The second cooking lesson started the same way the first one ended: in my apartment.
I had spent my entire walk home from school thinking about the sewing kit. I didn't open it until I was sure Himari-san wouldn't walk in on me. I watched a short video online—the most efficient way to learn—and managed to fix the small tear on my sleeve. It wasn't pretty, but it was functional.
When Himari-san arrived, she was again wearing the faded, oversized panda shirt and comfortable sweatpants. She looked like a completely different person than the polished Ice Queen who led morning assembly.
"Good evening, Hoshino-kun," she said, carrying her Student Council notebook.
"Good evening. You're late by three minutes," I noted, checking the clock on my wall. I wasn't trying to be mean; I just noticed small lapses in order.
She blinked once, surprised. "My apologies. I was organizing my kitchen supplies to prepare for a deep clean."
"Good," I said. "Organization is key. Now, lesson two: Breakfast. Something fast, simple, and nutritious. We're making Tamagoyaki—Japanese rolled omelet."
She watched, pen ready, as I laid out the ingredients: eggs, dashi (soup stock), and a small amount of sugar.
"The goal is simple and repeatable," I explained. "The secret is the heat control and the folding."
I cracked the eggs and let her stir them. Her movements were slow, but this time she was less clumsy. She was concentrating hard on the simple action.
"You look very serious, Himari-san," I commented.
"I am applying my full focus," she said without looking up. "If I can solve a multi-variable calculus problem, I should be able to manage egg proteins."
"Cooking isn't about solving," I told her. "It's about feel. Watch."
I poured the first thin layer of egg mixture into the heated pan. I showed her how to tilt the pan and then, with a quick, neat flick of the wrist, how to roll the omelet into a tight log before pouring the next layer.
She tried the second layer. It stuck immediately.
"It's burning," she gasped, her hands hovering above the stove like she was scared to touch the pan.
"Lower the heat," I instructed calmly. "Don't panic. Scrape the burnt part off with the spatula. That's a mistake. We learn from it. Now, try the roll."
She tried the roll, but she pushed the egg too hard, tearing it in the middle. The elegant log of egg looked more like a messy, yellow pile.
Her shoulders slumped. "I failed. It's ruined."
It was a small failure, but her reaction was big. It was clear that she rarely, if ever, made mistakes.
I took the spatula. "It's not ruined. It's just ugly." I quickly fixed the tear and added the next layer of batter, forming a slightly messy but still edible omelet. "We call this the practice piece. You eat the ugly piece, and it tastes just as good."
She stared at the pan, then at the omelet, then at me. "The 'practice piece,'" she repeated, writing the term down in her notebook.
We finished the meal together. The first piece was slightly burnt and torn, but the final, smooth pieces of the omelet were perfect.
"This is delicious," she said, eating the perfect piece. She then picked up the ugly, burnt 'practice piece' with her chopsticks and ate it without complaint. "I need to remember the feeling of failure. It provides motivation."
I watched her. She had a strange way of seeing the world. For her, failure in the kitchen was an academic challenge. For me, it was just the normal mess of daily life.
After the meal, I looked at my watch. "Time for the inspection. Show me what you did with the sewing kit."
Her eyes went wide. She hadn't expected me to bring it up.
"Did you... use it?" I asked.
"Yes," she admitted, looking a little proud. She quickly showed me the small tear on her jacket cuff. The stitching was neat, small, and tight. It was almost perfect. "I watched a video on needle tension. The tension was the key."
"It's... good," I said, a little stunned. She had gone from being unable to chop an onion to performing complex needlework in less than 24 hours. "Very efficient work, Himari-san."
"You were efficient in teaching me the rice," she countered. "I simply matched your effort."
She took the small department store bag from my table and handed it back to me. "I am returning the backpack. I realized it was inefficient to replace a functional item. I will instead use the materials to mend the tear in my own uniform jacket that happened during the library incident. I noticed it was still there."
"Good," I nodded. "Now it's time for the cleanup."
We went back to her apartment. The air was much better, but the kitchen still looked like a crime scene.
"Today, we work on the battlefield," I announced. "I'll clean the stove. You organize the pantry. Everything needs a home."
I started scrubbing the soot while Himari-san stood in front of a cabinet full of bags and boxes she had clearly just bought and thrown in there.
She pulled out a bag of specialty flour, then a box of tea, then a jar of spices. She held them all with a confused look.
"Where do these go?" she asked.
"Where do you use them?" I asked back. "Flour goes near the bowls. Tea goes with the kettle. Spices go near the stove."
She looked at the random collection in her hands and then back at the empty shelf. Her brain, so powerful at solving complex logic, seemed unable to solve this simple sorting problem.
"I need labels," she said firmly. "I will purchase clear containers and a label maker. I cannot proceed without a structured inventory system."
"Fine," I sighed, wiping sweat from my brow. The thought of cleaning her luxury stove was actually less work than arguing with her about inventory management. "You can buy labels. But first, find the regular salt. I need it for cleaning this grease."
She looked through the cabinet again, but she was still moving too slowly.
"Wait, I found it," she said, pulling out a large pink rock from a bag. "Himalayan Pink Salt. Is this sufficient?"
I stopped scrubbing and stared. "That's gourmet rock salt. I need normal, white cooking salt."
She tilted her head. "Is there a functional difference in cleaning power?"
"Just get the regular salt," I muttered, shaking my head. She was a genius who thought gourmet rock salt and regular table salt were interchangeable tools.
Finally, she managed to locate the table salt. We finished cleaning the stove and putting the few organized things away. By the time I left her apartment, I felt tired, but the air was clean, the stove was shining, and the basic foundations of order had been laid.
I got back to my apartment, showered, and sat down at my desk to review my homework. I felt a strange sense of quietness.
In the past, my life had been perfectly neat, but also silent and a little bit empty. Now, my life had a new schedule: 6:00 PM, clean Himari-san's chaos. 7:00 PM, teach Himari-san to cook. 8:00 PM, homework.
It was less orderly in theory—because a chaotic girl was now involved—but in practice, it had made me more focused. I couldn't afford to waste time because I had a new commitment next door.
There was a soft tap-tap at my door.
I opened it. Himari-san was standing there. She was holding a small, covered plate. She was no longer in the panda shirt, but in a simple, elegant dark robe.
"Hoshino-kun," she said softly, holding out the plate. "I remade the Tamagoyaki. I used a lower heat setting this time and focused on the rhythm of the roll. This one is perfect. I made two portions—one for me to inspect, and one for you. As a small repayment for the cleaning."
I hesitated. Taking food from her felt... domestic.
"It's fine, Himari-san. You don't need to—"
"I need to," she interrupted gently, not with authority, but with simple sincerity. "It is important that I complete tasks correctly. And I learned that a clean home should be followed by a good meal."
I took the plate. It was slightly warm. "Thank you," I said, my voice softer than usual.
"Good night, Hoshino-kun." She gave a quiet, small smile—not the bright, beautiful smile of total relief, but a calmer, gentler one.
"Good night, Himari-san."
I closed the door and sat at my table. I lifted the cover. The omelet was indeed perfect: golden brown, tight, and smooth. It smelled lightly of sugar and savory stock.
I ate the Tamagoyaki. It was simple, warm, and comforting. It was the taste of order, delivered by the most chaotic person I knew. My orderly life now included a daily moment of being cared for by the Ice Queen, all in the name of efficiency.
I just hoped no one at school ever found out.