The next evening, the tension in my small apartment was unusually high. Himari-san had insisted on Tonkatsu (deep-fried pork cutlets), making it the biggest culinary risk we had faced yet. This wasn't about missing a step; this was about safety, and the thought of scalding oil terrified me far more than a burnt pan.
I meticulously prepared the kitchen. The fire extinguisher was pulled from the wall hook and placed right next to the stove, clear for immediate use. The windows were open to prevent smoke buildup. I had even laid a perimeter of old newspapers around the area to contain grease splatter, hoping to minimize the cleanup afterward. Himari-san watched the preparations with wide, fascinated eyes, taking notes on my emergency procedures.
"You are applying a high degree of risk mitigation," she noted, looking from the extinguisher to the rolled-up newspapers.
"I am applying common sense to a high-risk process," I corrected. "You can't burn my apartment down. That would violate every term of our agreement and completely dismantle my orderly life."
She was wearing a new apron over her panda shirt, a simple white one I'd given her. She had already perfectly breaded the pork cutlets—a task that required patience and precision, skills she excelled at when the instructions were clear and the product had to be visually perfect.
The current challenge was the oil. It needed to be heated to exactly 170 degrees Celsius to cook the pork properly without burning the breading or leaving the meat raw.
"You need to watch the heat, not the oil," I instructed, handing her a small kitchen thermometer. "Keep it exactly here."
Himari-san held the handle of the pot, her hand shaking slightly, even with the gloves on. She stared at the thermometer as if it were a bomb countdown.
"The temperature is unstable," she whispered, her voice tight. "It is fluctuating by three degrees. I cannot control it."
"You control the burner knob," I said calmly. "Small adjustments. Don't think about the exact number every second. Feel the adjustment. It's a dialogue with the flame, Himari-san."
She frowned. Dialogue with the flame was not a term found in any textbook. She preferred fixed data and algorithms.
"Lower it slightly now," I guided. "Good. Now, hold it there. You are doing well."
When the temperature stabilized at exactly 170 degrees Celsius, she was ready to drop the first cutlet in. This was the moment of maximum risk. The sudden drop in temperature and the chance of oil splashing terrified her, and I could feel my own muscles tensing.
"Wait for my signal," I said. "Drop it in quickly, but gently. Minimize the splash."
I watched her face. It was tight with concentration, but also with fear. It was the same look of paralyzing anxiety I'd seen when the library shelf was falling. She was facing a new kind of chaos, and she hated the loss of control it represented.
"Now," I ordered, my voice sharp.
She dropped the cutlet. It sizzled loudly. Oil immediately popped and hit the newspaper perimeter. She let out a small, sharp gasp and took a quick step back, her hands flying up to shield her face. She was retreating, which in this situation, was truly dangerous.
"Stay there!" I commanded, gripping her shoulder firmly to keep her steady. "Don't move. You must observe the process. The oil will stabilize."
I didn't let go of her shoulder. My touch wasn't comforting; it was a firm anchor. It was the only way to keep her from fully retreating or panicking, which would have resulted in a spill. I could feel the tension radiating from her body, but she stayed.
Slowly, the sizzle settled. The cutlet began to turn a beautiful golden color. The fear in her eyes was slowly replaced by a rigid, scientific curiosity.
"It is turning color," she observed, her voice now calm. "The Maillard reaction is proceeding efficiently."
"Yes," I agreed, finally releasing her. I felt the sweat on my palm where I had gripped her apron. "Now, flip it."
She took the long chopsticks and flipped the cutlet perfectly. We cooked the remaining cutlets in silence, managing the heat and the tension together. By the time the final piece was done, the air was heavy with the smell of fried pork, but the fire extinguisher remained untouched.
We sat down to eat the Tonkatsu, which was perfectly crisp on the outside and tender on the inside. It was technically her best cooking effort yet.
Himari-san took a bite, chewed slowly, and then quietly set down her chopsticks.
"It is perfect," she stated. "Texture, flavor, everything is optimal."
"Good," I replied, eating my own portion.
She didn't eat the rest. She just sat there, staring at the perfectly fried cutlet. Then, very slowly, a single tear traced a path down her cheek. It was exactly like the moment in the library, except this time, there was no dust, only quiet relief and exhaustion.
"Himari-san? What's wrong?" I asked, putting my own food down.
She shook her head, quickly wiping the tear away with the back of her hand, just like before. "Nothing. I simply realized I was genuinely terrified of that oil. I was afraid of making a mistake that I could not fix, that would leave a permanent scar."
"Everyone is afraid of fire," I said, trying to be pragmatic. "That's normal."
"No. It's more than that," she confessed, her voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. "Every day, I must be perfect. I must be the best student, the best leader. If I fail at something small, like boiling water, I feel like my entire structure of control will collapse. If I fail publicly, my future is gone. You are the only person who has seen me fail at simple survival, and you didn't judge me. You just gave me a new algorithm for stability."
She looked at me, and her eyes, usually so composed, were raw and honest. "You anchor me, Hoshino-kun. When I panic, you hold my shoulder and force me to be steady. You fix my math and clean my messes. I rely on you too much now. It's an inefficient emotional expenditure for a simple cooking lesson."
Her analysis was chillingly honest. She wasn't talking about romance; she was talking about system collapse.
I looked at her, at the girl who was terrified of raw meat but completely comfortable correcting advanced physics. I realized she wasn't just relying on my stability; she was relying on my willingness to see her flaws and still treat her with respect.
"Our agreement is still functional," I said simply, choosing my words carefully. "Your reliance on my stability is merely the cost of my service. I protect your public image so you can maintain my academic and domestic order. The system is stable."
I pushed her plate toward her. "Now, finish your Tonkatsu. Wasting food is the ultimate inefficiency."
She took a slow breath, nodding, and picked up her chopsticks. "You are right. The system must continue to be optimized."
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 the raised voices echoing through the hall.
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 archives door was slightly ajar. I stopped, clutching my books. That attack hit exactly where Himari-san was most vulnerable.
There was a silence. I pictured her face, hardening into the Ice Queen mask.
But 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 had publicly admitted 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.