The mutual protection arrangement felt less like a bargain and more like a necessary part of my daily routine.
The initial shock had worn off, replaced by a sense of quiet certainty. Every morning, I checked my collar and my bag, knowing Himari-san had subtly optimized my public appearance. Every evening, I prepared my kitchen for the dual purpose of teaching and shared use.
One Friday, the lesson was Oyakodon (chicken and egg rice bowl). It was more complex than stir-fry, requiring patience and a gentle hand with the egg.
Himari-san was getting better. She could now chop vegetables cleanly without tearing up, thanks to the efficiency of the ice trick, and she only slightly flinched when handling the chicken.
As she carefully poured the beaten egg mixture over the simmering broth and chicken, her concentration was total.
"Don't stir," I instructed, watching her hands. "Let the heat do the work. The egg should set gently, like a cloud."
She held the ladle, completely still, waiting for the perfect moment. When the egg was half-set, she quickly removed the pan from the heat, just as I had shown her.
"Perfect," I conceded. "That was the most efficient transfer of heat so far."
We ate in comfortable silence at my table. The Oyakodon was savory and warm, a perfect end to the long week.
"Hoshino-kun," she said, putting down her chopsticks. Her voice was quiet, but serious. "I need to discuss the emotional data surrounding this arrangement."
I stiffened. I hated discussing emotions. They were messy and inefficient.
"We agreed this was about efficiency, not emotion, Himari-san."
"But the emotional data affects the efficiency," she countered logically. "At school, I have noticed I am spending excessive mental energy monitoring your actions. I find myself looking for flaws,the smudge of dirt on your shoe, the slightly crooked tie to fulfill my part of the bargain."
She looked genuinely worried.
"When I don't see you, I worry about what domestic failure you might be having next door. I find myself predicting kitchen accidents. It's creating a strain that could compromise my academic performance."
I understood immediately. She couldn't focus on the student council budget if she was mentally correcting my posture or fearing a grease fire. Her anxiety about chaos was leaking into my peaceful life.
"What do you suggest?" I asked, looking for a logical solution.
"We must increase the frequency of information exchange to reduce uncertainty," she proposed. "For instance, if I am going to be late to the lesson, I will send you a short message, confirming the time. I need to know you are safe and that the kitchen is not burning."
I thought about it. Getting a text message from the Ice Queen about her cooking schedule was absurd, but it would save me from checking the hallway for smoke. It was a measure of control I hadn't realized I wanted.
"Fine," I agreed. "We can exchange contact information. Only for scheduling and domestic emergency data. Nothing else."
"Understood."
She immediately took out her phone, an expensive, sleek model, and we exchanged numbers. It felt strangely final, like signing a formal treaty. Our boundaries were clearly drawn, yet deeply intertwined.
It was shortly after we exchanged numbers that she broke the rules—but in a way that was completely in line with her personal, rigid logic.
I was finishing my homework when a notification lit up my screen. It was a text message from Himari-san.
It didn't say anything about cooking. It just had a single image attached.
It was a photo of a math textbook page, but not mine. It was a page from an incredibly advanced calculus book, one that first-years weren't even supposed to know existed. Across the complex notation, there were bold, red circles around several figures.
Below the photo, the message read:
> Hoshino-kun. Chapter 7, Page 112. The data is flawed. Do not use.
I stared at the message, feeling a rush of heat. This was a clear breach of contract. Our agreement was for domestic emergencies and schedule updates, not sharing academic secrets.
She was studying far beyond the curriculum, and she was using this secret knowledge to protect me.
I quickly texted back:
> This violates the terms of our agreement. Why are you sharing this?
Her reply was immediate:
> It is an investment in your stability. If your grade drops due to faulty data, your focus will decrease. That would lead to a domestic lapse, and I cannot risk the return of the burnt-plastic scent. This is risk management.
I rubbed my temples, utterly defeated by her logic. She was using her genius to justify breaking the rules, framing it as a highly logical move to protect my quiet life. She decided that my perfect academic record was a necessary pillar of our domestic peace.
I walked over to her apartment and knocked hard. She opened the door, dressed in her panda shirt, looking perfectly calm.
"You can't just send me classified academic data!" I whispered fiercely.
"Why not?" she asked, tilting her head. "It is pure data, free of emotion. It ensures your efficiency. We agreed on efficiency."
"The agreement was for mutual protection, not competitive advantage," I argued. "I am not failing the math test! I don't need cheating."
"It is not cheating. It is merely providing the correct data set," she insisted, entirely serious. "If I find a flaw that threatens your established order, I must correct it. That is the nature of a successful partnership."
"Fine," I conceded, realizing I couldn't win. "But only if it's a structural failure, like a textbook error. No more advanced test leaks."
"Understood," she replied, her eyes sparkling with quiet triumph. "Now that the parameters of the information exchange have been successfully redefined, can we proceed with tomorrow's menu? I suggest Tonkatsu. I have researched the deep-frying technique and believe I can minimize the risk of fire."
I looked at her,the girl who had just tried to use advanced calculus as a bargaining chip, and the girl who was now proposing to tackle deep-frying. She was an absolute paradox.
I knew I had lost the fight, but I had gained something else: a strange, secret channel of communication and an unparalleled academic defense.
I went back to my apartment and studied her math correction. The logic was flawless. She had saved me hours of inefficient frustration.
The next day, the instability of our private life caused a rare ripple in her public perfection.
During the Student Council meeting, I was nearby in the archives, returning some research books. The archives door was slightly ajar, and I could hear raised voices.
A male student council member, a third-year named Fujiwara, was challenging Himari-san over a budget report. Fujiwara was known for being overly critical, especially of her.
"Aizaki-san, your figures are flawless, as usual," Fujiwara sneered, "but your methods are questionable. You spend all your time on public image. You don't have the practical experience for real leadership. You've never had to struggle or manage a real problem."
The attack was precise, hitting exactly where Himari-san was most vulnerable—her lack of basic, practical life skills.
I gripped my books, ready to step out and feign a loud noise, anything to interrupt the attack, but I hesitated.
Then, Himari-san's voice cut through, sharp and cold, but unusually defensive.
"My practical experience is sufficient," she stated. "I have learned how to manage high-risk, high-stress situations efficiently. I have learned how to control variables that threaten systemic stability." She paused, and the air seemed to freeze. "And unlike you, Fujiwara-kun, I have secured the counsel of a highly proficient mentor who provides the foundation of efficiency I require."
She didn't name me, but I knew she was talking about our secret.
"And how did you achieve this sudden mastery of practical skills, Aizaki-san?" Fujiwara pressed, clearly trying to corner her.
"Through the guidance of a highly proficient mentor," she replied, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Someone who understands that true efficiency is achieved through methodical instruction and stability, not chaotic ego."
The way she spoke about me—as a "highly proficient mentor" and her "foundation of efficiency"—sent a strange, warm wave through me. She wasn't just keeping my secret; she was using the lessons of our secret to protect her public position.
She was publicly admitting her reliance on someone, which for the Ice Queen, was a monumental confession.
"Now, if you are finished with vague, unquantifiable personal attacks, let us return to the verifiable data on the budget."
The meeting moved on, but I stayed hidden, my heart beating faster than usual.
She was my chaos, and I was her foundation. The unstable balance was holding.
I realized I would defend her public perfection just as fiercely as she defended my quiet order. This arrangement was no longer a chore; it was a deeply ingrained, mutual dependency.
I was no longer an invisible student; I was the secret foundation upon which the Ice Queen's world was built.