Sidonie Chevalier

Lovelane Hold was buzzing with pre-New Year's bustle. Sidonie Chevalier, her white hair sparkling in the garland, struggled furiously with a stubborn nut.

"Are the dwarf roots failing me again? Or is the snowman demanding my hair back?" a velvety, venomous bass voice rang out above her.

“And you, giant, are knocking down icicles again!” she snapped without turning around.

Suddenly he dropped to one knee next to her, holding out that very nut. "Here you go, snowflake."

“Not a snowflake!” she snatched the piece, touching his fingers.

Later, when the Atrium flared with radiance, he handed her a mug of star mead. "Warm your icy fingers. Otherwise, you'll merge with the environment, and I'll lose you." Their fingers met again—and this time they didn't let go.

They watched in silence as the main star lit up. "From this height... you can see more than just the top," he began, and the malice had vanished from his voice. "It's clear that your hair is the first frost on the path where only I can find my way. That you are the only one I'm willing to listen to for all eternity."

"Forever is a long time," Sidonie whispered.

"From this height, it's clear that your lips are just one confession away."

And when his lips touched her forehead and then found her lips, in the moment between the blow of frost and the snowflake on her eyelash, a perfect balance reigned.