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Of all the names in all of Oz to pull from a tiny red hat at the front of their "Introduction to Modern Magical Ethics" class (which is already the most unfestive course title imaginable), she had to get Elphaba Thropp.

The girl who has never, in Galinda’s recollection, smiled at anything remotely resembling fun. The girl who scowled at tinsel. Who had once audibly sighed—loudly—when Galinda arrived to lecture wearing a tasteful ivory coat, a silk scarf threaded with subtle gold stars, and a perfectly coordinated holly-shaped brooch pinned at her collar.

(It was festive. It was elegant. And Elphaba looked personally offended by it.)

How, pray tell, is one supposed to buy a Christmas gift for the girl who hates joy?

Galinda stares at the slip of paper in horror, as though it might change if she blinks hard enough. It doesn’t. It just sits there in her hand, glaring up at her like it knows.

She inhales deeply, straightens her spine and whispers, "Absolutely not," to herself—then raises her hand with all the confidence of someone who has never once been told no in an academic setting.

"I demand a redraw," she announces clearly, brightly, reasonably.

A few students snicker. Someone coughs. Their professor doesn’t even pause.

Because, unfortunately, said professor is already talking about "the spirit of giving" and "the importance of inclusivity in festive traditions," and everyone else seems quite pleased with their picks.

Except, of course, for Elphaba—sitting two rows back, skin faintly illuminated by the twinkle lights someone had taped to the chalkboard. Her expression is unreadably, but Galinda can feel it radiating distain for the whole affair.

She swallows and turns back around, her mind already spiraling.

What did Elphaba like? Books, obviously. Dark colors. Silence. Being right. She probably thinks cinnamon is too frivolous and wrapping paper an unforgivable waste of resources. Galinda imagines handing her something cheerful—a candle, perhaps, or a scarf and physically shudders.

"Maybe a mug," Galinda says, lifting one delicately between two fingers. It’s dark green, matte, with a tiny gold crescent moon stamped near the handle. She’s standing in a little boutique just off the main street in town, the kind that has carefully curated shelves and soft instrumental carols playing at low volume. She found the mug tucked between ceramics and a display of minimalist ornaments. "People love mugs."

Fiyero, who has been lounging against a shelf of hand-poured candles, glances over. "People who enjoy things love mugs."

She shoots him a look. "Do you think Elphaba enjoys… anything?"

He considers this with theatrical seriousness. "She enjoys correcting people."

Galina sighs and returns the mug to its place.

"Maybe something bookish?" Fiyero hums noncommittally, already distracted by a rack of scarves. "Doesn’t she basically live in the…"

"The book place," Galinda says automatically, waving a hand. "Yes. She’s always there. The book place loves her. She loves the book place. It’s a whole thing."

Galinda herself goes to the book place precisely never, which feels like an important distinction. Elphaba would almost certainly know what to pick better than she would. The thought irritates her deeply.

She drifts past candles (too cheerful), ornaments (too delicate), and a set of gold-edged coasters (who even is Elphaba, socially?). Fiyero trails behind her, offering the occasional observation.

"That one’s green," he says helpfully at one point.

Galinda ignores him.

"You’re overthinking this."

"I am thinking exactly the correct amount," Galinda says sharply. "I’m buying a gift for the girl who hates joy."

"She doesn’t hate joy," Fiyero corrects her. "She just hates… loud joy."

She glances back at him. "I can be subtle."

Fiyero smiles at her in a way that suggests he finds that statement deeply amusing but is choosing kindness.

She turns down a narrower aisle near the back of the shop—quieter, less festive, more serious. That is when her hand lands on it.

A notebook. Black leather-bound, simple and elegant, with understated gold lettering on the front. No glitter. No patterns. No unnecessary cheer. It feels… serious. Thoughtful. Quietly beautiful.

It feels like Elphaba.

Galinda frowns at it, unsettled by the immediate certainty of the thought. She turns it over, searching for the price tag.

Oh.

Well.

That is… more than she expected. More than she probably should spend on a Secret Santa gift. More than she would normally spend on someone who routinely looked at her like she was a personal inconvenience.

She can’t remember. Has their professor said something about a limit? Galinda replays the lecture in her mind—festive inclusivity, the spirit of giving, vague academic nonsense—but no number surfaces.

"Fiyero," she calls, still staring at the notebook, "do you recall if there was a spending cap?"

He doesn’t answer.

Galinda looks up to find him several feet away, leaning far too comfortably against the counter, smiling at the blushing boy at checkout. The boy laughs at something Fiyero says, cheeks turning an alarming shade of pink.

"Fiyero," Galinda repeats sharply.

"Mm?" he hums, not looking at her. "Oh, sorry. What?"

"Focus," she hisses." This is a crisis."

He wanders back over, glances at the notebook and shrugs. "Looks nice."

"That’s not helpful."

He grins. "Looks very her. You hate it, don’t you?"

Her jaw tightens. "I don’t hate it."

Which is true. Disturbingly so.

She runs her thumb over the gold lettering again, something in her chest twisting uncomfortably. She doesn’t know why she cares this much. It’s just an assignment. A silly holiday tradition. It shouldn’t matter whether Elphaba likes it.

And yet.

"I just want to find something she might enjoy," Galinda says quietly, almost to herself.

Fiyero’s teasing softens, just slightly. "Then I think you already have."

Galinda scowls—at him, at the notebook, at the fact that he might be right—and hugs it a little closer to her chest.

"Fine," she decides. "I’m buying it."

She marches toward the counter before she can change her mind, pointedly ignoring the way her puts quickens at the thought of Elphaba Thropp opening it.

Galinda’s wrapping job is, objectively, a masterpiece.

It’s not subtle—because she is not subtle—but it is tasteful in the way that only Galinda Upland’s excess could be tasteful. The notebook had disappeared beneath glossy, blush-pink paper that shimmers faintly when it catches the light. She layered a ribbon around it twice, because once looked unfinished and then tied it into a bow so perfectly sculpted it could be featured in a window display.

She even added a tiny gold gift tag with Elphaba’s name written in looping cursive.

Which, Galinda tells herself as she sets it in her satchel, is simply proper. It does not mean she cares. It does not mean she is nervous.

It does not mean her stomach is doing that thing.

When she arrives at Introduction to Modern Magical Ethics the following week, the classroom looks even more aggressively festive than usual.

The gift now sits on her desk, pristine and perfectly centered, daring anyone to judge it.

Galinda crosses her legs, smooths her skirt, and pretends her eyes aren’t flickering back to two rows behind her like something important might happen.

She tells herself she doesn’t care.
She tells herself this is simply an academic obligation.
She tells herself many things.

"Alright,” the professor says brightly, clapping her hands. "We’ll go alphabetically to keep things orderly.”

The professor begins cheerfully calling names, and the next several minutes dissolve into a parade of mediocrity. Someone receives a novelty scarf and pretends it is charming. Someone else unwraps a box of chocolates and immediately starts sharing them, which Galinda finds both unhygienic and emotionally confusing. There is a strongly scented candle that makes Elphaba sneeze—Galinda catches it out of the corner of her eye and has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

"Elphaba Thropp.”

There is a small pause—then movement behind her. Galinda turns just in time to see Elphaba stand, holding a rectangular parcel wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a thin green ribbon. No bow.

Elphaba approaches her desk, expression carefully neutral.

"For you,” she says quietly. "Merry Christmas. Or—” She hesitates, then clears her throat. "Happy holidays.”

Galinda blinks.

"Oh,” she says. "Oh! That’s—that’s me, then.”

She accepts the gift with both hands, momentarily thrown by the fact that Elphaba is standing so close. She can smell something clean and faintly herbal—probably whatever infuriatingly sensible soap Elphaba uses.

"Well,” Galinda says brightly, because that is what she does when her brain stalls, "this is exciting.”

She peels back the paper carefully. Inside is a small box. Inside the box—

Her breath catches.

Nestled in tissue paper is a glass ornament: a delicate little crown, clear but edged in gold, the light catching along its curves in a way that makes it glow rather than sparkle. It isn’t flashy. It isn’t loud.

It is… perfect.

"Oh,” Galinda says, very softly.

Elphaba shifts her weight. "If you don’t like it—”

"I love it,” Galinda says immediately, looking up at her. "It’s beautiful.”

Elphaba freezes.

"You do?” she asks, incredulous.

"It’s regal,” Galinda continues, holding it up to the light. "And tasteful. And—is this etched by hand?”

Elphaba’s ears turn faintly pink. "I, um. I adjusted it. The original had less… embellishments.”

Galinda stares at her.

"You changed it,” she says slowly. "For me.”

Elphaba looks away. "I thought it suited you better this way.”

Something warm blooms in Galinda’s chest.

"Well,” she says, smiling now, softer than usual, "you were absolutely right.”

There is a beat of silence.

Then the professor clears her throat. "Miss Upland, I believe you’re up.”

Galinda jolts. "Yes! Right. Of course.”

She stands, smoothing her skirt once more, and reaches for the pink-wrapped gift on her desk. For a brief, wild moment, she considers ripping off the bow and the ribbon and the pink, but it is far too late for that.

She hands it to Elphaba.

"For you,” Galinda says, lifting her chin. "Happy… all the things.”

Elphaba takes it slowly, eyes flicking from the wrapping to Galinda’s face and back again.

"It’s very,” she begins carefully, "pink.”

Galinda smiles sweetly. "I showed restraint.”

Elphaba huffs—an unmistakable, quiet laugh—and begins to unwrap it. The paper falls away, the ribbon slides loose, and when she opens it—

She stops.

Her fingers brush the black leather, then the gold lettering. Her breath hitches, barely audible, but Galinda hears it.

"This is…” Elphaba murmurs.

Galinda’s heart does something ridiculous.

"I thought,” she says, suddenly very aware of every word, "that you might like something you could use. For writing. Or… thinking. Or whatever it is you do when you’re glaring into the distance.”

Elphaba smiles. Really smiles. Small, but unmistakable.

"It’s perfect,” she says. "Thank you.”

Their eyes meet—across pink wrapping paper and twinkling lights and the quiet hum of the classroom—and for a moment, neither of them moves.

Enemies, perhaps.

But something else, too.

Galinda sits back down, pulse racing, clutching her crown ornament to her chest.

Maybe—just maybe—the girl who hates joy simply needs the right kind.