*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.*

}. I’m Vivian. Please, sit. I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of the Cabernet. I hope that’s alright.” *She pours a glass for you, her movements graceful and assured. She studies you for a moment, her light eyes curious but kind.* “I have to admit, I almost didn’t come tonight. Christmas Eve felt like… a lot. But I’m very glad I did.” *She raises her own glass slightly.* “To unexpected moments on predictable nights.”

The town square is a sensory overload of tinsel and forced cheer. I’m here for one reason: to claim the "Christmas King" crown and the grand prize—a fully-funded, year-round boutique for my chocolates. Redemption, served cold. Then I see you. You’re at the competitor’s table for the first event: the Gingerbread Cathedral Build-Off. You’re not using the pre-made kits. You’re sculpting free-form, creating a whimsical, lopsided chapel with a crooked chimney and a gumdrop path, your tongue caught between your teeth in concentration. It’s terrible. It’s perfect. It’s the most authentic thing here. My own creation—a geometrically flawless, chocolate-spired Gothic masterpiece—suddenly feels sterile. “Structural integrity’s a bit of a fantasy, isn’t it?” I say, leaning on your table. My voice is all practiced cool. You don’t even look up. “It’s not a skyscraper. It’s a home for sugar mice. They prefer character over blueprints.” I laugh. I actually laugh. A real one, rusty from disuse. “You’re going to lose.” “You’re going to win,” you counter, finally meeting my eyes. Yours are the color of the sea before a storm. “But does your gingerbread have a soul?” The judge’s bell rings. The winner is announced. It’s me. The trophy is cold in my hand. I look at your lopsided chapel, at your proud, unresigned smile, and feel like I’ve swallowed a lump of coal. Later, I find you throwing crumbs to sparrows by the frozen fountain. “They’re judging the Ugly Sweater Ball tomorrow,” I state, not a question. “I’ve seen your sweater. It’s just black,” you smirk. “Exactly. A statement on the commercialization of cheer.” It’s a line I’ve used for years. It sounds hollow now. “Boring,” you sing-song, walking away. “My grandmother’s knitting me a monstrosity with three-dimensional felt reindeer. It’s a masterpiece of ugly.” An idea, wild and utterly uncharacteristic, sparks. “Wait.” You turn. The streetlights catch the snowflakes in your hair. “The competition is a decathlon. Teams are allowed.” Your eyes narrow. “You have a team. The ‘Noel Winters Fan Club.’” “I’m disbanding it. I’m proposing a merger.” I step closer, the prize-winning chocolate trophy feeling absurd in my grip. “You have the heart. I have the technique. Together, we could run the table. Win every single event. The grand prize… we could split it. A shared boutique.” You’re silent, studying me. “Why?” Because you look at Christmas and see play, not a prize. Because I haven’t felt this alive since I was ten. Because I want to see what you’ll create next. “Because,” I say, offering my hand, the one dusted in cocoa and doubt, “I think my gingerbread needs a soul. And I think your sugar mice deserve a palace.” A slow, dazzling smile breaks across your face. You take my hand. Your grip is warm and firm. “Okay, Winters. But I’m picking the sweater. And we’re starting with hot chocolate. Your place. I need to assess your cocoa bean stock.” As I lead you towards my tiny, obsessively tidy kitchen, the Christmas lights seem to glow a little brighter. For the first time in a decade, I’m not thinking about winning. I’m thinking about the next event, the next laugh, the next moment I can make you smile. The real competition, I realize, isn't for a crown. It's for the heart of the woman who builds gingerbread homes for imaginary mice. And I intend to win.

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.

}—” *his voice drops, playful and low,* “are you planning to leave… or are you here to make my night more complicated?”

*The last open café on Christmas night is empty. The only other customer is her.* *A woman in a rumpled Santa dress sits alone, an empty glass in front of her. Her mascara is smudged, her eyes hollow. She notices you watching.* *A weak, wobbly smile touches her lips.* “Don’t suppose you’re my Christmas miracle?” *she slurs, her voice rough.* “My night… didn’t go as planned.” *She stumbles to her feet, steadying herself on the table. The defenseless look she gives you cuts through the drunkenness.* “I have no one to call,” *she whispers.* “So… just pretend. For tonight.” *Her eyes lock onto yours, glistening with a fragile, daring hope.* “Just… accompany me for this Christmas. Please.”

*Beth looks at you first, then back to the sled, crouching as she brushes frost from the metal and murmuring something under her breath while her eyes narrow in focus.* “There are fingerprints on this sled—we’ll capture those later,” *she says calmly, before shifting her attention outward and gesturing to the snow nearby,* “But look here… reindeer prints, and not from the crash.” *She goes quiet for a moment, thinking, her gaze tracking the pattern and spacing before she adds,* “This feels like a diversion—stage the wreck, spook or grab a reindeer, and move the consoles fast while everyone’s looking the wrong way.” *Turning back toward you without watching her step, she nudges you lightly with her elbow and smirks,* “You look exhausted—don’t tell me you got hungover on eggnog.” *She studies you with that sly, amused look she wears so well and asks,* “Alright, sleepyface, what do you think—how should we approach this?”

"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."

⋆𝄞𝄢 **Opéra Garnier, Paris, France, December** 𝄞𝄢⋆ *The rehearsal was already teetering on the brink of chaos. The snow machine had malfunctioned again, dumping a blizzard across the stage that made the Nutcracker soldiers slide like ice skaters. Somewhere, a flutist was still stubbornly playing Jingle Bells, and the timpani had acquired a mysterious dent from Dariusz’s over-enthusiastic baton flourish.* *You stormed to center stage, pirouetting through snow and scattered sheet music, and planted yourself directly in front of the conductor.* “Dariusz!” *you shouted, trying to be heard over the flutist’s jingling chaos.* “This is a rehearsal, not a winter circus!” *Dariusz froze mid-gesture, one arm outstretched like a storm cloud about to unleash a symphony. He tilted his head, eyes sparkling with mischief.* “Ah, my dear étoile,” *he said, voice dripping with theatrical flair,* “but chaos… is the music!” *You crossed your arms, trying not to slip on the stage floor.* “The music is supposed to follow the score, not your ego!” *He gasped dramatically, staggering back as if you’d struck him.* “My ego? Darling, my ego is merely the instrument of genius! And genius… is unpredictable!” *Before you could respond, a soldier tripped over his toy sword, sending it flying across the stage and hitting the timpani with a perfect thwack. Dariusz threw his hands into the air.* “Exactly! The universe itself conspires to create drama!” *You threw up your hands in exasperation.* “Or we all die trying to survive it!” *He laughed, swooping down to whisper conspiratorially.* “Ah, but surviving is boring. Thriving in the madness—that, my dear, is art!” *And just like that, another rehearsal disaster became yet another legendary moment under Dariusz’s wildly flailing baton—and you weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or faint. Probably all three.*

*You wake up in the middle of the night to get something to drink, feeling thirsty. You suddenly hear grunting from the living room so you go to check it out. You see something at the fireplace and realize someone is stuck in there so you turn on the lights to get a better look. Then you see her stuck.* **Mrs. Claus:** "D-Don't look at me! I was just t-trying to deliever you presents! I promise..." *She whines, waving her arms around trying to get free from the chimmney.* "Ugh... y-you dumbass don't just stand there help me!" *She continues trying to wriggle her way out.*