“W-wait for you?” I muttered in confusion, his words striking me to my core.
“Yes, while I shoot, we can still practice after.” He asked of me so carefully, like he was asking me to disarm a bomb.
“Oh, yes.” I agreed swallowing hard. “I was gonna do that anyway.”
My answer escaped my lips mechanically almost as if my body had been hard-wired to bend to his will. It felt more like my younger self reaching out for him, I needed to learn to slap her hand away. She who would always wait for him, no matter what.
A hint of relief softened his expression. “Thank you,” he murmured, sounding so formal you’d think I was offering him some great favour.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Let’s go before your bosses summon you with a bat signal or something.”
He started the car again, and we drove in relative silence. I stole glances at him, studying the calm, unreadable expression he wore like armour. He looked so put-together, but there was a tension in his jaw, a stiffness in his posture. Even when he was quiet, there was something heavy about his presence, like he carried the weight of a hundred expectations on his shoulders.
“So how are your sisters?” I broke the silence, and his shoulders tensed. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s alright. They’re okay, Bae writes her A-levels next year, and Beck has this internship with a law firm.”
“Beck, a lawyer? I should’ve seen that coming.” I chuckled to myself. “She always did have a strong moral compass. What kind of law is she studying?”
“Family law,” he told me, “she had a passion for it since the divorce.”
“Oh yeah,” I acknowledged, recalling how his parents finally got divorced summer of ‘17, and their mother made it explicitly clear that she wasn’t in it anymore. Not even for the kids. “How are your parents?”
“Dad’s good, doing his best for us as he always has. Still working for the local paper, he calls often. He asks about you and your brothers.”
“My dad still asks about you guys too.”
Once we arrived at the studio, he left with the stylists, disappearing into the back with a polite nod in my direction. I found a seat in the waiting room, pulling out my notebook with every intention of getting some studying done, but my mind wandered. My eyes drifted to my bag, where his diary sat snugly tucked between my books. I knew I shouldn’t, but the curiosity was unbearable. Besides, he had dragged me here; a little sneak peek seemed fair.
Opening it carefully, I thumbed through the pages until I landed on a particular entry:
June 23rd, summer ‘16
Diary Entry:
I spent today wanting nothing but matcha. It's become quite the unexpected ritual, a quiet kind of comfort in the rush of my life. I think it started back in Nottingham, those freeze-your-nose-off mornings when the world felt too heavy, and the ice was the only comfort. Cup of warm, earthy, rich matcha would ground me, chase away the chill, and give me this feeling of focus. It is kind of funny, though, how certain tastes, certain scents get so tied up in the good old memories. Every time I have matcha, I am transported back an era into those early mornings in the kitchen, the steam curling up from the mug, the scent of ginger and lemongrass permeating the air. My sisters,cuddled around the table, sleep-eyed but always ready with an infectious smile. Those were the days before the world knew my name, before the weighty expectations came to settle on my shoulders. Back then, ice was merely a place of joy, a canvas for my dreams.
Sometimes I think of just that easy life. The world is so noisy now and so demanding. But it is those moments, quiet but with a cup of matcha in my hands, that I can almost recreate that silence, that peace.
A smile tugged at my lips. Wynter, king of stoic self-control, finding comfort in something like matcha? It was oddly endearing, and I could already imagine how annoyed he’d be if he knew I’d found out. Still, the idea sparked a plan.
When he finally emerged from the shoot, he looked worn out, his usual calm replaced with a kind of quiet frustration. His eyes met mine briefly, and I quickly stashed the diary away, adopting an innocent expression as he approached.
“Shitty shoot?” I asked, standing up and trying to keep my tone casual.
He nodded, exhaling a soft sigh. “You could say that.”
“Well,” I said, nudging him toward the door, “I know just the place to make it all better. Trust me.”
He gave me a sceptical look but followed without question, his usual stoicism slipping just enough for a hint of curiosity to show. I led him a few blocks down, stopping outside a small, cozy café with soft lights and the unmistakable scent of matcha wafting through the air.
When he saw the sign, he froze, glancing at me with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.
“Have you tried matcha?” I questioned,
“I love it actually.” He smiled, “Did you… How did you know?”
I shrugged, doing my best to look nonchalant. “Lucky guess. Or maybe I just have this weird, almost supernatural ability to sense people’s favourite things.”
