INT. ICE'S ROOM
The room was dark, but moonlight streamed in through the glass window on my side. The curtains were wide open, letting the glow fall over us. I was sleeping on the floor—well, more like on a makeshift bed made of a comforter. I pulled it up to my chin and peeked at Ice, who was sleeping on the bed next to me.
His face looked better now. Peaceful, like a sleeping child. He's always better when he's asleep. So quiet. So harmless.
I sighed. Maybe this time, my body was finally realizing how sleep-deprived I was… and how insane this wedding cake project had been. I was supposed to work tomorrow, but after seeing Ice like that—how could I just leave?
Flashback
I'd accidentally fallen asleep on the couch while waiting for the email. When I woke up, I expected to find Ice towering over me with those killer eyes, ready to lecture me for not checking it.
But no one came.
The whole place was eerily quiet.
I grabbed my phone and saw the notification: one unread email. That's it!
I jumped up. I had to show it to Ice. Maybe I could pretend I just got there, like I hadn't been napping like a bear.
"Icy!" I called, knocking on his door. No answer. Weird.
I peeked into the kitchen—empty.
"Ice-su!" I called louder. "Yoohoo?"
Still nothing.
"Can I come in?" I asked, just in case he was awake and plotting my murder for entering without permission. He really does sound like a strict dad sometimes.
But silence echoed back.
"Ice… hey?" I grabbed the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. Slowly, silently, I cracked it open just enough to peek in. If I got caught, I could pretend I wasn't snooping.
The room was dark. My eyes took a few seconds to adjust before I spotted him.
"Hey, Ice…" I whispered carefully, trying not to startle him.
He didn't move.
I flipped the light switch on—and panicked.
He was curled up in bed, shivering under thick blankets, eyes shut tight.
"Ice? Are you okay?" I rushed to him, trying to peel the blanket off, but he clung to it like his life depended on it.
My heart raced. I was panicking. Should I call an ambulance? He looked awful.
"I'm fine," I remembered him saying earlier. "I just need rest."
No, this didn't look like "just rest."
"Okay. Breathe, Fire," I told myself. "It's just a flu. You got this."
I forced myself to calm down. "Medicine. Right. Where's the medicine?"
I tore through the cabinets, the bathroom—everywhere. Nothing.
"Why don't you have any meds?!" I shouted toward the unconscious Ice, who, of course, didn't respond. Typical.
I slipped on Ice's oversized sneakers—way better than my heels—and ran out to buy medicine. I nearly wiped out on the stairs, but thank goodness I didn't. If I fell, I'd get a whole new lecture from Mr. Iceberg.
"I'm back!" I called, breathless, bursting into his room with medicine in hand.
He was wrapped up in his blanket again.
Oh, no you don't.
It became a full-on tug-of-war. I wish he was just unconscious, but no—he had to be a stubborn fever-wrapped burrito.
When I finally wrestled the blanket away, I froze. His skin was bright red, soaked in sweat, chest heaving. He looked like he was burning up.
I ran to his cabinet, trying to find something soft and clean. I grabbed the first shirt I could find and rushed back.
"Mommy always said not to let sweat dry on your skin," I muttered, placing a hand on his forehead. Burning.
I needed cold towels. I needed to feed him. I needed to—
With everything running wild in my head—what to do first, what to prioritize—I forced myself to focus.
"Ice, we're going to change your shirt now, okay?" I said softly, trying to sound calm even though my hands were shaking a little.
This time, thankfully, he didn't resist. Unlike our earlier tug-of-war over the blanket, he just laid there, pliant and feverish. That scared me even more. Quiet Ice was normal—but this quiet was different. It was the kind that pressed on my chest.
I carefully pulled the thick, sweat-drenched shirt off and slipped on a clean one I'd grabbed from his cabinet. My fingers fumbled more than I wanted to admit. I wasn't even sure I'd done it right. I draped the blanket halfway over him to keep some warmth while letting the heat escape.
Then I ran to the kitchen and tried to make soup.
Well—tried was the keyword.
While the pot simmered, I ran back to his room. I placed a towel on his forehead, the fabric quickly soaking up the heat, and gently rubbed at the warm points—his neck, wrists, the crook of his elbows—just like Mommy used to do when I was little and burning up with the flu.
I had to change the water two, maybe three times before his temperature started easing. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. I could breathe a little easier now.
And then—crash.
I froze.
One small, tiny, totally innocent plate. Broken.
"That was an accident, Ice! Sorry!" I whispered in panic, looking at the kitchen door like he might burst through it yelling. But no movement. He was still out cold. Phew. Maybe he won't notice. I'll just hide it later...Please, universe, make him not notice.
I sighed, picking up my phone.
"Please, Manja," I begged, lowering my voice to a pitiful whisper. "I'm just really swamped with projects right now. And also... I'm sick." I even threw in a cough for good measure—clearly fake, clearly dramatic, and clearly not working.
She wasn't buying it. I could already hear her manager tone kicking in.
"Next week, okay?" I tried again, this time using my best charming voice like I was trying to convince a judge on a cooking show.
After several rounds of guilt-tripping, time management lectures, and the "Why did you even choose to work halfway across the world?" monologue, she finally gave in.
It felt like an engagement proposal, honestly.
"Thank you! I'll make it up to you with a cake. Or two," I promised, hanging up with a grateful sigh.
I set my phone gently on the counter—no more rings. No way I'd risk waking Ice again.
Soup in hand—still unsure if it was edible or dangerous—I made my way back to his room.
He was still lying there, cheeks less flushed now. Breathing deeper. Sweating less.
He looked better. Still sick, but... better. And somehow, that made all the chaos, the panic, the guilt, and even the broken plate feel worth it.
End of flashback
Now I'm staring at the dark ceiling, not holding any grudges about sleeping on the floor, since he did insist on taking the couch in the living room. But how could I agree to that when he's sick? He even said I could sleep on the couch since it was more comfortable than the floor—but I couldn't just leave him here alone.
Eventually, he'd given in. I could still see his annoyed face as he reluctantly agreed.
Turns out, I can win arguments with Sick-Ice. Not that I'm hoping he gets sick again, of course!
I turned to my side and looked at his sleeping face.
"Look at that angelic face," I whispered. "How does this turn into a scary monster when you're awake?"
I could practically see all his angry faces flashing in my mind—and shivered.
That night, I tried to fall asleep.
But I couldn't.