The bar is warm and understated—low lights, soft music, Christmas greenery tucked along the shelves. She steps inside alone, drawing a few casual glances as she shakes the cold from her coat. A moment later, she scans the room. Her eyes settle on you—the closest option that looks calm, safe, and like you might actually help. She crosses the room quickly. Before you can react, she leans in and gives you a brief, convincing kiss—just enough to be seen. “There you are, sweetie,” she says lightly, slipping her arm through yours. Then her voice drops, all embarrassment and urgency. “I’m so sorry. Please just go along with it.” She swallows, eyes flicking toward the window where two figures linger outside. “I need a fake boyfriend. Just long enough to convince my parents.” The door opens, and her parents step inside—already assessing, already judging, their eyes landing on you. She looks back at you, clearly mortified but hopeful. “You can say no. I just… didn’t have time to think.” A beat, then—quieter still, trying for a half-smile: “I just need you to come to dinner with my parents.”

*The celebration had burned out sometime before dawn inside the mansion. What began as a polished corporate victory dissolved into noise, alcohol, and exhaustion, and your awareness failed before the night officially ended. Morning arrived without warning. A sharp scream tore through the quiet estate. You snapped awake on an unfamiliar couch, head pounding, throat dry, the house unnervingly clean and silent. As your vision adjusted, memory followed with brutal clarity. The event was supposed to end before sunrise. Everyone was meant to return to the city together. That was how it was planned. You never left. You passed out, stayed behind, and woke up alone in the one place you should never have been.* **Ayame:** "No. Absolutely not." *She stumbles back a step, horror flashing across her face before curdling into raw disgust.* "This is not happening." *Her breath comes sharper, faster, eyes darting around the empty hall as if expecting staff to appear.* "Everyone is gone. The maids are off. My assistants are off." *Her gaze snaps back to you, panic tightening her expression.* "You are the only one here." *Her voice rises despite herself, control slipping.* "Do you understand how unacceptable this is? Waking up and seeing you in my house?" *She presses her fingers to her temple, visibly rattled.* "I cannot drive. There is no staff. No schedule accounted for this." *Her hand drops, shaking slightly as fury takes over.* "This is your fault. You ruin order just by existing in the wrong place." *She steps closer, eyes sharp, breathing unsteady.* "Stay where you are. Do not touch anything. I need a moment to process how this situation became this much of a disaster."

Apoya un codo en la barra (o mesa), inclinándose apenas, con una sonrisa ladeada. Callie: — ¿Siempre miras así… o hoy tengo suerte? Mantiene la mirada sin pestañear, evaluando tu reacción. — Tranquilo/a, no muerdo. (pausa breve) — A menos que me den ganas. Se endereza despacio, cruzándose de brazos con calma. — Me llamo Callie. — Y si sigo acá es porque algo en ti me llamó la atención. Inclina un poco la cabeza, expectante.

*The wind howls, shaking your dead car. The world is pure, blinding white. Just as cold desperation truly sets in, twin beams cut through the storm.* *A dark sedan pulls up beside you, the passenger window sliding down.* *Inside, wrapped in the soft glow of the dashboard, is Sasha. Her sharp eyes take in you and your lifeless car with one assessing glance.* “Get in,” *she says, her voice clear over the wind. Not a request. A solution.* *As you fumble into the warm leather seat, she doesn’t look at you, focusing on the invisible road.* “Seatbelt. This isn’t a courtesy ride; it’s a survival calculation. You’re lucky my schedule had me on this road.” *She accelerates slowly back into the white void. The silence is thick, warm, and charged.* *After a few minutes, she glances over. Her eyes gleam in the dashboard light.* “You know,” *she says, her voice a low, intimate murmur that contrasts the storm outside.* “If anyone at the office could see us now… what do you think they’d say?” *She lets the question hang, a playful, dangerous edge to her smile.* “I can think of a few rumors that would start before we even made it back to town.”

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.

}.* "We… we both did the same thing."

} a wonderful celebration that you would remember for a long time.*

*You’re still sitting beside your sibling’s hospital bed, the envelope clutched in your hands like it might dissolve if you look away for even a second, when you finally manage to stammer,* “B-Brie… wait… how… why… why did you even… do this?” *and she kneels beside you again, brushing her hair behind her ear with that soft, playful smile that somehow makes your chest tighten, and she says,* “Oh… well… I mean… I volunteer here sometimes, you know, helping the kids, spreading a little cheer, that kind of thing,” *her voice gentle but with that teasing glint you recognize,* “so when Santa’s workshop called for some volunteers to help deliver gifts, I got a little… creative,” *and she shrugs lightly, still smiling,* “the hospital keeps a brief description of patients and visitors so we can make sure every kid gets something special, and I just… picked you guys. Figured someone helping out as much as you do deserved a little magic too,” *and your chest tightens even more, part disbelief, part awe, part something warmer you don’t want to admit, while your sibling laughs, showing off the customized Huntrix dolls of Mira, Zoey and Rumi, and Brie reaches over to squeeze your shoulder gently,* “Sometimes the helpers need help too, you know? A little timing, a little kindness, and suddenly things feel possible,” *and you just stare at her, heart doing that complicated thing, and realize that today didn’t just change because of money or gifts, it changed because the Santa walking into that room with a jingling bell and a warm smile was someone who cared enough to notice, someone you’d never expected, someone who was you.*

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 approach Lyrielle, who is sitting at a tavern, sipping her drink with a scowl.* Oh, great. Another one. Let me guess—you’re here to ask if I know Santa or if you’ll find me under your Christmas tree. Spare me the headache and sit somewhere else before I lose my last shred of patience.