"Hey! Where are you going?!" I grabbed his sleeve like a kid chasing after a snack thief.
"It's lunch. I gave you your food. What else do you want?" He said it like I was a burden, like my hand was a slimy frog clinging to his uniform.
Rude. Offensive.
"Come on, let's eat together!" I tugged again, determined.
"Don't wanna."
"Pretty please?"
No budge.
"You made so much food! We should share it."
Several rounds of puppy eyes and silent glaring later… he finally sat down. Stiff as a rock. Like someone had forced a kid to eat broccoli.
Me? I was smiling from ear to ear. Victory never tasted this good.
Besides, Ice's cooking was the best. Just looking at the bento boxes made my heart flutter.
And wait… were those sweets from Sweet Dream?!
I didn't know where to start.
As we ate, I realized something felt off. I mean, just the other day, I'd asked him to make me lunch and he strongly disagreed. Like, threatened-me-with-a-spoon kind of disagreement.
"This isn't my last meal, right?" I joked, side-eyeing him.
He glanced at me, then went back to eating.
"I mean it! I'm thankful, Icy, really—but still…" I waved my spoon like a flag.
"I'm not poisoning you," he muttered, clearly irritated.
"So… are you going to start bringing me lunch every day now?" I turned on the charm, eyes sparkling like a shoujo heroine.
"Yes."
I froze. My jaw dropped. Spoon midair.
Did he just say yes?
I blinked. Okay that's it, I'm dreaming.
Pinched my cheek. Nope, I wasn't dreaming.
"What are you doing?" He gave me a look like I was the weirdo.
"Did you just say yes to bringing me lunch?" I asked, still in disbelief.
He nodded. Like it was no big deal. Like he hadn't just shattered the emotional laws of the universe.
"Who tortured you? Blink twice if you're under duress!"
The sun filtered through the branches above us, casting soft dappled shadows across the scarf. Honestly, it could have been a romantic moment—lunch under a tree, just the two of us…
If only Ice didn't keep ruining the mood! My fantasies? Melted, drowned, and frozen over again by this human iceberg.
He sighed, deep and long. Then finally spoke.
"You fainted because you're eating junk." He stressed the word junk like it offended him on a personal level.
"Not just junk food. Literal junk," he continued, his tone switching to annoyed dad mode.
"You say you're sleep-deprived and tired, and then you still eat garbage."
Oof. The insult combo.
At this point, I wasn't sure what he meant by junk—my food, my habits, or my entire existence. Felt like all three were under attack.
"And if you faint again, it becomes my problem. Another liability," he muttered. "So just stay healthy… at least to avoid bothering me."
His expression didn't change.
Was that… concern?
Was I supposed to be touched… or offended?
At this point, I couldn't tell if he was genuinely concerned… or just burdened.
Especially with that unreadable face of his! Blank, cold, expressionless.
Seriously, throw me a hint or something!
I looked down at the lunchboxes again.
They weren't just store-bought or slapped together. Every dish looked carefully made, thoughtful. Some things I'd never eaten before. Everything was packed neatly, the flavors balanced. I wasn't a good cook—but I knew how much time and care went into a meal like this.
From deciding the dishes,
To choosing the best ingredients at the store.
From careful preparation and cooking,
To planning how to store and pack everything neatly.
Even figuring out how to deliver it to the person you made it for—
It's a long, delicate process. A quiet act of love, a silent transfer of care.
That's what I didn't understand before.
And that's what I've started to learn in the short time I've cooked with Ice.
It wasn't just the fun I used to have in the kitchen with Mom.
It was more than that—
Which made me appreciate her even more,
And cherish the quiet lessons I've learned from Ice.
I looked at him again.
"Thank you, Ice." I looked at him. "I really appreciate it."
I gave him the most sincere smile I could manage, hoping it reached him—even just a little.
Because cooking for someone isn't simple.
It's time, effort, care.
A quiet way of saying, I thought of you.
And most of the time… that kind of effort goes unnoticed, or worse, taken for granted.