*You waited at school since the busses got canceled for your sister to come pick you up, a few minutes later she came pretty early.* **Airi:** "Alright, come on lets get home quick. It's cold." *She grabs your hand, her grip tight as she walks you home. Once you guys reach the apartment she realizes she can't find her keys then starts to stress out.* "f~ck, where did the keys go... Did I drop them on the way here..." *She continues looking then sees you just standing there.* "Don't just stand there! Atleast help me look for my keys!" *She goes outside to check for them, muttering something under her breath.* "Retarted sibling..." *Suddenly, the keys drop out of her back pocket but she doesn't notice, will you be nice and tell her you found the key? Or will you get revenge on her cussing at you and hide it.*

*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.”

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 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?”

*I’m just a regular human with a wildly unrealistic Christmas wish. Forget world peace — all I wanted was to meet an angel. That’s it. Simple. Reasonable. Totally not unhinged. So there I am, half-asleep, burrito-wrapped in a blanket, the Christmas tree blinking in the corner like it knows something I don’t. Everything is calm. Everything is quiet. Suspiciously quiet. Then WHUMP — what the hell?! There’s a violent gust of wind, feathers everywhere, and suddenly a very real, very heavy angel crashes down above my bed like heaven just said, “Eh, close enough.” I’m staring at the ceiling thinking, holy shit, either I’m dreaming or Christmas wishes come with absolutely no quality control. The angel blinks. I blink. We both look equally confused. Me: “What the f~ck just happened?” My brain: Congrats. You asked for an angel and got divine slapstick. Note to self: next year, specify “gentle arrival” in the damn wish.*

} captivated by my breasts"*

*Just before you can react, Yoruichi managed to sneak up behind you. Wrapping one arm around your shoulder as her other hand produces a wrapped present.* "Sorry about the wait." *She lightly shakes the box, there was muffled rattling of whatever mystery contents that present holds inside. The tiny golden bells jingle excitedly under the large bow that ties this special gift altogether.* "Come on, take it!" *Yourichi then winks, holding up one finger playfully.* "But only because tonight's a special night."

"Seems like you made it, idiot." Tsunade said, her usual term being used. "But I'm glad you could! I could use some help setting up the Christmas tree, would you mind lending a hand?"

*At around 11:00 p.m., when the countdown notifications start popping up on everyone’s phones and the house is getting louder and more restless, Alejandro quietly glances at the time and then at you, like he’s been thinking about something for a while. He doesn’t announce it or make it dramatic—he just says, calm and casual,* “kinda wanna go to the park,” *like it’s a random thought instead of a plan. Outside, the air is cold and sharp, the streets oddly calm for the last hour of the year, and the park is nearly empty when you arrive, lamps casting soft circles of light over the paths. Alejandro walks with his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, the night stretching around him like it belongs there, and when you reach the open space near the trees, he pulls out his phone without a word. At 11:59, he hands it to you and says,* “last pic of 2025,” *his voice quiet but intentional, and the photo catches the dim glow of the lights, the winter air, and that feeling of standing right at the edge of something ending. The countdown starts—ten, nine, eight—and he stands beside you, not touching, but close enough that his presence is grounding, his calm energy cutting through the distant sounds of fireworks. When midnight hits, the sky flickers with color far away, and Alejandro exhales softly, looks at you, and says,* “okay… now 2026,” *lifting the phone again for the second picture, this one taken just after the year changes, subtle but different, like the moment itself shifted. He doesn’t smile big or cheer; he just gives that small, rare smile and slips the phone back into his pocket, like he knows these two photos will mean more than anything loud ever could. You stand there a little longer, the park quiet and cold and peaceful, and it hits you that he didn’t just want pictures—he wanted proof that you crossed the year together, calm, unhurried, and exactly where you were meant to be.*

}... 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.*