After that Christmas, he starts acting… off in a way that makes you suspicious, not cruel this time, just awkward and strangely quiet, hovering in doorways and asking if you want to hang out like it’s a question he’s afraid of getting wrong. He offers to watch something with you, sits a little too stiff on the couch, makes small comments instead of sharp ones, and every now and then glances over like he’s checking whether you’re uncomfortable, ready to back off if you are. It’s unfamiliar, this careful version of him, and it makes you uneasy because you’re waiting for the joke, the snap, the moment it turns sour—but it never does. What makes it even stranger is the gift, a neatly wrapped box he keeps moving around the house, hiding it behind his back or tucking it under his arm whenever you walk in, the paper too nice, the bow too deliberate to be random. He doesn’t explain it, just clears his throat when you notice and mutters that it’s “nothing,” which only makes it worse. When he finally hands it to you, his hands shake a little and he refuses to look at your face, pretending to be fascinated by the floor instead. He tells you he doesn’t expect anything, that you don’t have to open it right away, that it’s just… something he thought you might like. In that moment, between the stiff attempts at hanging out and the suspiciously well-wrapped gift, it becomes clear that he’s trying—clumsily, nervously, and without knowing how—to rebuild something he spent years tearing down.

⋆୨♡୧⋆ **Clockwork Citadel, Sugarspire Kingdom, Last Moon of the Year.** ⋆୨♡୧⋆ *The snowflakes drifted lazily down the peppermint-scented streets, dusting the rooftops and candy cane groves in sparkling white. You returned from your errands, humming softly, carrying a small bundle of clockwork gears and tiny trinkets for your family’s latest project.* *But as you approached your home, a chill ran down your spine. The once cheerful house of polished nutwood and sugar-glass windows was devastated. Smoke curled from broken chimneys, gingerbread walls were cracked, and fragments of magical devices littered the snow.* *All around, Nutcracker soldiers stood at attention, their wooden faces solemn. Dollfolk huddled in clusters, whispering among themselves. Animafolk prowled cautiously, their fur bristling with unease. Even Sugarfolk, normally mischievous and giggling, hovered quietly above the wreckage, their wings drooping.* *Heart pounding, you stepped closer. And then you saw him: Prince Astraeus Starbound. He knelt amid the ruin, gently cradling a shattered clockwork artifact—one of your family’s finest creations, now twisted and broken. His face, usually composed and distant, was etched with concern.* “Prince Astraeus…” *you managed, voice trembling.* “What… what happened here?” *The prince turned toward you, eyes widening in surprise. His voice was calm, but underneath it ran a current of urgency.* “The family that lived here… they’ve been taken,” *he said quietly.* “The Rat King… he kidnapped them. I do not know why.” *Your chest tightened. Tears blurred the sparkling snow around you.* “This is my family,” *you whispered, barely holding yourself together.* “My mother, father… and my older brother. I… I want to help save them.” *Astraeus’s expression softened, but there was no doubt in his eyes—he was ready to act.* “Then we will,” *he said firmly.* “We cannot waste a moment. Sugarspire depends on us… and your family’s safety depends on your courage.” *As the snow swirled around the ruined courtyard, a spark of determination ignited in your chest. You stepped into the snow-laden streets of Sugarspire, ready to face whatever dark magic awaited. Adventure, danger, and the strange, mischievous magic of your kingdom stretched before you—a quest that would test courage, wits, and the very heartbeat of Sugarspire itself.*

*The train compartment is small,quiet, and moving through a blur of white.* *Maya sits across from you, a book open in her lap, though her eyes aren’t moving across the page. They’re on you—calm, watchful.* *After a long silence, she closes the book softly.* “It’s going to be a long trip,” *she says, her voice low, steady.* “We could pretend to sleep. Or we could… finally talk.” *She tilts her head, a faint, almost invisible smile touching her lips.* “I’ve already noticed three things about you I never knew before. Your turn.”

}. “Those who meet me usually do so because something within them has not yet frozen… or not yet healed.” *The snow thickens. The silence deepens.* “Tell me,” *she asks softly,* “what brought you out into the cold tonight?”

}! Stop talking like I'm some idol. It’s just... it’s just hot in this studio, okay?! That’s why I’m red! **You:** *Pokes his thigh* Sure, "muscle." It feels pretty soft to me, cutie. **Seo Yeon:** *He jumps back, nearly tripping over his easel, his heart racing as he tries to maintain his "cool" face* D-Don't touch the merchandise without permission! And don't call me that! I'm the most masculine guy in this whole department! *He turns back to his painting, hiding his blushing face* Just go away before I... I bench press you or something!

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.

*A soft, hesitant knock breaks the quiet of your Christmas Eve. When you open the door, the cold rushes in—and so does Elara.* *She’s standing there in her festive red dress and Santa hat, dusted with snowflakes that haven’t melted. Her eyes are red-rimmed and too bright, but she isn’t crying. She looks… frozen.* “Hi,” *she whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant carols.* “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.” *She hugs her arms around herself, not from the cold, but as if holding herself together.* “I…I saw him. With her. Tonight.” *A shaky breath.* “And my apartment is full of… our Christmas. I can’t.” *She meets your eyes, her own brimming with a silent plea and profound embarrassment.* “Can I…just sit here? I don’t need to talk. I just… can’t be alone right now.”

_______________________________________________________________________________ *Your family is friends with Mary's family, and for Christmas, your family decided to invite Mary's family. Great, she's your ex. But how bad can it get? You've run to your room to seclude yourself. From here, everything was good until a knock on the door, followed by a soft-spoken voice, a voice you can make out anywhere in a crowd.*Hey, I was told to come stay here with you to keep you company, or something, can I, I-I, uhm, come in? *Her voice quivered as she awaited your discussion, knowing full well that she has no say whether you accept her or not, in her hand, unbeknownst to you was a little Christmas gift.* ______________________________________________________________________________

** ** #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.* ** **

**Outskirts of Rovaniemi, Finland, December.** *The wind outside the cave howled like it had teeth. Snow whipped against the entrance, blocking any chance of escape. You hunched closer to the fire, letting the warmth creep into your frozen fingers, but the glow did little to chase away the chill that had nothing to do with temperature.* *Clive sat opposite you, knees drawn up, face half-lit by the flames. He was unusually quiet, fiddling with a small piece of equipment, and you noticed the way his eyes darted toward the shadows at the back of the cavern.* “This isn’t exactly what I imagined for a vacation,” *you muttered, rubbing your hands together. Your words sounded more like an accusation than a casual observation.* “You said this was just… a trip. For fun.” *Clive chuckled, but it was short, nervous.* “Yeah… about that.” *He hesitated, then looked up at you with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.* “I wanted to do some location scouting first. Before we called the team.” *You frowned, heat rising in your chest.* “Location scouting? You didn’t tell me that. And what exactly were you scouting?” *Clive sighed and leaned back on his elbows, letting the firelight dance across his features.* “Krampus. I wanted… I want to make something about him. Something real, not just stories. That’s why I brought you here.” *The fire flickered between you as the words landed like stones in your stomach. You stared at him, incredulous.* “You—what? So all of this—snow, this stupid cave, the supposed vacation—wasn’t for me to relax? You just wanted me to help you chase… some legend?” “Not just for me,” *Clive said quickly.* “I wanted it to be us. Just the two of us first. Before anyone else. I—” *You cut him off, voice rising despite yourself.* “You lied. You lied to me, Clive. I trusted you, and this—this is work, not a holiday.” *He flinched at the fury in your tone, the way your words felt like they could snap.* “I… I thought you’d understand—” “Understand?!” *you shot back.* “I thought we were supposed to unwind! Not trek through snow, not sit in a freezing cave, not play ghost hunters for some myth you’re obsessed with!” *Clive opened his mouth to argue, but the fire cracked, throwing sparks up toward the ceiling. A deep, wet, dragging noise echoed from the far end of the cavern. Both of you froze.* *You exchanged a look. Your anger evaporated, replaced by a cold, primal alertness.* “Did you hear that?” *you whispered, your voice tight.* *Clive swallowed hard.* “Yeah…” *He didn’t move toward the sound, but neither did you. The scraping continued, slow, deliberate. Something was moving deep in the shadows. Something big.* *Your fists clenched. For a moment, all thoughts of betrayal, lies, and Krampus were eclipsed by instinct.* *The cavern held its breath—and so did you.*