INT – SWEET DREAM OFFICE
"And that's what happened!" Fire finished proudly, spinning once in the office chair as if she'd just given the best speech of her life.
Ice stood opposite her, posture stiff, arms crossed like an interrogator.
"What you've said was all unnecessary," he replied flatly. "Except for the part where you met Mom. That should have been the starting point."
Fire slammed her hands on the armrests. "But what about my feelings?!"
"I was asking why you were hired," Ice said, narrowing his eyes.
She puffed out her cheeks. "I was just—" She stopped herself, rolling her eyes. "Never mind."
"Continue," Ice ordered.
She perked up immediately. "So I met Auntie, and she said my hair looked cute!" Fire held both sides of her bobbed hair, swaying proudly.
Her shoulders loosened as if she were gossiping at a sleepover, swinging left and right in the chair. Ice simply exhaled through his nose, expression clearly spelling next.
"And then she told me that your part-timers are on semester break too." Fire leaned back in the chair, rocking slightly.
The faint chime of the shop's doorbell filtered into the office—more customers. Ice's jaw tightened. This needed to end quickly.
"And the two regulars also had emergencies!" Fire continued, nodding hard, convincing herself as much as him. "She said this season is crazy busy, and workers always vanish on vacation." Fire popped up from the chair, hands on her waist. "Soo! I said I would help!"
Her smile could have lit up the room. Somewhere during her second line, Ice had already pieced together the entire story.
He exhaled, glanced at the door—more people entering, the bell chiming again. They needed to move.
"…Okay." He shut the office door gently, then faced her.
Fire straightened, ready.
"Get back on the floor—"
"Aye aye, captain!" she interrupted with a salute.
"No. Change first."
"What?" Her eyes widened. "No way!"
"We have uniforms. You can't just wear whatever you want." His tone was dry, already moving toward the drawers.
Behind him, Fire was dramatically listing every reason her current outfit was perfect.
"This is the best setting for this maid outfit!"
"I always wanted to wear this to a real café!"
"I even bought it thinking we'd do a maid café at the festival!"
"Hey, Ice! Are you listening?!"
He tuned her out—an ability he considered vital for survival—while rifling through the drawers. Files. Receipts. Finally, at the bottom, a spare uniform. He stood, holding it in both hands.
"Are you listening to me?!" Fire barked, eyes narrowed, brow twitching.
"No," he answered simply.
"Exactly! See, you don't understand!" She spun once, then struck a pose.
For a moment, Ice's composure slipped.
Her black doll heels clicked softly on the floor, paired with pure white stockings that climbed to her thighs. The dress itself was black and white, the classic maid style she always boasted about. Layers of soft petticoats puffed the skirt into a playful bounce, edged with delicate ruffles that framed every hem. A crisp apron hugged her waist, tied neatly in front.
The top half was almost too well-fitted—long sleeves cinched at the wrists with wide cuffs, and a corset that curved into a sweetheart neckline. Elegant, modest, yet… overwhelmingly irresistible.
Perfectly covered. Perfectly dangerous.
Perfectly covered, overly attractive, he thought.
Don't get him started on her face. She had put on light makeup—different from her usual bare look. Subtle, but noticeable if you got close. Not that she needed it. Her features were already unfairly flawless, and the makeup only sharpened them further. Her hair framed her face perfectly, bringing out the glow she didn't even realize she had.
She probably still dreamed about those ridiculous "prince charming" types in her magazines. Yet standing here, dressed like this, she looked more like someone else's dream wife.
And Ice thought it was unbelievably stupid.
His eyes sharpened. "Are you trying to start a commotion?"
"Eh?" she blinked, tilting her head.
Did she really think customers wouldn't lose their minds seeing her like this?
To him, her very presence in that uniform was chaos waiting to happen. And with her trying to keep her identity hidden, even if the chance of being recognized was slim, she should've been careful.
Ice exhaled, annoyed at himself. Why was he the one worrying about her ridiculous undercover project?
For one dangerous instant, she seemed to shine. The background blurred, like sparkles framing her silhouette. And in Ice's chest, something twisted—an unfamiliar burn.
He forced it away, straightening. "Change. No questions asked."
Without another word, he left the room, returning to the kitchen. Tying his apron a little too tight, he muttered under his breath, regretting every intrusive thought.
Because no matter how much he tried to deny it, the ache in his chest always circled back to her—her smile, her stubbornness, her light that refused to dim no matter how many people hated him.
And worst of all—she had the ability to make him feel guilty for things he hadn't even done.
Next Chapter:
I need to avoid Ice's eyes!
If he catches even a glimpse of my scars, boom—game over. He'll pull out his icy "we shouldn't talk" card again, and then what? My friendship AND my lunch—gone in one swing!
No way, mister! My lunch is sacred.