INT – Fire's Apartment – Kitchen Island – Sunday Morning
"Aim better," he groaned, this time with eyes closed and head shaking like he was regretting every life decision that brought him here.
I was "tenderizing" the deboned chicken, aka hammering it with so much force I smacked the cutting board instead.
I flashed him a peace-sign smile. He did not look at peace.
The next lesson? Iconic.
"What are you doing?" Ice asked, flat and tired.
"I'm sautéing the onions!" I declared, holding my ground—and the spatula.
"You're boiling them in oil. That's not sautéing"
"Well, they're sizzling. That's something," I shot back, proud.
I struck a pose: spatula raised in my right hand, left hand on my waist, smile on flick. Nailed it.
Ice didn't look impressed.
"Sizzle doesn't equal skill," he muttered, gently taking the pan from me like I was an unsupervised toddler who'd somehow gotten into the kitchen.
I smiled—awkward, guilty, and just a tiny bit proud of the absolute chaos I'd brought into his pristine, peaceful culinary world.
A few hours and sighs later…
Ice sighed again. I used to think that was his most disappointed sigh—but wow, I was wrong. It somehow kept leveling up in intensity.
Poor Ice. He must be exhausted from SSC.
"It's not SSC. It's obviously you," he said flatly, shooting it straight into my heart. Rude!
Then—another sigh.
I lost count already.
"We're not even halfway," he groaned.
And of course, I protested with my whole soul. "No way!"
His glare was deadly. Like, How dare you be the one complaining?
I don't know how I understood it, but Ice's glares always felt like silent poetry—haikus of judgment hurled in my face.
Then, after one final sigh, he stood up and muttered the most beautiful words I'd ever heard from him:
"I'll cook."
Technically, what he said was, "Sit down." (Very stressed.) Followed by, "I'll cook."
Same thing. I cried inside. Happy tears.
I wasn't allowed to get up from the dining table. I had been grounded. Yes, grounded—from standing. Ice said I was a hazard to the kitchen. A walking disaster. He made that very clear.
Do I care? Nope.
And somehow—somehow!—he managed to resurrect the massacred ingredients I had brutally disfigured earlier. It was a miracle.
I was halfway through mentally writing a eulogy for the carrots when he started plating the food in front of me.
The chicken ended up as teriyaki and chicken katsu. The carrots were turned into a steaming hot soup—along with the other butchered—I mean, minced vegetables I worked on. So proud. I chopped that! I mean—I minced that!
And there were other dishes too, which I couldn't pronounce but absolutely devoured.
Munching happily on my fast-food-free lunch—possibly dinner too—I could only stare at Ice in awe.
His cooking? Immaculate.
His technique? Like a pro.
His movements? Precise, smooth, weirdly gentle.
Honestly, he treated the vegetables with more care than he treated me.
How is that fair?
"You know," I said, pointing my spoon at him like a magic wand, "you look more angelic when you cook. You should do that more!"
He kept chewing like I hadn't just complimented his soul.
"This—" I scanned the treasure laid out in front of me, exhaling with pure relief. "I could eat this every day."
Then I grinned. The grin.
"What do you say, let's get married?"
He froze mid-bite.
I beamed like a businesswoman sealing the deal with my top-tier client. "So I can eat this every day!"
And what did I get?
A flick to my forehead. A hard one.
"Aw! That hurt!"
"It should."
I clutched my wounded pride. "What, you want a ring with that?"
Ice smirked. "Say that again when you can perfect all of these."
Mocking. Bold.
I sulked, resting my cheek on the table.
So long, perfect lunch and dinner every day.
At this rate, I probably won't even survive the first fifteen techniques.
The next day, I learned the moral of the story.
I actually tried to review for the written test—and surprisingly, I remembered everything!
Well… mostly the parts where Ice yelled at me.
Like when he shouted the knife names in my face.
Ice yelled, insulted my technique, or looked like he wanted to stab me with a spatula.
When he pointed at the wrong parts of a chicken like he wanted to throw me in the soup.
When I almost hit him with a mallet—that was apparently called tenderizing. Sweet!
So many unforgettable moments.
I never thought Ice's method would work.
I mean, it usually does… but this time, it really did. Like magic!
Deep-fried with rage.
Butchered my pride.
And burned into my memory forever.
Hopefully… it stays there until the exam.