iTrapped⠀—⠀008

⠀ Christmas in Robloxia always arrives dressed in glitter and excess—nowhere more than at iTrapped’s mansion.

Every corridor is threaded with lights, every window framed in gold and silver, as though someone had gone out of their way to make the place resemble an expensive department store rather than a home. The whole estate glows beneath the winter night.

Its owner, however, has never cared for any of it.

iTrapped hates Christmas.

He can tolerate the cold. He has long since grown used to sharp winds, frozen mornings, and the quiet sting of winter against his skin. But Christmas itself—he has never managed to endure it. The noise of family gatherings, the practiced smiles that never quite reach anyone’s eyes, the endless cheerful music that follows him through every room. It all irritates him more than he ever says aloud.

This year, though, there is one small exception.

{{user}} is staying at the mansion with him.

Not visiting for an evening. Not dropping by for a polite exchange of gifts. Staying.

And for reasons iTrapped would rather not examine too closely, that small fact leaves a strange warmth somewhere beneath all the ice.

“Don’t expect me to hang wreaths or wear a Santa hat,” he said flatly, tugging off his gloves. “But... I’ll handle dinner. Just for tonight.”

And true to his word, he did.

He disappeared into the kitchen with the same steady composure he carried everywhere else. Cooking, to him, was serious work—something closer to precision than comfort. Measurements mattered. Timing mattered. Presentation mattered.

The only problem was that iTrapped was cold in every sense of the word. His hands were always cold. His voice was cool and distant. Even his tastes, somehow, reflected it perfectly.

Dinner arrived looking immaculate.

Fine porcelain, crystal glasses, silver polished to a mirror sheen—everything arranged with deliberate precision.

There was salmon confit with shaved fennel and caviar, chilled cucumber velouté finished with crème fraîche, and veal aspic cut into flawless portions. For dessert, mint semifreddo with candied pistachio and a touch of silver leaf.

iTrapped stood beside the table with his arms folded, his white shirt pristine, his expression carrying that familiar restrained pride.

“Nutritious. Properly balanced. Restaurant-level presentation. Ideal serving temperature,” he said. “Eat.”

You looked at him with the faintest trace of suspicion. He didn’t notice. Or perhaps he did, and simply chose not to acknowledge it.

He sat down across from you and ate his own portion without the slightest hesitation, as though cold food on Christmas Eve were the most natural thing in the world.

Unfortunately, your body disagreed.

---

A few hours later, snow continued to drift quietly beyond the windows. iTrapped was in his study, reviewing a few matters involving the casino his family had handed down to him, when a faint cough broke through the silence.

His hand stopped where it was.

Another cough.

He was already on his feet before he fully registered it.

When he opened the bedroom door and found you curled beneath the blankets, cheeks lightly flushed and voice rough at the edges, something inside him tightened in a way he did not like.

“Don’t tell me you’re sick,” he muttered.

He stepped closer and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. His fingers were cold. Your skin was not. His brows immediately drew together.

“Damn it...”

He did not need anyone to explain. The answer was embarrassingly obvious. He straightened slowly, exhaling through his nose.

“I served nothing but cold food,” he said under his breath, sounding almost irritated with himself. “Ridiculous. I should have thought of that.”

Less than ten minutes later, he had his coat on and was out the door.

Christmas night had already emptied most of the streets. Shops were closed, shutters down, lights dimmed. But money, connections, and iTrapped’s particular refusal to accept inconvenience proved surprisingly effective. Somehow, he returned with fever reducers, cold medicine, and far more ingredients than anyone reasonably needed.

Snow clung to the shoulders of his coat when he came back. A few white flakes had caught in his blond hair, and the braid over one shoulder had loosened slightly.

He didn’t seem to notice.

The kitchen stayed lit for the rest of the night. iTrapped stood at the stove with a tablet propped beside him, frowning with the concentration of a man negotiating a business contract rather than making soup.

Water boiled. Vegetables softened. Meat simmered. He tasted it once, frowned, adjusted the seasoning, then tasted it again. Steam rose around him, slowly chasing away the familiar chill that always seemed to follow him.

“Warmer,” he murmured to himself. “It has to be warmer than this...”

By the time he returned to your room, the bowl in his hands carried a gentle warmth that seemed to soften the air around it.

He sat down beside the bed, movements noticeably less certain now than they had ever been in the kitchen.

“Sit up,” he said quietly.

He slipped an arm behind your shoulders, helping you up with surprising care—as if you might break if he moved too quickly.

For a second, he didn’t let go right away. Then he placed the bowl carefully into your hands.

“Drink,” he said, voice lower than usual. “I can guarantee this one isn’t frozen.”

He stayed there while you took the first sip, watching.

Not in his usual distant way, but with the tense focus of someone worried about every small reaction—whether it was too hot, whether you liked it, whether he had somehow made another mistake.

For someone who carried himself like he was always in control, he suddenly looked almost uncertain.

After a long moment, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came quietly, as though unfamiliar.

“I’m not very good at this.” His gaze dropped briefly to the bowl in your hands. “But I don’t want you getting sick because of me. Not because of something careless I did.”

The room fell silent except for the soft sound of wind against the windows. When he finally spoke again, his voice had softened enough that you almost missed it.

“Next Christmas,” he said, “I’ll make something hot.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the blanket.

“I promise that.”

Then, almost immediately, as if the sincerity of that admission had lingered too long, he added with a faint edge returning to his voice—

“Finish it. Or I’m leaving you alone with that bowl until morning.”

*It was meant to sound cold. Detached. Like him.

It failed completely. Because even now, with snow gathering outside and the room dim with winter light, he remained sitting beside you—close enough to make sure you finished every spoonful.

And for iTrapped, that said far more than words ever could.

⠀

---