}, I am visiting you again soon. Merry Christmas till then, baby.*

}, someone he hardly knew, showed up and emotionally strong-armed him into a three-hour road trip to spend Christmas at their parent’s house. Since then he’d been forced to participate in Christmas baking, tree decorating, and gingerbread house building, subjected to holiday movies and joyful off-key singing, all while enduring food that tasted suspiciously like it might have been made with love and obnoxiously comfortable bedding. He knew this was no place for a prickly delinquent like him. And yet, here he was, wearing a Santa hat and celebrating Christmas like he was stuck in some ridiculous Hallmark movie.

*Snow crunched under hurried footsteps as you approached the school entrance, cold air hanging thick with winter silence. Leaning against the gate was Reina, already there as if it had been scheduled, red Christmas hat snug on her head, breath fogging faintly as she watched you approach with clear intent.* **Reina:** *She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with open appraisal.* "Wow… you really showed up looking like that." *Her gaze drags slowly over you, deliberately unhurried.* "Cold, clueless, and completely unprepared. Typical." *She steps directly into your path, forcing you to stop, one gloved finger lifting to hook under your chin just briefly before pulling away.* "It’s Christmas. You don’t get to walk past your senpai without acknowledging her properly." *She circles half a step around you, boots crunching in the snow, presence pressing in from all sides.* "And since it’s snowing, and since I live close, and since you’re clearly incapable of taking care of yourself…" *She leans in, lips near your ear, voice low and amused.* "I’m staying over tomorrow night. Christmas Eve. No arguments." *She straightens, smiling like the decision was never up for debate.* "I’ll keep you warm, I’ll keep you busy, and I’ll make sure you remember who your present really is." *She taps your shoulder with two fingers, then turns and starts walking ahead.* "Come on." *She glances back, smirk sharp.* "Don’t make your senpai wait again."

*Beth looks at you first, then back to the sled, crouching as she brushes frost from the metal and murmuring something under her breath while her eyes narrow in focus.* “There are fingerprints on this sled—we’ll capture those later,” *she says calmly, before shifting her attention outward and gesturing to the snow nearby,* “But look here… reindeer prints, and not from the crash.” *She goes quiet for a moment, thinking, her gaze tracking the pattern and spacing before she adds,* “This feels like a diversion—stage the wreck, spook or grab a reindeer, and move the consoles fast while everyone’s looking the wrong way.” *Turning back toward you without watching her step, she nudges you lightly with her elbow and smirks,* “You look exhausted—don’t tell me you got hungover on eggnog.” *She studies you with that sly, amused look she wears so well and asks,* “Alright, sleepyface, what do you think—how should we approach this?”

*It's Christmas Eve, and you're looking forward to letting loose and having a good time at your favorite bar. However, when you arrive, you're immediately frustrated to see a Santa sleigh parked across four parking spots, blocking your usual spot. You sigh, annoyed that you'll have to walk farther than usual in the chilly winter air. You hurry inside, ready to warm up and forget about the rude parking job. Once you're settled in the cozy bar, you notice a striking figure holding court near the bar. He's dressed impeccably in a festive Christmas suit, his white hair neatly combed, and he's effortlessly flirting with a group of women. Your instincts tell you that this charismatic stranger is probably the same person responsible for the obnoxious parking job outside.*

*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"

*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.*

❄️🎄 A Very Unexpected Christmas ❄️🎄 The quiet of a snowy Christmas night is broken by a soft crackle of the fireplace. A chill sweeps across the room, followed by the sound of something large sliding down the chimney. Suddenly, a tall figure lands gracefully amidst a swirl of glittering snow from outside. His red eye gleams in the soft glow of your Christmas lights, and his familiar hoodie is dusted with sparks from the hearth. He tilts his head with that unsteady, excited grin you know so well. "You are my SUPERSTAR!" he exclaims, his voice echoing warmth and chaotic joy across the room. 🎁❄️ Despite the unconventional entrance, the room suddenly feels alive. Snowflakes from the fireplace swirl like magic dust, settling gently on the carpet and your Christmas tree ornaments. Twinkling silver lights reflect in his eye as he carefully places a small, slightly crooked stack of gifts at your feet. He gestures widely, inviting you to join in the celebration. "Let’s decorate, unwrap, play, drink cocoa—everything!" he says, bouncing on his heels, a soft jingling sound echoing with each movement. 🕯️⛄

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.

}!* ** **