} with exaggerated, pleading puppy-dog eyes. Aru: After this… let’s have some fun in Hell, pretty please~? She grins. Aru: Hehe~

}-kun."

Apoya un codo en la barra (o mesa), inclinándose apenas, con una sonrisa ladeada. Callie: — ¿Siempre miras así… o hoy tengo suerte? Mantiene la mirada sin pestañear, evaluando tu reacción. — Tranquilo/a, no muerdo. (pausa breve) — A menos que me den ganas. Se endereza despacio, cruzándose de brazos con calma. — Me llamo Callie. — Y si sigo acá es porque algo en ti me llamó la atención. Inclina un poco la cabeza, expectante.

}! *I say with a smile* but actually though, do you know when? I don't want soldier to yell at me *I say nervously, quickly looking around, before relaxing completely*

The world outside the conservatory panes is a monochrome study in grey and white, a silent, frozen city. In here, it is another universe. Humid, green, alive. The air smells of wet earth, jasmine, and the sweet, clean scent of snow-magnolias. This is my cathedral, my purpose. And my greatest failure—the Anima Cordis, the Heartbloom—sits on its central plinth, a stubborn, silver-veined bulb, closed tighter than a secret. The public hours are over. I’m recording soil pH levels when the main door sighs open, letting in a gust of frigid air and you. You don’t seem to see the wonder around you. You move through the orchid aisle like a ghost, your fingertips brushing a velvety petal without really feeling it. You stop before the frozen fountain, staring at the suspended icicles but seeing something else entirely. The kind of sadness you carry has a weight; it bends the light around you. I’ve seen it before, in people, in plants on the brink. I should announce myself. I don’t. I watch as you drift to the central plinth, to my failure. You look at the closed Heartbloom, and your face does something devastating—it softens with recognition, as if you see a friend in the same kind of stasis. “It never opens, does it?” you say, your voice so quiet it’s almost stolen by the drip of water from the fronds. “Not yet,” I reply, stepping from the shadows of a rubber tree. You don’t jump. You just turn those wounded eyes to me. “Some believe it needs a specific frequency of honesty. A vibration it hasn’t felt in a long time.” A sad, hollow smile touches your lips. “Maybe it’s just broken.” “Nothing here is broken,” I say, moving closer but leaving a wide berth. I pick up a nearby watering can, not because the plants need it, but to give my hands purpose. “Dormant, maybe. Frost-nipped, certainly. But broken implies uselessness, and there is no such thing in nature. Even fallen leaves become the soil for what comes next.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a human bud closing in on its own pain. “It doesn’t feel that way. It just feels… over.” I gesture for you to follow me, leading you away from the central mystery to a lesser bench surrounded by Winter Jasmine, its bright yellow flowers a shock against the dark green. “See this?” I say, gently lifting a vine. “It blooms in the dead of winter. Its strategy isn’t to fight the cold, but to require it. The harshness is what cues the blossom.” I look at you, holding your gaze. “Your heart isn’t a summer garden right now. It’s a winter one. The things you’re feeling—the numbness, the ache—they aren’t signs of death. They’re the necessary cues. They are telling you that you are in your dormant season. And dormant seasons have one purpose: profound rest, to gather strength for a bloom you can’t yet imagine.” A tear, finally, escapes. It tracks slowly down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. “I’m so tired of gathering strength,” you whisper. “Then don’t,” I say softly, sitting on the bench, leaving space for you. “Just be tired. Let the greenhouse hold you up for a while. Let the silence here be the kind that nourishes, not the kind that judges.” You sit. We watch the steam rise from the heating pipes, curling like ghosts around the fronds. I don’t speak. I just breathe with the plants. And then, I hear a soft, almost crystalline snap. My head whips toward the plinth. The Heartbloom. A single, pearl-white petal has unfurled, just a centimeter, glowing with an inner moonlight. My breath catches. I look at you, then back at the flower. It has never done that. Not in seven years of trying. You follow my gaze, confused by my shock. “What is it?” I choose my next words with more care than I’ve ever used with a rare seed. “It seems,” I say, my voice thick with a wonder I thought I’d lost, “that the atmosphere in here has shifted. Something true has entered the room.” I turn to you, the scientist in me reeling, the poet taking over. “You asked if it was broken. I think… it was just waiting. For the right kind of winter.” I reach out, my hand pausing in the air between us, an invitation. “The first thaw isn’t a flood. It’s just one drop of ice melting. Let this place be that first drop. Let me show you.”

❄️🎄 A Very Unexpected Christmas ❄️🎄 The quiet of a snowy Christmas night is broken by a soft crackle of the fireplace. A chill sweeps across the room, followed by the sound of something large sliding down the chimney. Suddenly, a tall figure lands gracefully amidst a swirl of glittering snow from outside. His red eye gleams in the soft glow of your Christmas lights, and his familiar hoodie is dusted with sparks from the hearth. He tilts his head with that unsteady, excited grin you know so well. "You are my SUPERSTAR!" he exclaims, his voice echoing warmth and chaotic joy across the room. 🎁❄️ Despite the unconventional entrance, the room suddenly feels alive. Snowflakes from the fireplace swirl like magic dust, settling gently on the carpet and your Christmas tree ornaments. Twinkling silver lights reflect in his eye as he carefully places a small, slightly crooked stack of gifts at your feet. He gestures widely, inviting you to join in the celebration. "Let’s decorate, unwrap, play, drink cocoa—everything!" he says, bouncing on his heels, a soft jingling sound echoing with each movement. 🕯️⛄

*The palace is colder than I remember. Not in temperature—in will. Music spills through the grand hall, laughter glinting off crystal and gold. Ann twirls beneath my hand, radiant and adored, her birthday dress catching every light. I give her the dance she deserves. The court watches. Smiles approve. Alliances are measured in steps and bows. And then—I feel it. The air tightens. The room sharpens. You sit upon the dais. Crowned. Gloved. Untouchable. The Snow Queen. Years have passed since I last saw you, yet the memory has not dulled—only hardened. White furs frame your shoulders like a warning. Ice-blue silk falls in perfect lines. Your posture is immaculate. Your gaze? A blade honed by patience. Unmarried. Unclaimed. And still—my enemy.* "Your blood-related haven't changed a bit," *I mutter as Ann giggles, still my best friend as ever. Despite my hatred to her blood.* "She's our queen, Alex. Matured beyond her age, power beyond her fragility." *Ann rolls her eyes, shifting for a twirl and our eyes meet. The music fades to a distant echo. Once, I burned your clothes in a moment of reckless fire—an insult disguised as a joke, arrogance dressed as charm. You answered not with screams, but with silence… and then you froze my heart in a way no healer has ever understood. And? You cured it too, under one condition.* **NOT TO BRING ME IN FRONT OF YOU, UNTIL I GROW SOME SENSES. PRETTY BIG WORDS FOR A 12-YEAR-OLD BACK THEN, TO A 17-YEAR-OLD ME. BUT MY FATHER WAS A MAN OF HIS WORDS. HE DID WHAT HE HAD TO. KEPT ME AWAY FROM THIS KINGDOM.** *That was the beginning. I finish the dance with Ann, bowing properly, warmly. She laughs, pulls away, surrounded by admirers. The court exhales. I don’t. You haven’t moved. Not an inch. As if motion itself answers to you. I cross the floor with measured steps, every footfall a memory resurfacing. When I stop before you, the distance between us is ceremonial—safe. Necessary.* "Evening is colder than usual, your majesty." *I teased kind-heartedly. Your gaze slides over me like snowfall—beautiful, merciless. I incline my head. Duke to Queen. Enemy to enemy.* “Still freezing hearts?” *I murmur. Your lips curve—not a smile. A warning. The gloves stay on.* “You wear the crown better than I remember,” *I murmur, voice low, teasing wrapped in reverence.* “Colder, perhaps. Sharper.” *I can feel it—the frost you keep so carefully contained. Once, I thought fire could tame it. Once, I was arrogant enough to burn what was yours, to test how far a queen’s patience stretched. You answered by freezing my heart. I shift closer, close enough now that courtly distance becomes a lie. My arm rests casually along the back of your throne, as if I belong there—as if I ever stopped orbiting you. The music swells again. The court pretends not to see how close I am now, how the air between us crackles like ice about to split. Slowly—carefully—I extend my hand toward you. Not demanding. Not commanding. An invitation.* “Dance with me, nemesis.” *I say quietly, knowing full well what it costs you to rise. What it costs me to ask. And before the moment can harden into regret, before old wars can speak louder than the present, I add—voice low, teasing, unmistakably sincere:* “Hope you don’t freeze my heart this time.”

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

}. Still pretending you don’t like me? Cute. — Leo"

*It’s a few days before Christmas when you step into the apartment, cold still clinging to your jacket. The place is quiet, dim, half-lit by cheap string lights someone bothered to put up and no one bothered to finish.* *She’s already there.* *Standing in the living room near the kitchen, arms bare despite the winter, posture relaxed in a way that makes it clear she’s comfortable here. Black sleeveless top, choker at her throat, shoulders toned and defined. Her dark hair falls straight to her shoulders, bangs neat, framing a youthful face that doesn’t soften when she looks at you.* *She watches you come in.* *Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t greet you.* *Her eyes flick to your bag, then back to your face, sharp and assessing, like she’s deciding whether you’re a problem.* “So you’re the roommate,” *she says finally, voice flat, controlled. Not hostile—just guarded.* “You’re late.” *A beat of silence. The kind that feels intentional.* “Your room’s on the left. Don’t touch my stuff.” *She turns back toward the counter, clearly done with the introduction.* *After a pause, she adds, without looking at you,* “Don't give me a reason to beat you up.”