SAME DAY — GREENHOUSE
Fire sprinted toward the greenhouse doors, clutching the last threads of hope like a crumpled note.
She just had to check.
Was Ice serious when he said yes?
He's not really going to wait for me! she panicked in her head.
She yanked the greenhouse door open—then quickly pulled it back, leaving only a small gap to peek through.
And that's when she froze.
In that narrow view, she saw it clearly.
A few meters away from the greenhouse stood Ice, distant and sharp against the amber wash of afternoon light. His posture was calm, his gaze fixed.
Standing near him was a girl.
Pretty. Short bob cut, hair neatly clipped with a headband. Her face was flushed bright red.
Fire didn't need to hear it. She already knew what kind of scene this was.
It was too familiar.
"I—I'm Lea," the girl stammered. "I'm a first-year student."
Ice said nothing at first. His silence was like stone.
"What do you need?" he finally asked, voice flat, bored.
No warmth. No effort. The kind of tone he used when he couldn't care less.
"I—I just..."
"Just say what you need," he snapped, the irritation bleeding through. He hated this—wasting time.
"I—"
But Ice was already turning to leave. Done. Absolutely not interested.
And just as he pivoted away—
"I want to get to know you better!"
She blurted it out, eyes shut tight, voice cracking. As if she'd shoved all her courage into that one desperate plea.
And Ice...
Didn't even blink.
"I don't."
Plain. Brutal. Final.
He turned again to leave—but then, both of them heard something.
A faint rustle at the greenhouse door.
He paused, sighing heavily.
Lea glanced that way and saw... a shadow. A silhouette—of a girl.
Her breath hitched.
Was someone there?
In her head, something clicked.
Ice always comes out of the greenhouse... every lunch. I see him leave right after. Straight to class.
Was he meeting someone inside?
The silhouette had a skirt... or was it just her imagination?
While her mind spiraled, she realized Ice had already vanished. Her practiced confession—the one she'd rehearsed for months—was gone.
She stared at the ground.
And the tears began to fall, one by one, as she turned and walked back toward the classroom.
SUNDAY — FIRE'S APARTMENT — 7:00 A.M.
"Ice-su!"
I yanked the front door open and—ta-da!—there he was. My favorite grumpy guest, holding two heavy paper bags filled with market stuff.
His face, as always, looked like he regretted every decision that led him here.
Perfect!
"Why do I have to buy all the ingredients? You're the one who asked for this favor," he grumbled, stepping inside without waiting for an invite.
He stomped his way to the kitchen island and almost slammed the bags down—only stopping just enough not to break the eggs.
I giggled, speed-running my appreciation. "Thank you so much, you're the best!"
I lunged in for a hug—of course, he dodged me like I had some highly contagious glitter disease.
Rude. But expected.
"That was my thank-you hug!"
"You can keep it," he deadpanned.
Seriously, who even falls for guys like him? Grumpy, bossy, emotionally allergic—I swear, it's a total waste of perfectly good cuteness.
"Are we going to start or what?" he asked, already out of patience just from me standing there.
I grinned sheepishly and took a moment to admire my place. My apartment is more of a studio layout, cozy and warm.
When you walk in, there's a small fireplace and a couch, a two-seater sofa, and a soft pouf by the window that overlooks the snowy mountains. Wooden beams stretch overhead, glowing with warm accent lighting.
On the right is my little kitchen—nothing fancy like Ice's, but functional.
The back wall holds all the appliances: toaster, rice cooker, oven with four burners. The center island doubles as a prep area and dining table. Two stools on one side, a small sink on the other.
"I cleaned before you got here!" I declared proudly.
He flicked my forehead. "Yeah. That's why I ended up doing the shopping."
He was already inspecting the place like some health inspector crossed with a high-stakes cooking competition judge.
Unfair.
"Anyway, this is my room," I announced, spinning the knob and ready to show off my second masterpiece of cleaning.
But Ice, traitorous grump that he is, didn't even look. He was too busy rinsing veggies in the sink.
How unromantic.
I huffed and stomped back over, just in time to see him drying the meat like a pro.
"Your kitchen is too clean," he muttered, scrubbing a cutting board. Like he didn't believe I already cleaned it. Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ice.
"Clearly, you don't actually cook." A single sentence. Delivered with all the grace of a professional judge at a culinary deathmatch. Chef's kiss insult. Perfectly seasoned. Mildly offensive.
Pffft—excuse me?!
"I do cook! Give me that!" I snatched the board from him with righteous fury.
Hmph!
Sure, maybe I asked him for a favor. But I cleaned! Effort was made!
After a few minutes of noisy prep, washing, drying, and light glaring, I plopped myself onto one of the stools at the kitchen island.
Ice stood across from me like a private tutor ready to inflict pain.
Lesson one: Cooking with Ice is suffering.