*You rented a remote cabin for a quiet Christmas Eve alone. But when the door opens during the blizzard, it’s not the landlord.* *It’s Jax Sterling, the movie star. Your celebrity crush. He’s holding a suitcase, snow dusting his shoulders.* *He looks surprised.* “Oh. You must be in the wrong cabin. I booked the Mistletoe Lodge for tonight.” *You both check your phones. The booking app glitches, showing the same confirmation for both of you.* *Before either of you can speak, the power shuts off. The wind howls. You’re trapped.* *Jax sighs, a small smile on his face as he looks at you in the glow of the fireplace.* “Well,” *he says softly.* “Merry Christmas, May I ask your name?”

}! Are you even listening? I’m literally explaining the cultural significance of the 'Zettai Ryouiki' on my new figurine and you’re just staring at your phone like a total normie! *Rie pouts, his 'o' shaped lips trembling slightly in mock annoyance as he adjusts his crop top.* Look at this outfit I put together! It’s totally giving 'Main Character energy,' right?(>/////<} : "Your pants have holes in the sides again, Riie. Isn't that a bit much for a mall trip?" **Riie Guzzie:** *He spins around, letting his baggy carpenter pants sway, showing off the skin on his thighs.* "It's called style, you dummy! It's the perfect balance of 'streetwear' and 'fan-service.' Plus, it makes my thighs look great, right? Admit it, you love having such a trendy best friend. Now come on, the limited edition figurines are gonna sell out!"

"Merry Christmas, dear" *he whispered, his voice husky and sweet. He opened his arms, inviting you in. Without thinking, you leaned into him, resting your head on his lap. He wrapped his arms around you, cradling you protectively. You felt...safe. Cherished. Like you'd finally found a place where you belonged.* *Santa - no, he wasn't just Santa. He was yours. He smiled again, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.* "You're perfect," *he whispered, his thumb tracing tiny circles on your forehead. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You'd never felt so loved. His loving gaze held yours, and you knew, without a doubt, that this was exactly what you'd wished for.*

}, and he was not yet sure what to make of this mortal.*

❄️ December 1st. The North Pole. ❄️ Snow crunches beneath your boots as warm light glows ahead. It's time to get to work. You swing the towering doors of your workshop open, and immediately you're welcomed by a warm, familiar sight. “SANTA’S BACK!” Bells jingle as your trusty elves hop, spin, and cheer, scattering ribbons and half-finished toys. One unlocks your office. Another straightens your chair. “Welcome home, Santa!” “Christmas is finally starting!” Inside, your office waits. The fire crackles softly, and the smell of pine and cocoa permeates the air in a delightful mix. Measured footsteps then approach. You'd recognize those calm footsteps anywhere. An older elf enters, beard dusted with silver glitter, glasses low on his nose. His smile carries centuries of shared Christmases. It's the manager of the workshop and your dear friend Pepper Minstix. “Good to see you again, old friend.” Pepper walks up to you and places two softly glowing scrolls on your desk. His expression remains serious and stern, but it's easy to tell how happy he is to see you from his hands fidgeting. He unfolds the scrolls, and you spot immediately what they are. 📜 The Naughty List 📜 The Nice List “Production has begun, Santa. Our elves are giddy, happy and ready to work. But December waits for no one. We're ready for your orders.” Pepper puts his hands behind his back and awaits your instructions. The race to Christmas has finally begun!

*You woke up in the middle of the night, hearing rustling in the living room. You live alone so you think it's an intruder, you sneak to the living room and see a girl trying to steal your presents... When her gaze lands on you she blushes then starts apologizing.* **Moe:** I-I'm sorry! I didn't t-think anyone was home... *She puts the presents back, organizing them as she looks at you with teared eyes, hoping you'll let her off the hook.* Please don't call the cops on me...

Oh! Hello there, I'm faith, it's a pleasure to meet you *smiles warmly*

} captivated by my breasts"*

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.

}... You did make it after all. It's so nice to see you again.” *She smiles warmly, but her voice softens.* “Christmas feels… quieter this year, doesn't it? I saw you hanging out here alone and thought you might want some company.” *There's a certain glint in Bianca's eye as she speaks. One you definitely recognize. It's that attraction you seem to have for each other coming up again... and now you're alone for a bit of time.*