TotallynotaBum

Ghiaccio has a problem.

The problem is the way his brain refuses to stop calculating the distance between his hand and the curve of your hip.

He is hunched over his desk, the glow of his battered laptop casting harsh shadows across his angular features. His light blue hair is messier than usual, strands sticking out at jagged angles as he aggressively scribbles through a page of linear algebra notes.

The pen in his hand one of the four he actually tolerates presses so hard against the paper that it nearly tears. The ink bleeds slightly, a flaw that makes his jaw clench visibly.

"Fuck's sake," he mutters, the curse slipping out like a reflex. "This entire proof is built on a fucking shaky assumption. Who wrote this? Who thought this was acceptable methodology? It's bullshit." His voice rises in volume, not because he is trying to be loud, but because the sheer inadequacy of the textbook is physically painful to him.

He pushes the chair back with a harsh scrape against the linoleum floor, standing up to pace. His movements are restless, compact, and loaded with an energy that feels like it might combust at any moment.

You are sitting on the edge of his bed, your nursing textbook propped open against your knees. You've been quiet, focused on memorizing circulatory pathways, but you can feel his presence vibrating through the small room.

It's like sitting next to a live wire. You watch him pace, noting the way his pale skin catches the lamplight and how his shoulders bunch with every frustrated step. He looks like he's ready to fight the air itself.

"Ghiaccio," you say softly, trying to ground him. "Take a break. You've been staring at that same equation for forty minutes."

He whirls around, his narrow eyes snapping to yours. His eyebrows are drawn into that familiar, irritated furrow, his expression severe. "Forty minutes? I wasn't staring at it, I was dismantling it! There's a difference!" He stomps toward you, stopping just inches from where you sit.

Up close, his hostility is palpable, but there's something else beneath it something darker and far more heated. "And don't tell me what to do. I work better when I'm pissed off."

"You're pissed off regardless," you counter with a small, teasing smile.

"That's not the fucking point!" he snaps, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he looms over you, his shadow engulfing your smaller frame. His nostrils flare, his breathing becoming slightly heavier, more ragged.

His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips, then lower, tracing the line of your throat. The aggression in his stance shifts; it's no longer directed at the math, but at the space between you. "You think this is funny? You think you can just sit there looking all... calm while I'm losing my goddamn mind?"

"Maybe I like seeing you lose control," you whisper, testing the waters.

Ghiaccio's expression shifts violently. His pupils dilate, swallowing the icy blue of his irises until his eyes look almost black.

A low, guttural sound escapes his throat not quite a growl, but something dangerously close to one. "You're a filthy pervert, you know that?" The words come out strangled, thick with a sudden, undeniable arousal. "You've been sitting there this whole fucking time, waiting for me to snap, haven't you?"

Before you can answer, his hand shoots out. He doesn't grab you gently; he fists his fingers into the fabric of your shirt, yanking you forward until your chest presses against his sturdy torso.

His other hand finds your thigh, his broad palm squeezing hard enough that you know it will leave a mark. "You want to see me lose control?" he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of coffee. "Fine. Let's see how long you can keep that smug look on your face."

Ghiaccio doesn't pull away after his threat. Instead, he lingers there, his forehead nearly touching yours, forcing you to breathe in his agitated heat.

The room feels suddenly smaller, the air thick enough to choke on. You can hear the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat thudding against his ribs, a staccato echo to the way his pulse jumps in the hollow of his throat.

His grip on your shirt tightens, knuckles turning white, as if he's torn between shoving you away to return to his work and dragging you closer until there's no air left between you.

"Say something," he demands. His voice has dropped an octave, becoming a rough murmur that vibrates through your own bones. "Don't just sit there with that fucking look in your eyes."

His fingers flex against your thigh, the pad of his thumb dragging slowly, almost painfully, across the sensitive skin just above your knee. It isn't a caress; it's an exploration, rough and demanding, as if he's trying to claim territory through sheer force of will.

You find it difficult to speak. The nursing textbook has slid forgotten to the floor, the pages splaying open with a dull thud that seems to reverberate in the silence. Your own breath comes in shallow gasps as you meet his gaze.

Up close, the intensity in his eyes is overwhelming there is no calculation here, no mathematical precision, only a raw, unvarnished hunger that frightens and thrills you in equal measure.

"I'm not saying anything because you're not listening, Ghiaccio," you manage to whisper, your voice steadier than you feel. "You're too busy being angry at everything else."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "I'm not angry at everything," he snarls, though the venom lacks its usual conviction. His free hand rises, not to strike or push, but to trace the line of your jaw with surprising deliberation.

His touch is calloused, the skin of his fingertips rough and cold against your cheek, leaving faint red trails in their wake. He traces your lower lip with his thumb, pressing down until your mouth parts slightly. The contact is electric, a sharp contrast to the icy blue of his hair and the cold fury that usually defines him.

"You're infuriating," he breathes, his thumb now slipping inside your mouth, tasting the salt of your skin. His eyes track the movement, dark and focused.

"You sit there in your little world of anatomy and blood vessels, acting like nothing matters, like you're completely in control of every fucking variable." His tongue flicks out briefly to catch a stray droplet of saliva at the corner of your lips, a gesture that is unexpectedly intimate despite the harshness of his words. "But you're not. You're off balance. Just like me."

He shifts his weight, pressing his hips forward until you feel the solid, unyielding heat of him through his jeans. The contact sends a jolt through your system, a spark that threatens to ignite the tension coiled tight between you.

Ghiaccio exhales sharply through his nose, a sound that borders on a whimper of frustration. He seems to be fighting himself, his entire body rigid with the effort of not simply collapsing onto you.

"I hate this," he mutters, though he doesn't move his hand from your face. His thumb continues its slow, torturous rhythm against your lip.

"I hate how you do this. How you make me lose my fucking train of thought." His gaze drops to your throat again, watching the way your pulse hammers beneath the skin.

"I had three more proofs to finish tonight. Three. And now I can't think about anything except how fucking loud your breathing is getting."

"Then stop thinking," you challenge softly, reaching up to rest your hands against his chest. Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, his muscles feel like coiled springs, hard and ready to snap. "Just feel."

Ghiaccio freezes. For a heartbeat, you think he might actually explode that he might shout, swear, and storm back to his desk in a fit of wounded pride. But instead, his grip on your shirt slackens incrementally, his fingers sliding upward to cradle the back of your neck.

His touch turns possessive, his palm cold against your nape as he tilts your head back, exposing more of your throat to his hungry, searching gaze. "Fine," he rasps, the word more a vow than a concession. "No more thinking."

Ghiaccio crashes forward. The kiss isn't gentle; it's a collision, a desperate attempt to swallow the words you just spoke and silence the noise in his own head.

His mouth crashes against yours with a bruising intensity, his lips hard and demanding. It tastes like bitter coffee and raw, unfiltered need. He kisses you as if he's trying to solve you, as if he could find an equation that explains why your scent makes his brain short circuit and why his hands won't stop shaking.

One hand stays buried in your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head at an angle that allows him deeper access, while the other slides down from your neck to grip your waist with painful familiarity.

"Fuck," he groans into your mouth, the sound muffled and broken. The word vibrates through your entire body, a low frequency that makes your stomach flip.

He breaks the kiss for half a second, only to press his forehead against yours, both of you panting like you've just run a marathon. "You think you're so fucking smart. You think you can just... command me like that." His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, the icy blue almost completely drowned out by darkness. "You have no idea what you're asking for."

He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth drops to your jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. He doesn't just kiss you; he nips, leaving stinging trails of heat that make you gasp and arch your back against the mattress.

Every touch is edged with a volatile energy, as if he's afraid that if he doesn't press hard enough, he'll lose his grip on reality entirely. His hands are everywhere at once tracing the curve of your spine through your shirt, squeezing your hips, dragging down to the waistband of your pants.

"Ghiaccio " you moan, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, pulling him closer even as the intensity threatens to overwhelm you.

"Shut up," he hisses against your skin, though there's no real anger in it now, only a desperate hunger. "Just shut the fuck up and let me do this." He shifts his position, crawling between your legs as you lie back on the bed, his muscular frame hovering over you like a predator that has finally cornered its prey.

The weight of him is immense, cold and solid, pinning you down in the best possible way. The lamplight catches the sweat beginning to bead at his temples, making his skin glisten.

His hands find the hem of your shirt, his fingers cool against your heated stomach as they slide beneath the fabric. The sensation of his rough palms moving upward, mapping the ribs beneath your skin, makes your breath hitch audibly.

He pauses for a moment, his gaze fixed on yours, studying your reaction with the same obsessive focus he applies to a difficult theorem. He's watching for every flinch, every dilated pupil, every involuntary shiver. He's gathering data, learning exactly which nerve endings to exploit.

"Your heart," he whispers, his palm flattening against your chest where your heart hammers against your ribs. "It's fucking racing. Look at you." A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth not a kind one, but something triumphant and possessive.

"You're terrified. And you're fucking desperate for this. Just like me." With a sudden, decisive movement, he yanks your shirt upward, baring your skin to the cool air of the room before his mouth finds yours again, more ravenous than before.

The shirt is tossed aside with zero ceremony, landing somewhere in the shadows near his discarded notes. Now, there is nothing separating your skin from the charged atmosphere of the room.

Ghiaccio hovers above you, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven bursts. Without the fabric barrier, the contact of his palms against your bare stomach feels like ice, absolutely freezing and impossible to ignore.

His hands wander higher, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breasts with an almost reverent aggression, studying the way your nipples harden instantly under his touch.

"Fuck, you're so warm," he rasps, his voice breaking. He sounds like he's losing a fight with his own body. "It's not fucking fair. How can you be this fucking warm?" He dips his head again, but this time he doesn't go for your mouth.

His lips find the sensitive valley between your breasts, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin as he sucks insistently on one nipple. The sensation sends a lightning bolt of pleasure straight to your core, making your hips buck involuntarily against his thigh.

Ghiaccio growls at the movement, a sound that is pure, animalistic satisfaction. "Don't move like that unless you mean it," he warns against your skin, his teeth grazing you in a way that makes your toes curl.

"You think you can just play with me like this? You think you can just... provoke me and not expect me to take what I want?" His hands slide down to the waistband of your pants, his fingers hooking into the denim with bruising force.

"I'm tired of pretending I'm not thinking about this. I'm tired of pretending I don't want to tear these fucking clothes off you."

He shifts his weight, rolling onto his knees to straddle your thighs, his hips grinding down against yours with deliberate pressure. The friction through the layers of your clothes is maddening, a promise of what is to come that makes your breath catch in your throat.

His hands work at your button with a frustrated urgency, his fingers fumbling momentarily before he manages to pop it free. "Goddammit," he swears under his breath, the curse muffled as he bends down to kiss your throat again, his mouth leaving damp, heated trails down toward your collarbone.

"Ghiaccio, please," you whimper, the plea escaping before you can stop it. The vulnerability in your voice seems to wound him and excite him all at once. His grip tightens on your hips, his nails digging into your flesh as he pins you more firmly to the mattress.

"Please what?" he demands, pulling back just enough to stare down at you. His face is flushed, his eyes burning with an intensity that feels like it could physically consume you.

"Please stop? Please keep going? Say it. Say what the fuck you want." He's demanding honesty, demanding that you acknowledge the same hunger that's consuming him. "I want to hear you admit it. I want to hear you fucking beg for it."

His hands slide inside the waistband of your pants, his palms finding the slick, heated skin of your inner thighs. The contact is sudden and overwhelming, his fingers spreading wide as he explores the dampness that already clings to you.

"You're already fucking soaked," he observes, his voice dropping to a dangerous, velvet whisper. A dark, triumphant smile spreads across his lips as he watches your expression shatter. "See? No more anatomy. No more nerves. Just this. Just how fucking desperate you are for me."

Ghiaccio's hands slide higher up your inner thighs, his skin is startlingly cool, almost unnaturally so, as if he carries the chill of the winter air with him wherever he goes.

When those pale fingers find the sensitive, heated skin of your thighs, the contrast sends a violent shiver racing up your spine. It's not a gentle chill; it's a sharp, biting contact that makes your muscles jump in surprise, a sudden shock against the building fever in your blood.

"Fuck, you're shaking," Ghiaccio observes, his voice dropping to a gravelly purr. He notices the tremor running through your limbs, but he doesn't soften his approach. Instead, he leans down, pressing his chest against yours.

The contact is overwhelming his skin feels like marble left out in the night air, cool and unyielding, yet beneath that surface you can feel the furnace blast of his arousal and the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart. "Is it too cold for you? Or is it just because I'm touching you there?"

He deliberately drags his palms upward, the cool flesh leaving pale trails across your heated skin. The sensation is maddening; your body is flushed and begging for friction, while his touch provides a shocking, numbing contrast that makes every nerve ending scream.

"You're burning up, but you're reacting to me like I'm ice," he mutters, his breath hot against your neck while his hands remain deathly cool.

A muscle jumps in his jaw as his frustration mounts, his temper flaring along with his need. "Don't you fucking tense up on me," he snarls when he feels your muscles clench defensively against the chill.

His fingers work with more aggressive force now, pushing past the initial shock of the temperature to find the core of your arousal. "I didn't come here to play nice. I came here to take this."

He shifts his grip, his nails digging into your hips with enough pressure to bruise, his cool fingers finding the sensitive center of your pleasure. The sensation is overwhelming a sharp, biting contact that somehow amplifies the throbbing heat between your legs.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice cracking with desperation. When you meet his gaze, you see the storm in his eyes, a volatile mix of icy blue and black hunger. "I want to see your eyes when I make you lose your fucking mind."

He moves to straddle you more fully, his thighs clamping around yours like vice grips. "I'm going to burn through every goddamn bit of this cold until there's nothing left of you but how much you need me." The threat is genuine, spoken with the same terrifying conviction he uses when he's tearing apart a mathematical error.

Ghiaccio doesn't waste time with further foreplay; his patience has been eroded by hours of frustration and the maddening buildup of desire. His movements are efficient and rough, driven by a need that borders on violence.

After stripping away the last of your clothing with impatient tugs, he positions himself between your legs, his cock already straining painfully against the fabric of his jeans. When he finally frees himself, the sight of him thick, pulsing, and overheated despite his cool exterior makes your breath catch in a broken sob.

"Look at me," he demands again, his voice cracking like breaking ice. "Don't you fucking close your eyes. I want to see exactly what I'm doing to you." His hands grip your hips with bruising force, his cool fingers digging into your flesh as he guides himself to your entrance.

The tip of him brushes against your slick folds, the contact sending a fresh wave of electricity through your body, a collision of his icy touch and your feverish need.

Without warning, he thrusts forward. The penetration is sudden and uncompromising, a blunt force that stretches you open and fills you completely.

"Fuck " The curse tears from his throat as he bottoms out against you, his body tensing as he adjusts to the tight, clenching heat of your body. The sensation is overwhelming; the fullness of him feels like it's claiming every inch of your internal space, a solid, unyielding presence that leaves you gasping for air.

"You're so fucking tight," he growls, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he pants. His hips remain pressed against yours, the cool skin of his thighs clamping around your own, creating a sensory overload that makes your head spin. "It's like you were made just to fucking trap me like this."

His hips give a small, involuntary twitch, testing the friction, and the feeling of him sliding incrementally against your walls sends a jolt of pure pleasure straight to your brain.

He doesn't wait for you to adjust. Ghiaccio has never been one for patience, and now that he has what he wants, his movements become relentless. He begins to withdraw and thrust again, each stroke harder and more aggressive than the last.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh fills the small room, punctuated by his ragged breathing and the occasional guttural curse. "Yes... just like that," he hisses when he feels your walls clench around him. "Take it. Take all of it."

Each thrust drives the air from your lungs, your hands scrabbling for purchase against his shoulders, your nails leaving crescent shaped marks in his cool skin. The rhythm is punishing, a relentless assault that pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

Ghiaccio's face is twisted in a mask of concentration and raw arousal, his eyes locked onto yours as if he's trying to memorize the way your expression fractures with every impact. "You're mine," he rasps between thrusts, the words delivered with the same absolute certainty he applies to his most complex proofs. "Do you fucking understand? You're mine."

The rhythm is becoming too frantic, too uncontrolled for Ghiaccio's exacting nature. He needs to see you better, to dominate you from a different angle, to feel every micro reaction your body has to his assault.

With a frustrated grunt, he abruptly withdraws, the sudden absence of him leaving you feeling hollow and aching. "Stay still," he commands, his voice rough and dangerous as he grabs your wrists, pinning them briefly to the mattress before releasing them to maneuver your body.

He pushes you upward, forcing you to straddle him. You find yourself hovering over him in a cowgirl position, your knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips. The position leaves you exposed, vulnerable, and utterly in his power.

Ghiaccio watches you with hungry, predatory eyes as you settle yourself, your breath coming in ragged sobs. "There," he breathes, his hands sliding up to grip your waist, his cool fingers leaving marks on your hips. "Now I can see everything."

As you begin to lower yourself onto him again, he doesn't simply let you take control. The moment you feel the blunt head of his cock stretching your entrance, he reaches behind you.

His hand finds your ass, his fingers cool and surprisingly dexterous as they probe at your entrance. "You're so fucking tense," he growls, and then, with a sudden, ruthless shove, he slides two fingers deep into your ass.

The dual sensation is catastrophic; you gasp as you are simultaneously filled by him in the front and stretched by his fingers in the back.

"Fuck, you're taking it all," he pants, his hips bucking upward to meet your descent, forcing you to take the full length of him while his fingers continue their invasive work inside you. The sensation is overwhelming a terrifying, exquisite fullness that makes your vision blur.

"Don't you fucking dare pull away." His grip on your hips tightens until it's almost painful, anchoring you to him as he begins to thrust upward, meeting your movements with punishing force.

The friction is doubled now, the internal stimulation from his fingers in your ass sending sparks of electricity through your nerves that amplify the throbbing pleasure in your pussy.

Ghiaccio's other hand finds your chest, his palm flat against your sternum, forcing you to lean forward until you are chest to chest. The contact is electric your heated, sweat slicked breasts pressing against his unnaturally cool chest.

"Look at me," he demands again, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrates through your shared contact. "See what you're doing to me."

He's relentless, his thrusts becoming more deliberate and powerful as he works to maintain both penetrations. Each time he drives upward, his fingers stretch you further, while his cock hammers against your most sensitive spots.

"You're fucking perfect like this," he hisses, his teeth grazing your earlobe as he speaks. "So open, so fucking helpless for me." The room seems to spin as the dual stimulation pushes you toward a breaking point you can't escape, Ghiaccio's cold hands and burning need trapping you in a vortex of pure, unadulterated sensation.

The dual stimulation becomes a form of beautiful torture. Each time Ghiaccio thrusts upward, his cock drives deep into your pussy while his fingers stretch your ass, creating a sensation of being completely claimed from both sides.

The friction is relentless, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding filling the space between your ragged breaths. You find yourself clinging to him, your hands scrabbling against his shoulders for balance as your hips move in a desperate, involuntary rhythm.

"Yes... fuck, yes," Ghiaccio groans against your neck, his voice breaking. The controlled, analytical man is gone, replaced by something primal and unhinged. His hips buck with increasing violence, each upward thrust more punishing than the last.

The cool pressure of his fingers in your ass provides a sharp, biting counterpoint to the throbbing heat in your cunt, sending waves of pleasure so intense they feel like they might actually shatter your bones. "You're fucking screaming inside, aren't you? I can feel it."

His grip on your waist tightens to the point of agony, his knuckles white as he holds you firmly against him, ensuring you cannot escape the onslaught. His chest heaves against yours, the sweat from your bodies creating a slick, sliding friction that only heightens the sensation.

The temperature of the room seems to fluctuate wildly as his arousal reaches its peak the air around you charged with the heat of your climax and the unnatural chill radiating from his skin.

"I'm going to fuck I'm gonna " His words dissolve into incoherent curses as he realizes he's losing control. His movements become frantic, almost desperate, as he drives himself into you one last time with everything he has.

His fingers curl inside your ass, stretching you to your limit just as your own climax begins to build.

The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, sudden and devastating. Your internal muscles clench around him in violent, rhythmic spasms, milking him with desperate intensity.

You cry out his name, your head falling back as your vision whites out. "Ghiaccio!" you sob, your body convulsing as pleasure crashes over you in overwhelming waves.

The sound of your climax seems to trigger his own. Ghiaccio's body goes rigid, his muscles locking as he delivers several final, devastating thrusts.

A guttural, animalistic roar tears from his throat as he releases inside you, his cock pulsing hot and thick ropes of creamy cum in your pussy. "Fuck! Fuck!" The curse is almost a scream. He collapses forward, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he rides out the aftershocks.

His breath comes in broken, shuddering gasps against your collarbone, his cool skin slowly beginning to warm as the adrenaline fades, leaving you both spent, shaking, and utterly wrecked in the aftermath of the storm.

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the synchronized rhythm of your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

The room feels different now quieter, softer, as if the raw energy that had been tearing through the space has burned itself out, leaving behind only the scorched earth of exhaustion.

Ghiaccio remains collapsed against you, his heavy frame pinning you to the mattress, though the punishing aggression has drained from his muscles, leaving them loose and boneless.

Slowly, the frantic heat begins to subside, replaced by the familiar, grounding chill of his skin. Without the adrenaline coursing through him, Ghiaccio feels almost unnaturally cold where he presses against you, a stark contrast to the feverish flush still painting your skin.

His heartbeat, which had been a frantic hammering against your own chest, gradually slows, each thud a deliberate, calming reminder of his presence.

"Fuck," he mutters against your shoulder, though there is no anger in it now. His voice is wrecked, little more than a rough whisper that sends fresh shivers through your spent body.

He shifts slightly, rolling to the side but refusing to break contact, pulling you against his hip so that your back is flush against his chest.

One of his arms drapes possessively over your waist, his cool palm resting flat against your stomach as if anchoring you there, ensuring you won't disappear. Taking his glasses off and tossing them onto the nightstand with a small clatter.

"Don't think this means anything," he rasps, though the lie tastes bitter even to him. His fingers trace idle, absent minded patterns against your hip, the touch light but deliberate.

"You're still a fucking headache. A goddamn distraction I didn't ask for." Despite his words, he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his breath warm against your pulse point.

The physical evidence of what transpired remains the slickness between your thighs, the faint sting of his nails on your hips, the ache in your muscles that speaks of how thoroughly you were taken.

But there is something else now: a strange, fragile equilibrium. The volatile tension that usually defines your interactions has been momentarily transmuted into something quieter, something almost resembling comfort.

Ghiaccio closes his eyes, his breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claims him. In the dim light, the sharp lines of his profile seem less threatening, softened by sleep. For a moment, the mathematician is gone, and there is only the man who sought to solve the equation of you and found himself overwhelmed by the answer.

As you drift toward sleep yourself, wrapped in the cool embrace of the man who just tore you apart, you realize that while the storm has passed, the aftershocks are still very much alive.

Ghiaccio had been yelling for the past ten minutes.

You weren't entirely sure what he was yelling about anymore.

It had started with the weather. Then the weather had somehow become a complaint about the roads, which had turned into a complaint about people who couldn't drive, which had eventually become a passionate argument about why everyone around him seemed incapable of doing anything correctly.

“And ANOTHER THING!” Ghiaccio shouted, throwing his hands into the air. “Why does everyone act like rain is some kind of surprise?! It happens! It's WATER FALLING FROM THE SKY! How fucking difficult is that to understand?!”

You looked up from the paper flower you were making.

“You're very loud.”

“I KNOW I'M LOUD!”

You smiled.

“That wasn't a bad thing.”

“Then why did you say it?!”

“I just stated an observation.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

“...You're weird.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn't a compliment!”

“I know.”

Ghiaccio groaned and dropped onto the couch.

You went back to folding your paper.

For a few moments, the room was quiet.

Then...

“What are you making?”

You looked up.

“A flower.”

“A flower?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“That doesn't answer the question.”

“It does.”

“No, it doesn't!”

You tilted your head.

“Do you need another answer?”

Ghiaccio opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

“...No.”

You smiled and continued folding.

He watched you for a while.

“What color is that?”

“Pink.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I was making conversation!”

“Oh.”

You handed him another piece of paper.

“Here.”

He stared at it.

“What?”

“Make one.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see yours.”

Ghiaccio scoffed.

“I don't know how.”

“I'll show you.”

“I can figure it out.”

“Okay.”

He took the paper.

You watched him carefully fold it.

The first fold was decent.

The second was crooked.

The third was significantly worse.

By the fourth, he was glaring at the paper like it had personally insulted him.

“This is stupid.”

“You're doing fine.”

“I'm not doing fine.”

“You are.”

“It doesn't look like a flower.”

“It will.”

“It looks like garbage.”

You giggled.

“Don't laugh!”

“I'm not laughing at you.”

“You are!”

“I'm laughing because you're frustrated.”

“THAT'S THE SAME THING!”

Eventually, Ghiaccio gave up and shoved the crumpled paper toward you.

“Here.”

You picked it up.

It was, admittedly, terrible.

You smiled.

“I like it.”

“It's horrible.”

“I still like it.”

“Why?”

“Because you made it.”

He went quiet.

You carefully placed the little paper disaster beside your own flower.

Ghiaccio glanced at it.

“...You're keeping that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it's yours.”

He looked away.

“Whatever..”

...

The next day, you found a small gray rock.

It was smooth and round, with a little white line running through it.

You thought it was pretty.

More importantly, you thought Ghiaccio would like it.

You washed it, dried it, and brought it inside.

He was sitting at the table when you approached.

“Ghiaccio.”

“What?”

“I found something for you.”

He immediately looked suspicious.

“What is it?”

You held out the rock.

He stared.

“...A rock?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you giving me a rock?”

“Because I thought it was pretty.”

“You picked this up off the ground?”

“Yes.”

“You just pick up random things?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“I like them.”

He took the rock reluctantly.

You smiled.

“Do you like it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

You walked away.

Ghiaccio looked down at the rock.

Then toward you.

Then back at the rock.

He slipped it into his pocket.

You turned around.

“I saw that.”

“You saw nothing.”

“You kept it.”

“I didn't keep it.”

“It's in your pocket.”

“That's not keeping it!”

“What is it, then?”

“I don't know!”

You giggled.

He pointed at you.

“Don't start.”

...

You had also learned that Ghiaccio was surprisingly attentive.

He complained constantly, but he noticed everything.

He noticed when you hadn't eaten.

He noticed when you were tired.

He noticed when you were cold.

He noticed when you were getting too quiet.

One evening, you were sitting outside with him when you shivered.

He immediately looked over.

“Are you cold?”

“A little.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“I didn't think it was important.”

“It is!”

He took off his scarf and wrapped it around you.

You blinked.

“You'll be cold.”

“I won't.”

“You're already cold.”

“I'm fine.”

You touched the scarf.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

You smiled.

“You worry about me.”

“I don't worry.”

“You do.”

“I don't.”

“You do.”

“I DON'T!”

You laughed.

He crossed his arms.

“I'm just making sure you don't get sick.”

“That's worrying.”

“It's not!”

“It is.”

“Whatever.”

You leaned against the back of the bench.

After a moment, you looked at him.

“I'm glad you're here.”

Ghiaccio froze.

“What?”

“I'm glad you're here.”

“Why?”

“Because I like being around you.”

His expression became strangely blank.

“...That's stupid.”

“Maybe.”

“You could spend time with anyone.”

“I know.”

“Then why me?”

You thought about it.

“Because you're you.”

He looked away.

“That's not an answer.”

“It is to me.”

For once, Ghiaccio didn't argue.

He just sat there beside you.

After a while, he muttered,

“...I'm glad you're here too.”

You smiled.

He immediately pointed at you.

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You smiled.”

“I'm allowed to smile.”

“Not about that.”

“Okay.”

He looked away.

His ears were slightly red.

...

Later that night, you were sitting on the couch, folding another flower.

Ghiaccio watched you.

“You're getting better.”

“At flowers?”

“Yes.”

You finished the flower and handed it to him.

“For you.”

He stared at it.

“Again?”

“Yes.”

He took it.

“...Thanks.”

You smiled.

He sighed.

“You're weird.”

“I know.”

“You're really weird.”

“I know.”

“But...”

You waited.

He looked down at the flower.

“It's not a bad thing.”

Your smile grew.

Ghiaccio immediately frowned.

“Don't make that face.”

“What face?”

“That happy one.”

“I can't help it.”

“Whatever.”

He carefully placed the flower beside the others.

There were quite a few now.

You looked at them.

“You kept all of them.”

“They're just sitting there.”

“You could throw them away.”

“I could.”

“But you don't.”

Ghiaccio was quiet.

Then he shrugged.

“...They're yours.”

You smiled.

He looked away.

“Don't make it weird.”

“I won't.”

A comfortable silence settled between you.

You leaned against the couch.

Ghiaccio stayed beside you.

For once, he wasn't yelling.

For once, he wasn't complaining.

He was just there.

And somehow, that was enough.

After a few minutes, you yawned.

Ghiaccio glanced over.

“Tired?”

“A little.”

“Then sleep.”

“Okay.”

You closed your eyes.

Ghiaccio watched you for a moment.

Then he quietly pulled the blanket over you.

He immediately noticed your sleepy smile.

“Don't.”

You barely opened your eyes.

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were smiling.”

You closed your eyes again.

“Goodnight, Ghiaccio.”

He looked away.

“...Goodnight.”

A few seconds passed.

Then, quietly, he added,

“Sleep well, weirdo.”