The arrangement had been running for a full week, and it had settled into a quiet, almost domestic rhythm. Every evening followed the same satisfying schedule: the brief, exhausting chaos of cleaning, the intense focus of the cooking lesson, and the quiet reward of Himari-san's perfected efforts, like the flawless Tamagoyaki.
I was aware of her in a new way at school. I noticed the way her hair caught the morning light, how precisely she stacked papers, and the tired line that sometimes appeared between her perfect eyebrows. It was a line I knew came from the sheer effort of maintaining such a flawless façade.
She was the ideal, the flawless Ice Queen, but I knew the girl in the panda shirt who panicked over raw chicken.
One afternoon, the lesson was preparing simple chicken and vegetable skewers. It was a high-risk recipe because it involved fire, sharp metal sticks, and raw meat, three things guaranteed to trigger Himari-san's anxiety about cleanliness and injury.
We were in my kitchen. She was fine with chopping the vegetables, but when she had to handle the raw chicken breast, she recoiled instantly.
> "It's cold," she whispered, her face pale. "And... I don't like the texture. It feels unhygienic."
"It's just meat," I said, slightly annoyed by her sudden squeamishness. "You can't eat without touching raw ingredients. Use the gloves I bought."
She put on the thin plastic gloves, but her movements were still slow and stiff. She hesitated before piercing a chunk of chicken with the skewer, trying to do it with only two fingers as if afraid the meat might contaminate her.
> "You have to commit," I insisted. "Use your whole hand. Go straight through the center."
She tried again, but the skewer missed the center and bent the chicken. A low groan escaped her lips. She took a deep breath, and I saw a faint tremor run down her arm, just like the day on the library ladder. This was a moment of true, unmasked difficulty for her, a total loss of control over a simple task.
I realized I couldn't just give her instructions. I had to manage her anxiety.
> "Himari-san," I said softly. "Look at the skewer. Look at the chicken. It's just physics. You need a stable hand."
I walked over and stood behind her. I didn't touch her directly, but I placed my hands over hers, guiding her plastic-gloved grip. My body was close to her back, and I could smell the subtle, clean fragrance of her hair, a mix of focus and her cool, expensive perfume.
> "Stable hand," I murmured near her ear. "Feel the weight of the skewer. Now, steady, straight in."
Our hands moved together. The skewer went perfectly through the meat.
> "Again," I said quietly.
We did the next three pieces like that, my hands covering hers. It was an odd, quiet moment of closeness, not romantic, but functional intimacy. I was using my steadiness to anchor her panic.
When we finished, she slowly pulled her hands away. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her breathing quick.
> "That was... effective," she said, voice formal again, quickly rebuilding her emotional wall.
> "You'll practice that on your own," I replied, stepping back. My hands still felt strangely warm, a warmth that was entirely inefficient.
> "We'll practice again tomorrow."
The next day, Himari-san started her secret project to "manage my public order," the other half of our bargain. I didn't think she would actually follow through, but I was wrong.
It happened during lunch in the crowded cafeteria. I was eating alone when two loud girls from the next class walked by.
> "Ugh, is that Hoshino Kazuya?" one whispered loudly. "He's always so dull. He's like a beige wall."
> "Yeah," her friend laughed. "Even his lunch is just white and brown."
Their words hit harder than I wanted to admit. I had built my life to be invisible, and even mild ridicule threatened that balance.
Then came a calm, commanding voice.
> "Excuse me, did you need to borrow a tray?"
Himari-san stood behind them, perfectly composed. The girls froze.
> "A-Aizaki-san! No, we were just passing through!"
She smiled, cool, polite, and terrifying.
> "I see. It seemed you were discussing matters unrelated to school business near a fellow student who is currently eating. If you have concerns about the cafeteria, please submit a formal report to the Student Council."
The girls mumbled apologies and fled. Himari-san's presence alone was like a pressure wave, washing the noise away.
She turned to me, placing a neatly folded napkin beside my tray.
> "You should use this, Hoshino-kun. It's more sanitary."
Then, with quick precision, she adjusted the collar of my shirt.
> "Are you alright?" I asked quietly.
> "Perfectly," she replied, eyes distant. "Their behavior was inefficient. I corrected it." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Also, you have a small smudge of soy sauce on your chin. That level of flaw is unacceptable for my project."
And with that, she walked away.
I sat there, stunned. She hadn't defended me out of kindness; she had done it because it was part of her role. Yet she had done it. And in her own strange, structured way, it meant something.
My protector was now the Ice Queen herself. And though her methods were terrifying, they were also oddly reassuring.
That evening, I was struggling with an advanced physics problem. The algebra wouldn't balance, and my thoughts spiraled into irritation.
Tap-tap.
I opened the door. Himari-san stood there holding a plate of skewers.
> "Final inspection," she announced. "I ate mine already. Acceptable. You should eat while it's warm."
"Thank you," I said, rubbing my temple. "I'm stuck on this physics problem. Can't find the missing step."
She glanced at the textbook, eyes flicking rapidly over the page. Her brow furrowed slightly, the only visible sign of her focus.
> "May I?"
I nodded.
She leaned over the desk, her hair brushing lightly against my arm.
> "Here," she said, pointing. "The notation is wrong. The professor or the book made an error. The alpha should be delta, and the summation index is incorrect."
I blinked. "The textbook is wrong?"
> "Yes."
She took my pencil and rewrote the entire derivation in flawless handwriting, correcting the formula in three neat steps.
> "If you use the printed version, you'll fail the test. Use this."
I stared at her correction. She hadn't just fixed my work, she had fixed the world's mistake before it reached me.
> "I would've spent hours on this," I murmured.
> "Unnecessary expenditure of time," she said flatly. "I provided data. That is part of my payment."
She glanced at the sewing kit on my desk.
> "The exchange is complete for today."
I looked at her, sharp, efficient, brilliant, and felt something new. Respect, yes. But also confusion. She wasn't just beautiful; she was terrifyingly capable.
> "You fixed my chaos," I said.
> "And you fix mine," she replied simply. "Balance restored."
When she left, I sat in silence for a long while. Then, I ate the skewers, still warm and perfectly seasoned.
And as I worked through the corrected formula, everything suddenly made sense.
It wasn't love. Not yet. But it was trust.
A quiet, mutual promise of protection between two people who feared the world's chaos and found order only in each other.