We moved next door to my apartment, 204.
My apartment was the complete opposite of hers: small, functional, and spotless. Every book was lined up by size, every dish was clean and put away. Himari-san walked in and looked around, her eyes wide as she took in the details, like she was reading a complex instruction manual.
"Your apartment is... very organized," she observed.
"It's efficient," I corrected. "Now, stand here. Lesson one: Rice is the base of life. If you can't make rice, you can't eat."
I showed her the electric rice cooker. I used simple words, like I was teaching a child. "One cup of rice. Wash it five times in the pot until the water is mostly clear. This removes dust and makes it taste better. Then, one cup of water. You put your finger in here," I demonstrated, "and the water should come up to the first joint. Close the lid. Press the button. Wait."
She watched with serious focus, like she was studying for a final exam. She even pulled out a small notebook and pen—a very nice Student Council one—and started writing notes.
"Water to the first joint of the index finger," she wrote in perfect, neat handwriting. "Press 'Cook' button. Wash five times."
I had to hide a smile. "You don't need to write it down, Himari-san. It's just rice."
"I take all learning seriously," she said, without looking up. "Especially when it is about my own physical survival."
While the rice cooked, I gave her a small, sharp knife and an onion. This was much harder.
"Hold the onion flat. Curl your fingers like a claw. This protects them. Move the knife straight down, not sideways," I instructed.
She tried. The first slice was thick and huge. The second was tiny. She scowled, her beautiful face showing clear frustration.
"It's messy," she said, defeated.
"It's food," I said simply. "It will taste the same. Don't worry about perfect slices. Focus on keeping your fingers safe."
Suddenly, her eyes went wide. She started blinking quickly, and her breathing hitched.
"Are you crying?" I asked, confused. I hadn't raised my voice.
She put the knife down fast and turned her head away. "Onions," she choked out, fighting for control. "The fumes. They sting my eyes."
I stared at her back. The Ice Queen, brought to silent tears by a simple onion. It was truly funny, if a little pitiful.
"There's a trick for that," I said, reaching into the freezer. I pulled out a small piece of ice. "Put this on the counter next to the cutting board. The onion fumes will be drawn to the cold ice instead of your eyes."
She slowly turned back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a faint smudge on her cheek. She looked surprised and grateful.
"Where did you learn that?"
"My grandmother showed me. She's very efficient."
She watched as the ice started working. Slowly, the tears stopped. A small, grateful look returned to her face.
"Thank you, Hoshino-kun. You really are very capable in a way I am not."
"It's just common sense," I corrected, feeling heat rise to my neck. I didn't like praise. It drew attention. "Now, Lesson Two: Miso Soup."
I showed her the simple steps: dissolve the paste in hot water, add the onion and a handful of tofu, don't let it boil too long. She followed my instructions perfectly, her movements slow but precise. She was a fast learner when the steps were clear. She just lacked the basic knowledge.
We ate the meal—the perfect, fluffy rice and the simple, warm miso soup—at my small dining table.
"It's... good," she said, tasting the soup. She sounded shocked, like she'd expected it to taste like the burnt plastic smell from her kitchen.
"It's only miso soup," I said, but I felt a quiet satisfaction. I had brought a little bit of order to her personal chaos.
When we finished, she insisted on washing the dishes, still focused on paying her debt. She washed them carefully, slowly, scrubbing too hard.
"Thank you again, Hoshino-kun. I will practice the rice and the soup in my own kitchen tomorrow," she announced.
I pictured her kitchen covered in white foam again. "No, you won't. You will practice under my supervision until I say you are ready. And if you make a mess here, you clean it up."
She bowed deeply. "Understood. Good night."
As she walked out the door back to 203, I noticed the smell of burnt food was completely gone. In its place, I could faintly smell the light, expensive soap she always used.