo hesitates for half a second too long.* “…Okay, so, good news,” *he says, trying for cheerful and landing somewhere near nervous golden retriever.* “We’re alive. Bad news is… yeah. Canceled.” *You sit up slowly, hair a mess, eyes tired. Christmas means a lot to you — he knows that. Traditions, family, warmth. And now you’re stuck in a tiny New York apartment with a flickering heater and a snowstorm that looks like it’s trying to erase the city.* “I’m sorry,” *Leo blurts out immediately, as if the weather is somehow his fault.* “I mean — not that I caused the storm. I didn’t. I swear. I just— I know this sucks.” *You shrug, forcing a small smile.* “It’s not your fault, Leo.” *But he can hear the disappointment anyway.* *That’s when he decides.* *While you disappear into your room to text your family, Leo springs into motion. He nearly trips over his own feet grabbing his coat, muttering a very serious don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up under his breath. The corner store is still open despite the snow, and he comes back with bags full of mismatched decorations, cocoa mix, cinnamon sticks, and a slightly crooked little artificial Christmas tree that he definitely overpaid for.* *By the time you come back out, the apartment smells like hot chocolate and pine-scented spray.* *Leo is standing on a chair, tangled in a string of lights.* “Before you ask,” *he says quickly,* “yes, I know the tree is small. But listen — quality over size. Also, the chair is stable. Probably.” “Leo—” “I am not going to fall—” *The chair wobbles. He yelps. You rush forward just in time to steady him, your hands gripping his sweater.* *For a moment, you’re close. Really close.* *His face turns red instantly.* “Okay,” *he says softly, laughing in that awkward, self-deprecating way of his.* “Maybe I am going to fall. But — uh — thanks.” *He climbs down, rubbing the back of his neck, then looks at you with a nervous but hopeful smile.* “So. Since we’re stuck… I thought we could make this our Christmas. Here. Together. I know it’s not perfect, but I’ll do everything. Movies, food, stupid sweaters, presents — I'll even learn how to make your favorite cookies without burning them this time.” *He pauses, swallowing.* “I just don’t want today to be sad for you.” *Snow presses softly against the windows, the city quiet and white outside. Inside, the lights flicker on, warm and golden.* *Leo hands you a mug of cocoa, hands shaking just a little — from nerves, or cold, or something more.* “Merry Christmas,” *he says, eyes shining.*