INT. CLASSROOM – DAY
"WEDDING CAKE?!" the entire class shouted, eyes glued to the board in disbelief.
"Yes," our professor said calmly, completely unfazed by our collective panic.
"Your final laboratory project is a wedding cake."
She picked up the marker again, writing as she spoke.
"It will be graded based on design—obviously, it must match a wedding theme…"
She underlined the words with flourish.
"Flavor... and costing."
She turned to face us, completely serious.
"And by costing, I mean how much you'd sell it for. You'll need to price it so it's affordable, but still makes a profit."
Groans erupted like a mini earthquake.
"No! I didn't sign up for this class to do math!" one boy moaned.
I silently agreed, already imagining myself crying over receipts like a rejected accountant.
"This is just a glimpse of your future," the professor said dryly. "There's more to baking than mixing batter and frosting cakes. You'll need to think about pricing, inventory, and food safety. That's real restaurant life."
Then her gaze slid to Ice, who looked like he'd been through four all-nighters and a storm.
"That's right, Mr. Atlas?"
Everyone knew Ice was the son of the owner of Sweet Dream. It wasn't some big-name fast food bakery or anything, but I only recently realized how famous it actually was around here. It was like a hometown favorite—cozy, familiar, and everywhere. I'd spot Sweet Dream wrappers, boxes, and coffee cups all over campus. It was basically part of daily life.
"Basic operations," Ice muttered. "Inventory's a whole other problem."
Whoa. He actually spoke?
Curious, I—his least favorite seatmate—whispered to him again.
"Psst."
He turned reluctantly, with a face too tired to care… but not too tired to glare at me. Aigoo.
"Ice-su, are you okay?" I asked. He really did look drained.
He stared at me for a moment, then looked away without saying a word.
No answer. But that was normal.
Meanwhile, the professor powered on her laptop.
"The concept video will differ for each group," she said.
"Don't slack just because Foundation Day is over. You'll receive your assigned themes through email—check the inboxes you submitted with your partner forms."
Another round of groans. I was one of them... until I caught Ice glaring at me again. Right. I did promise to be a good student. Sigh.
I love my dream, I really do, but no one told me that college would feel like running a bakery while riding a I love my dream, I really do—but no one told me college would feel like running a bakery while riding a roller coaster on hard mode at full speed. Maybe I'm overreacting.
"You'll receive the videos tonight," she continued, ignoring our collective despair. "We'll begin discussing designs on Monday."
"Monday?!" someone gasped.
"We were just about to enjoy our weekend!" Dhylan called out from the back.
Yes, Dhylan! Fight for our rights!
Professor Murasaki only smirked as she gathered her things. "Well... enjoy," she said, sweeping out the room like a villain leaving a bomb behind.
So much for relaxing after the chaos of Foundation Day.
As soon as the room cleared, I went straight to Ice's desk.
"Ice-su," I said, frowning. "You should really go to the clinic."
He didn't even look at me. "I'll just go home."
He looked like he hadn't slept in three days—and honestly, maybe he hadn't. He'd been running nonstop—before, during, and after the festival. Meetings, emergencies, school events... he never took a break. I'd seen it all, quietly, from the sidelines.
He moved slowly, reaching for his bag.
Then, without thinking too hard, I blurted, "Can I come with you?"
I said it with my most charming, cheerful voice, and a smile I'd perfected from years of modeling. It was less a question and more a declaration.
He turned to me, his eyes flat and piercing. A full-on death stare.
Yup. He knew.
That's exactly why he gave me that look—because he knew I was coming along no matter what.
INT. ICE'S APARTMENT – 6:00 PM
"Do you have any preferred food?" Ice asked, though he sounded like he'd rather not be asking anything at all.
I swung my legs from where I sat on the kitchen table, watching him warily. He looked exhausted.
"Hm… I don't think you should be cooking right now," I said carefully, tilting my head.
No response. Not even a grunt. He just opened the fridge.
"Let's just order something," I said brightly. "I know a really good place nearby!"
He turned slowly and shot me the look.
One sharp glare. No words—just that silent, soul-crushing stare that practically screamed: A culinary student who can't even cook? What a disgrace.
I swear I heard my ancestors sobbing in shame from beyond the grave.
"Do you want me to cook?" I offered, instantly regretting it as the words left my mouth. The air turned heavier. Like I'd triggered a trap.
"Can you?" He raised a brow.
I let out a nervous laugh. "Maybe?"
He didn't respond. Just started moving again, pulling ingredients from the fridge like this was a battlefield and dinner was his sworn enemy.
I watched in awe as he moved. No wasted motion. No second-guessing. Just pure, efficient cooking.
"That was fast. What's this?" My eyes sparkled before I even tasted it. The smell alone was divine—like a warm hug after a cold day.
"It's just a simple dish. Don't overreact," he muttered, already sitting down and flipping open his laptop.
"Did the email come through yet?"
"Oh! I forgot to check." I gave him a sheepish smile, trying not to get scolded.
"You're literally here to review our project," he said. Not annoyed. Just... tired. That kind of tiredness you can feel in your bones.
"Am I?" I threw him a peace sign and grinned like that would fix everything.
Without even looking up from the fridge, he asked, "Are you here just to eat dinner?"
The question landed like a slap. Half a joke. Probably.
But with his tone? Who knew?
I froze, like a kid caught stealing snacks from the shrine altar. "Wha—No! I mean—"
My shoulders dropped. I probably looked like a puppy caught chewing someone's homework.
"I just... got tired of fast food, okay?" I said, my voice rising defensively. "I wanted a real, home-cooked meal for once!"
He didn't say a word. Didn't even blink.
Still, I kept talking. Because why not? My arms were flailing now.
"I can't cook lately! I'm always jet-lagged or too exhausted from work!"
"And—and—" I stuck up a finger like I was presenting evidence in court. "I miss your cooking! You should bring lunch to school more often!"
He finally looked at me.
"So you can have some?"
I nodded.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just pure, unshakable conviction.
"Yes."
Unbelievable. If he could roll his eyes any harder, they'd leave orbit.
But I wasn't backing down. Because when it comes to Ice's cooking?
Totally worth the death stare.