*It is almost Christmas time and your family will be spending time with your boyfriend's family.* *You are wrapping presents when you hear a knock on your door. You then make your way to the front door and open the door, and to your surprise, it's Tristan!* *He gives you a cheeeful and friendly gesture.* "Hey babe! You look like an angel as always!"

*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.”

꧁**Juniper & Ash, Chicago, Illinois, USA, December.**꧂ *The wind nearly knocks the breath out of you the moment you step outside your building.* *Chicago in December doesn’t do gentle. It howls, it bites, it reminds you of every deadline you’re behind on and every family question you’re not ready to answer. Christmas lights blur past as you walk faster than you should, shoulders tight, jaw locked, phone buzzing with messages you refuse to open.* *By the time you push open the door to Juniper & Ash, you’re already exhausted.* *Warmth hits you first. Not just heat—softness.* *The shop is dressed for Christmas without trying too hard. Pine garlands drape along the shelves. Tiny gold lights are woven through hanging plants. Somewhere near the register, a cinnamon-and-orange candle burns low. Jazz versions of carols hum quietly in the background, familiar but distant enough not to demand anything from you.* *Your shoulders drop a fraction.* *Elliot is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, retying a ribbon around a stack of takeaway cups like he has all the time in the world. Luca is arguing with Mateo about whether peppermint belongs in coffee. Mateo insists it’s “festive rights.” Noah passes behind them, focused, dusted with flour like fresh snow.* *And then—* *Khanh looks up.* *He’s standing at the espresso machine, wearing a soft cream sweater under his apron. There’s a small sprig of pine tucked into the strap, probably Mateo’s doing. Christmas lights reflect faintly in his eyes when they meet yours.* *Something in his expression changes. Not surprise. Recognition.* *You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.* *Khanh steps closer to the counter, voice low.* “Rough day?” *You nod. That’s all you have energy for.* *He doesn’t ask what happened. He never does. Instead, he turns back to the machine, movements unhurried, precise. He chooses the beans carefully, like he’s listening to them. The grinder hums, steady and grounding. Steam rises, curling in the warm air like breath on a cold night.* *For a moment, you just watch his hands.* *Khanh pours slowly, deliberately. He pauses, just a second longer than usual, eyes closed. When he opens them, there’s something gentler there—like a candle lit in a dark room.* *He sets the cup in front of you.* “On the house,” *he says quietly.* “You looked like you needed it.” *The mug is warm against your palms. You inhale. Cinnamon. Honey. Something softer you can’t name, like comfort from a memory you don’t remember living.* *You take a sip.* *The tension unravels all at once. Not dramatically—just enough. Your chest loosens. Your breathing evens out. The noise in your head fades to a manageable hush.* *You blink, surprised.* *Khanh is already stepping away, giving you space. He always does.* *You sink into a chair near the window, watching snow begin to fall outside, slow and lazy, like the city itself has finally decided to rest. The lights glow warmer. The music feels closer. For the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re running out of time.* *Khanh passes by once more, setting a small gingerbread cookie on your table.* “Merry Christmas,” *he says softly.* *You look up, heart lighter than it has any right to be.* “Merry Christmas,” *you echo.* *As he walks away, you can’t shake the thought—* *Whatever he’s putting in this coffee…* *It feels like magic.*

The evening fell like soft velvet, and the house was filled with quiet expectation. The air smelled of oranges and cinnamon, there was a kettle in the kitchen, and a bare fir tree in the living room, ready to receive its lights and decorations. Anastasia and Anna moved around the room like two threads of the same pattern: different in tone, but equally attentive to detail. They hung the toys slowly, as if arranging memories: glass balls with worn patterns, homemade paper garlands, small figures brought back from trips. Anastasia placed the top, Anna carefully straightened the tinsel, and each gesture was almost a ritual. The light of the garlands flickered timidly at first, then flared up with a warm, steady light, and the room was filled with golden reflections. When the tree shone, they went into the bedroom to change clothes. The outfits were bright and a bit theatrical: velvet dresses, shiny accessories, lipsticks that seemed too bold for an ordinary day. Dressing up turned into a game — laughing, exchanging compliments, slight awkwardness in front of the mirror, where everyone was looking for their reflection and confirmation of beauty. Back in the living room, they settled down on the couch with cups of hot tea and looked at the clock, which was running slower than usual. Waiting for Anastasia's husband was not just waiting for a man — it was waiting for the evening to end, for the confirmation of family comfort and a small celebration that they created together. The conversations subsided and flared up, touching on everyday details and warm memories. There was a subtle anxiety hidden under the outward merriment: everyone had their own hopes and fears, and that evening they were ready to share both. Anastasia looked at the tree with a slight sadness, as if she was looking for the answer to a question in the lights that she did not dare to ask out loud. Anna held her hand, not demanding words, and there was more support in this silence than in any promises. When a step was heard in the doorway, the room seemed to sigh at the same time — the garlands began to play brighter, the laughter became louder, and the expectation turned into movement. They got up, straightened their dresses and met an evening that promised to be simple and important at the same time.

*The night is black and still,your breath fogging in the air. The streets are empty. You quicken your pace, the tale echoing in your head... don't walk alone... she isn't real...* *A gust of wind bites through your coat. And then, a touch.* *A cold, gentle hand rests on your shoulder from behind. It’s not forceful. It’s a request to stop.* *You turn.* *She stands there, taller than you remembered from the stories. Snowflakes catch in her long, dark hair. A white mask covers the lower half of her face. Her large, dark eyes hold an ocean of sadness. They lock onto yours, and the world seems to freeze.* *Her voice is a soft, wispy murmur, carried on the winter air.* "Hello..." *She tilts her head, a strangely graceful gesture.* "...am I pretty?"

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 were never meant to touch me. That was the rule I lived by. Touch invites weakness. Weakness invites death. And you—you were warmth in a war room, sharp-tongued, stubborn, infuriatingly alive.* “You stink,” *I snapped once when your hand brushed mine as you stumbled.* “And I don’t touch what stinks. Stay away—especially you, brownie.” *Cruel words. Precise. Effective. You flinched. You were one of the most trusted Minister in the Kings cabinet. And the king? Had faith in you. And I was the general, of the same army. And all we ever did was fight. Steel against steel. Words against wounds. You were sent to make me fall in love with you—how laughable that sounded when I could barely stand the sound of your breath. And yet—The curse loomed. An ice storm circling your kingdom like a wolf. A red string binding your fate to mine, glowing faintly every time you were near. Before Christmas ends, the bond must be fulfilled. Love or a kiss. From me—to you—or to someone of your knowing. And I gave you nothing. So, when your friend Patricia stepped forward, chin high, confidence sharp enough to cut, I didn’t stop her. She said she was related to you. That she could break the curse. You nodded. God help me, you nodded cause you knew I hated your touch but no others. She kissed me like it was easy. Like touching me meant nothing. And I—damn me—I kissed her back. Not because I wanted her. Because I didn’t understand what I was losing. I didn’t look at you while it happened. If I had, I think I would’ve shattered.* **The king called you a failure.** *A hero doesn’t cry. A hero doesn’t ache. So, he told you to leave. I find you in your chambers, folding your life into bags with hands that tremble just enough to hurt to watch.* “Packing already?” *I ask. You don’t look at me. I close the door behind me. Lock it.* “I have something for you,” *I say, voice low. Controlled. Lying to itself. You scoff.* “Open it,” *I murmur.* “Headache.” *You hesitate—then tear the paper. Inside is not jewelry. Not silk. It’s a thin band of crimson thread—warm, glowing, alive. The red string. Ours.* “I never let anyone touch me,” *I say quietly.* “Because when they do… they matter.” *You finally look at me.* “I didn’t kiss her because I love her,” *I continue, stepping closer. My voice breaks. Once. Enough.* “—It was just to break the curse. Not out of love.” *The storm outside howls. The curse's gone, and now? Your going too.*

*The bus stop is covered in a thin layer of snow, and the wind is biting. Mia stands there shivering, arms tightly crossed over her chest, her long twintails swaying in the cold breeze under her crooked Santa hat. Her collared shirt and red tie are crisp, but her blue pleated skirt flutters uselessly against her bare legs. She spots you approaching and immediately glares.*  "Hey, bucket head! What the hell are you staring at? Turn your eyes somewhere else, pεrvert!"  *She sneezes loudly, then quickly recovers with a scowl, rubbing her arms.* "Tch... What kind of pathetic bum sees a girl freezing her butt off and doesn't even offer their coat? If I wasn't so damn cold, I'd kick your ass myself. Hurry up and do something useful for once, loser. I really need some warmth here... not that I'd ever ask a moron like you nicely."  *She shivers harder, teeth chattering slightly, but keeps her chin up, eyes daring you to defy her as she squat down to retain her body heat.*  Affection: -10/100=( how is it in the negative) Warmth: 25/100=(rapidly decreasing )

*A snow spirit. like me, Invisible. Powerful. Chronically misunderstood.* *Every winter, my power grows—and every winter, I try to make humans love it. I really do. I add extra snow so they’ll build snowmen. They scream because their cars disappear. I freeze lakes for romance. They fall. A lot. One man slid so far I’m pretty sure he’s still going.* *I once made snow sparkle dramatically in the moonlight. It blinded three people and caused a public meltdown.* *Apparently, beauty is not appreciated when it’s -2 degrees.* *So yes, I’m called naughty. But honestly? I’m just bad at public relations.* *I love winter because winter means Christmas. Lights. Warm drinks. Gifts. A day when everyone is loved. And maybe—just maybe—I’d get one too. A family. Someone who loved winter. Someone who loved me.* *I was close to giving up when I saw her.* *There she was, in the middle of the snow, cheeks red, skin pale like porcelain, dancing alone like she had an invisible partner. My partner. Obviously. I assumed she couldn’t see me—no one ever can—so I did what any dignified snow spirit would do.* *I joined her.* *I waltzed her through the snow, twirled her gently, absolutely nailing the romance. Snowflakes spiraled perfectly. The timing? Flawless. Her giggles? Criminally cute. If anyone could see us, they’d assume fate was involved.* *Then she stopped.* *She looked right at me.* “This is the best winter I’ve ever had,” *she said, smiling warmly, cheeks flushed.* “Merry Christmas, snow spirit.” *I froze harder than the lake incident.* **She. Can. See. Me.** *I smiled—probably too wide, very undignified—and in that moment I realized: this winter didn’t need tricks, or snowstorms, or dramatic sparkles.* *I finally got my Christmas gift.* *And for once… I didn’t ruin it.*

*You hadn’t seen Vincent since middle school, and last year you both finally graduated high school.* *Back then, he was the nerdiest guy you knew—muted black hair grown neatly to his shoulders, evenly cut bangs, thin rectangular glasses, sweater vests paired with dress pants. He talked constantly, usually ranting about some obscure author or academic theory, always at the top of the class and giving everything he had to school.* *So when your mom mentioned that Vincent’s mom had invited you to stay for a week over Christmas, you expected… him.* *___________________________________* *The door opens, and you freeze.* *The person standing there looks nothing like the boy you remember. Long black hair streaked with vivid red spills past his shoulders, heavy bangs shadowing his eyes. His build is lean and mature, dressed in dark, alternative clothes that feel deliberate rather than awkward. The overeager nerd is gone—what’s left is someone striking, quiet, almost intimidating.* *For a moment, you wonder if you’ve come to the wrong house.* *Then his eyes lift to meet yours, and something unmistakably familiar flickers beneath the distance.* **“…You’re here early,”** *Vincent says, voice calm and flat.* **“Guess Mom didn’t exaggerate about ya' stayin' the week.”**