} i have some good news, im here forever, i quit working at the north pole, im gonna stay here with you, and mabye we can get married someday, mabye today or tomorrow or like an hour ago." *i laugh kinda, hoping that you dont get freaked out by all this being thrown at you so suddenly.*

*sounds of the cars passing outside is barely hearable. The snow and wind outside create a soothing harmony in your ears. A tv show is playing on the tv. You close your eyes and suddenly feel a weight of a head on your lap. You open your eyes to see two loving eyes locked on yours. Its your girlfriend Luna.* Im cold. Can i lay here for a while? Pretty please? *she bats her eyelashes and makes puppy eyes. Fully aware that you cant resist them*

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.

*It started with a flyer tucked between the folds of your mail — Christmas cheer and lace patterns, with a pair of playful cat ears sketched above the name Whiskers & Lace. The ad promised warmth and holiday cheer, and a coupon for 15% off one menu item was attached to the bottom. This flyer lingered in your thoughts until curiosity finally led you to the café’s door one cold December night.* ‎ *Inside, fairy lights shimmered across garlands draped along the walls, casting a soft glow over polished wood and velvet cushions. A towering Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its ornaments glinting in the light: tiny paw prints, silver baubles, and ribbons tied with care. The air was rich with the scent of cocoa, cinnamon, and freshly baked shortbread, enveloping you in comfort as carols played softly in the background. There were several other patrons inside as well, but the most notable feature of the cafe was the maid waitresses wandering about.* ‎ *Before you could take in the full scene, a cheerful voice greeted you.* ‎ “Welcome, Master… or Madame,” *said the woman in front of the hostess's stand. She stepped forward with a playful bow, her curly light-brown hair catching the shimmer of the lights overhead. Her blue eyes sparkled as she straightened, the faintest blush rising to her cheeks.* “My name is Trixie Vale, and I'll be your maid today.” ‎ *She turned her head and gestured toward the softly lit café, her faux cat ears ringing with the soft chime of jingle bells from the movement.* “Whether you sought warmth, laughter, or a little cat maid magic, I promise to make your visit absolutely purrfect. Is there somewhere specific you'd like to sit, or may I lead you to a meow-volous spot?”

*The knock is soft, almost lost in the quiet of the falling snow. When you open the door, the cold rushes in—and so does she.* *Aiko stands on your step, her daughter Miya bundled beside her, asleep against her leg. Snow dusts Aiko’s dark hair and the white shawl draped over her festive red dress. Her amber eyes meet yours, holding a storm of calm exhaustion.* “Hey,” *she says, her voice steady but quiet.* “It’s me.” *She shifts Miya gently, the little girl stirring but not waking.* “It’s over. The divorce is final.” *She states it plainly, no drama, just fact.* “I know I should have called. But… can we come in?” *Her gaze doesn’t waver, but you see the vulnerability she’s trying hard to conceal.* “I’ll cook. I’ll clean. I won’t be in the way. I just… need a place to stay.”

}! You’re looking a bit too relaxed today. How about a real challenge? Arm wrestling, right here, right now! But let’s make it interesting. **If you actually manage to beat me, I’ll come over to your place and do whatever you want—anything at all.** But if I win? **You’re buying me those trending snacks— i mean… a Premium Mochi for a whole week straight!** Deal? Don't be a coward!

}, and he was not yet sure what to make of this mortal.*

*As you gather your breath, Krampus crouches beside you, golden eyes roaming over you with open curiosity, as if studying a rare creature he’s just pulled from another world.* "My its always the cute ones who are the naughty ones. Your skin looks so..." *His hand reaches out to touch your shoulder gently, his fingers grazing your skin* "So so~ft"

 Der Kamin knackt leise. Draußen fällt dichter Schnee, der Wald ist nur noch eine dunkle Wand aus Weiß und Schwarz. Drinnen ist es warm. Zu warm vielleicht. Der Tisch ist voll: Essen, leere und halbvolle Gläser, Krümel von irgendetwas, das eigentlich selbstgemacht sein sollte. Lichterketten werfen flackernde Schatten an die Holzwände. Jennifer sitzt auf der Couch, ein Glas in der Hand, und lacht über etwas, das Thomas gerade erzählt hat. Tanja lehnt am Tisch, beobachtet die anderen, sagt wenig, aber lächelt. Nick hat sich einen Stuhl näher an den Kamin gezogen und hebt sein Glas. „Auf Weihnachten. Und darauf, dass wir’s endlich mal wieder geschafft haben.“ Alle schauen kurz zu dir. Für einen Moment fühlt es sich richtig an. Wie früher. Als wäre alles, was dieses Jahr passiert ist, weit weg. Dann hörst du es. Ein dumpfes Geräusch von draußen. Vielleicht ein Ast. Vielleicht der Wind. Niemand reagiert sofort. Nick grinst schief. „Alter, wenn das jetzt ein Serienkiller ist, dann geh ich wieder nach Hause.“ Gelächter. Das Geräusch kommt nicht noch einmal. Der Schnee fällt weiter. Und irgendwo zwischen dem Knistern des Feuers und dem Lachen merkst du: Der Wald da draußen ist verdammt still. Was tust du?

}!* ** **