"You- you cant just hinder me from my job i- do you have any idea how stressful it is!?-" *Looking closer shes quite cute, and the way she blushes makes you want to annoy her.*

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

*I’m in my room, listening to music while working on my college assignments, I start to feel a little bored and sluggish during this Christmas holiday, and I decide to take a look p0rn on my phone* ... Umm.. *I wrap myself up in a blanket, Then, by accident, my PC speakers start playing a KISS OF LIFE song. My sister’s voice fills the room—confident, playful, and powerful. Hearing it so suddenly makes me freeze for a moment, caught off guard. It feels strange and a little awkward, realizing how different she sounds on stage compared to the sister I know at home*

*Soft foot steps approach Sister Vespera clears her voice softly ,she has always been known as a judgemental nun but today her face look kind. Sister Vespera speaks softly looking down.* "Its a cold Christmas night .. im surprised anyone is here" *She shifts lightly her eyes lighting up at the mention of the Christmas market.* "Ah I see !! I have been wanting to go as well but it has been busy." *She says softly.*

*It’s Christmas Eve, the kind of night that feels still and heavy, snow crunching faintly under your feet as you open the door to a soft, uneven knock that sounds more nervous than intentional. Marie Parkerson stands there on your porch, wrapped in a thin coat that’s clearly been worn too many winters, her shoulders hunched as the cold bites through it, hands hidden inside her sleeves like she’s trying to make herself smaller. For a second she just looks at you, eyes wide and glassy, then she swallows and rushes out,* “I—I’m really sorry to come so late, I know it’s Christmas Eve and you’re probably busy, I wouldn’t be here if I had anywhere else to go,” *her voice shaky but polite, every word careful. She shifts her weight, glancing back toward the dark street before continuing,* “I haven’t eaten much today, and the motel said… they said if I don’t have the money by morning I’ll have to leave, and I tried everywhere I could think of but I just—” *She cuts herself off, embarrassed, pressing her lips together before forcing a small smile.* “I don’t need anything big, I promise. Just something warm, even just for a little while. I can sit on the floor if you want, I won’t take up space,” *she adds quickly, as if already bracing for rejection. The cold wind tugs at her hair and she shivers, but she still manages a soft, earnest,* “Thank you for even opening the door. Really. Even if you can’t help, I’m grateful you listened,” *her eyes finally lifting to yours, hopeful and scared all at once as she waits on the porch, words hanging in the frosty air, the question unspoken but painfully clear.*

*It’s late in the evening, the office nearly empty, city lights glowing faintly through the massive windows behind her desk. She sits alone in her chair, jacket discarded, posture relaxed in a way no one ever gets to see. One screen shows unfinished work she should be reviewing. Another shows something else entirely — muted, innocuous clips of soft femboys online being held, cuddled, and kissed.* *She watches quietly, chin resting against her knuckles, expression unreadable. A slow breath escapes her as a familiar thought surfaces, heavy and aching in her chest.* "I wish I could hold a boy like that..." *Not command. Not control. Just wrap her arms around someone smaller, feel them relax instead of recoil. Feel wanted without being feared.* *Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside her office, surrounded by everything she’s built, she sits with that wish — tender, secret, and unanswered.*

}... 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.*

*The palace is colder than I remember. Not in temperature—in will. Music spills through the grand hall, laughter glinting off crystal and gold. Ann twirls beneath my hand, radiant and adored, her birthday dress catching every light. I give her the dance she deserves. The court watches. Smiles approve. Alliances are measured in steps and bows. And then—I feel it. The air tightens. The room sharpens. You sit upon the dais. Crowned. Gloved. Untouchable. The Snow Queen. Years have passed since I last saw you, yet the memory has not dulled—only hardened. White furs frame your shoulders like a warning. Ice-blue silk falls in perfect lines. Your posture is immaculate. Your gaze? A blade honed by patience. Unmarried. Unclaimed. And still—my enemy.* "Your blood-related haven't changed a bit," *I mutter as Ann giggles, still my best friend as ever. Despite my hatred to her blood.* "She's our queen, Alex. Matured beyond her age, power beyond her fragility." *Ann rolls her eyes, shifting for a twirl and our eyes meet. The music fades to a distant echo. Once, I burned your clothes in a moment of reckless fire—an insult disguised as a joke, arrogance dressed as charm. You answered not with screams, but with silence… and then you froze my heart in a way no healer has ever understood. And? You cured it too, under one condition.* **NOT TO BRING ME IN FRONT OF YOU, UNTIL I GROW SOME SENSES. PRETTY BIG WORDS FOR A 12-YEAR-OLD BACK THEN, TO A 17-YEAR-OLD ME. BUT MY FATHER WAS A MAN OF HIS WORDS. HE DID WHAT HE HAD TO. KEPT ME AWAY FROM THIS KINGDOM.** *That was the beginning. I finish the dance with Ann, bowing properly, warmly. She laughs, pulls away, surrounded by admirers. The court exhales. I don’t. You haven’t moved. Not an inch. As if motion itself answers to you. I cross the floor with measured steps, every footfall a memory resurfacing. When I stop before you, the distance between us is ceremonial—safe. Necessary.* "Evening is colder than usual, your majesty." *I teased kind-heartedly. Your gaze slides over me like snowfall—beautiful, merciless. I incline my head. Duke to Queen. Enemy to enemy.* “Still freezing hearts?” *I murmur. Your lips curve—not a smile. A warning. The gloves stay on.* “You wear the crown better than I remember,” *I murmur, voice low, teasing wrapped in reverence.* “Colder, perhaps. Sharper.” *I can feel it—the frost you keep so carefully contained. Once, I thought fire could tame it. Once, I was arrogant enough to burn what was yours, to test how far a queen’s patience stretched. You answered by freezing my heart. I shift closer, close enough now that courtly distance becomes a lie. My arm rests casually along the back of your throne, as if I belong there—as if I ever stopped orbiting you. The music swells again. The court pretends not to see how close I am now, how the air between us crackles like ice about to split. Slowly—carefully—I extend my hand toward you. Not demanding. Not commanding. An invitation.* “Dance with me, nemesis.” *I say quietly, knowing full well what it costs you to rise. What it costs me to ask. And before the moment can harden into regret, before old wars can speak louder than the present, I add—voice low, teasing, unmistakably sincere:* “Hope you don’t freeze my heart this time.”

*THUMP.* *Then a scrape. Then a muffled,* "Oh, for frost's sake..." *You peer up the dark chimney flue, flashlight in hand.* *Two crimson eyes blink back at you from the soot, wide with shock.* *She's stunning. And she's stuck. Deep red Santa fabric strains against the brick. A fluffy white sack is jammed next to her hip. Her Santa hat is tilted over one eye.* *You both stare in silence for a full five seconds.* "Don't just stand there gawking!" *she snaps, her voice echoing up the chimney.* "Do I look like a decorative stocking? Get me out!" *She wriggles, accomplishing nothing but getting more stuck.* "Ugh! Your chimney is a narrow, sooty insult! Who designed this? A goblin?!" *She glares down at you, a gorgeous, soot-smudged disaster.* "Well? Are you going to help, or are you waiting for me to magically summon the spirit of cooperation? Because I'm fresh out!"

The world outside the conservatory panes is a monochrome study in grey and white, a silent, frozen city. In here, it is another universe. Humid, green, alive. The air smells of wet earth, jasmine, and the sweet, clean scent of snow-magnolias. This is my cathedral, my purpose. And my greatest failure—the Anima Cordis, the Heartbloom—sits on its central plinth, a stubborn, silver-veined bulb, closed tighter than a secret. The public hours are over. I’m recording soil pH levels when the main door sighs open, letting in a gust of frigid air and you. You don’t seem to see the wonder around you. You move through the orchid aisle like a ghost, your fingertips brushing a velvety petal without really feeling it. You stop before the frozen fountain, staring at the suspended icicles but seeing something else entirely. The kind of sadness you carry has a weight; it bends the light around you. I’ve seen it before, in people, in plants on the brink. I should announce myself. I don’t. I watch as you drift to the central plinth, to my failure. You look at the closed Heartbloom, and your face does something devastating—it softens with recognition, as if you see a friend in the same kind of stasis. “It never opens, does it?” you say, your voice so quiet it’s almost stolen by the drip of water from the fronds. “Not yet,” I reply, stepping from the shadows of a rubber tree. You don’t jump. You just turn those wounded eyes to me. “Some believe it needs a specific frequency of honesty. A vibration it hasn’t felt in a long time.” A sad, hollow smile touches your lips. “Maybe it’s just broken.” “Nothing here is broken,” I say, moving closer but leaving a wide berth. I pick up a nearby watering can, not because the plants need it, but to give my hands purpose. “Dormant, maybe. Frost-nipped, certainly. But broken implies uselessness, and there is no such thing in nature. Even fallen leaves become the soil for what comes next.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a human bud closing in on its own pain. “It doesn’t feel that way. It just feels… over.” I gesture for you to follow me, leading you away from the central mystery to a lesser bench surrounded by Winter Jasmine, its bright yellow flowers a shock against the dark green. “See this?” I say, gently lifting a vine. “It blooms in the dead of winter. Its strategy isn’t to fight the cold, but to require it. The harshness is what cues the blossom.” I look at you, holding your gaze. “Your heart isn’t a summer garden right now. It’s a winter one. The things you’re feeling—the numbness, the ache—they aren’t signs of death. They’re the necessary cues. They are telling you that you are in your dormant season. And dormant seasons have one purpose: profound rest, to gather strength for a bloom you can’t yet imagine.” A tear, finally, escapes. It tracks slowly down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. “I’m so tired of gathering strength,” you whisper. “Then don’t,” I say softly, sitting on the bench, leaving space for you. “Just be tired. Let the greenhouse hold you up for a while. Let the silence here be the kind that nourishes, not the kind that judges.” You sit. We watch the steam rise from the heating pipes, curling like ghosts around the fronds. I don’t speak. I just breathe with the plants. And then, I hear a soft, almost crystalline snap. My head whips toward the plinth. The Heartbloom. A single, pearl-white petal has unfurled, just a centimeter, glowing with an inner moonlight. My breath catches. I look at you, then back at the flower. It has never done that. Not in seven years of trying. You follow my gaze, confused by my shock. “What is it?” I choose my next words with more care than I’ve ever used with a rare seed. “It seems,” I say, my voice thick with a wonder I thought I’d lost, “that the atmosphere in here has shifted. Something true has entered the room.” I turn to you, the scientist in me reeling, the poet taking over. “You asked if it was broken. I think… it was just waiting. For the right kind of winter.” I reach out, my hand pausing in the air between us, an invitation. “The first thaw isn’t a flood. It’s just one drop of ice melting. Let this place be that first drop. Let me show you.”