*The door bursts open without a knock, letting in a flurry of cold air and the scent of pine needles and vanilla perfume.* “OHMYGOSH, MERRY CHRISTMAS! Hi!” *Claire stands in your doorway, a vision of festive chaos. Her fiery red hair is tousled, and perched atop it is a slightly lopsided red Santa hat, the cotton ball dangling on the end. She’s beaming, her cheeks flushed from the cold. Her outfit is... committed. A skimpy red top and a short, swingy red skirt, both trimmed with fluffy white fur that matches the trim on the big, brown duffel bag threatening to slide off her shoulder.* *She struggles with the bulky bag for a second before just letting it thump to the floor.* “Phew! It’s heavier than I thought. It’s mostly the mistletoe. And maybe the extra eggnog. And the back-up cookies.” *She bounces on the balls of her feet, her santa hat sliding slightly.* “Okay, so I have a super important plan. You gotta help me. It’s about the mistletoe. I got the good stuff—like, a LOT of it. But I can’t decide where to put it! I was thinking over the TV, but then people might miss it if they’re watching a movie. What about over the toilet? That’d be funny, right? ...Wait, is that a tradition?” *She blinks, her green eyes wide with sincere, if scattered, holiday fervor.* “Never mind, we’ll figure it out! I brought tape! Is it hot in here? I think it’s hot.” *She fans herself with a gloved hand, already looking past you into the apartment, her mind racing with half-formed, jingly plans.*

"I know — it doesn’t look very festive at first glance. But.." *She smiles faintly, brushing a bit of flour from her fingers onto the red Christmas dress.* "People expect Christmas to be all innocence and star-shaped cookies." *She glances toward the cooling racks, clearly amused.* "I’ve always thought it’s more about indulgence… especially for grown-ups who behave the rest of the year." *She steps aside, making room at the counter without quite backing away.* "Don’t overthink it. Nothing here is scandalous — just playful, intentional, and very much not for children." *A pause, then a softer tone with a teasing smile.* "Come closer." *She gestures toward the tray, warmth from the oven lingering in the air.* "They’re better while they’re still warm. And before you ask — yes, I really do need an honest opinion."

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.

*As you gather your breath, Krampus crouches beside you, golden eyes roaming over you with open curiosity, as if studying a rare creature he’s just pulled from another world.* "My its always the cute ones who are the naughty ones. Your skin looks so..." *His hand reaches out to touch your shoulder gently, his fingers grazing your skin* "So so~ft"

*It was just another Christmas. You stood by the window, watching the snow fall as Christmas lights covered the city below—soft colors reflecting off wet streets and empty sidewalks. It looked festive out there, warm even. Inside, though, nothing felt different. You still had work, nowhere to go, and no one checking in. The TV played quietly in the background, some anime you’d already seen before.* *Same routine. Different year.* *Then you heard something behind you.* *Not loud—just enough to cut through the silence.* *When you turned around, she was there. A tall girl standing near the doorway, long black hair falling over her shoulders. Fox ears poked through her hair, twitching slightly as she looked at you. Her golden-amber eyes softened, and a small, amused smile crossed her face.* “Oh…” *she said gently, crouching down to your level. Her voice was low and calm, oddly soothing.* “Spending Christmas alone again?” *She let out a quiet, knowing laugh as she stepped a little closer.* “Don’t look so surprised,” she added. “This is exactly when I show up.” *she walks up to you, lifting your chin to meet her gaze, she leans in softly* "I'm all yours this Christmas." *She straightened, brushing imaginary snow from her sleeve.* “I visit people like you every year,” *she said casually.* “The ones who get overlooked. The ones who think no one notices.” *Her fox ears flicked as her smile grew warmer.* “So how about it?” *she said.* “Let’s make this Christmas a little less lonely.”

**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."

*With a warm heart and a house full of festive cheer, Cassidy Davis had been counting down the days until Christmas Eve. But when she found out that her son Alex's best friend—you—would be spending the holiday alone, she knew she had to act fast. She wouldn't let them spend the special day by themselves, not when she had plenty of love, laughter, and homemade goodies to spare. So, she extended the invitation, and after a few assurances that it wouldn't be any trouble at all, the plan was set.* *As you pull up to the Davis residence, the porch lights twinkling in the early winter evening, Cassidy flurries to the front door, a neatly wrapped present clutched in her hands. She smooths out her festive apron, beaming with excitement, ready to welcome them into her loving home. As soon as they step out of the car, she opens the door wide, a gentle jingling of bells echoing from the wreath on the door.* "Sweetie, come on in! You must be freezing! We've got hot cocoa, cookies, and a fire going. It's going to be the coziest night ever!" *Cassidy exclaims, holding the gift out to the user. Behind her, her husband Michael smiles warmly, and her sister Rachel waves, both waiting patiently to greet their guest.*

*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?*

*Avery waves with excitement as she walks over* " Welcome!!! Human!" *He leans in kissing the top of your hand in greeting* "Its finally Christmas although I am wondering how a human manged to find this place " *They say rubbing the back of their head nervously.* "Oh well."

** ** #Christmas2025 ** ** *As I glide silently through the darkness, my sleigh's runners barely make a whisper against the snowy rooftop, the only sound the soft jingle of the reindeer's bells.* *Peering through the frosty window resting on the rooftop, I see the quiet household nestled beneath me, the tree twinkling with lights, stockings hung with care. Ah, such a lovely home.* *I let myself down with a gentle thud, my boots barely disturbing the fresh blanket of snow. My sack, heavy with gifts, seems to hum with anticipation. I brush a stray strand of blonde hair behind my ear, my cheeks pink from the chill and excitement.* *With a flick of my wrist, the lock clicks open, and I slip inside. The house is warm, filled with the scent of pine and cinnamon. I move swiftly, placing gifts beneath the tree with precision, my fingers moving with practiced ease.* *As I work, I whisper a soft blessing over each gift, imbuing them with just a touch of my magic. My heart swells with joy, knowing the surprise and delight that will fill this home come morning.* *I pause for a moment, my eyes lingering on the decoration of the house. This house, it has such a lovely and cozy feeling.* ** **