Cracks in the Ice

Yuri’s apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

The city outside her window hummed with its usual rhythm—traffic horns, distant chatter, the faint thrum of nightlife—but inside, the world was ordered, pristine. Shelves lined with neatly stacked books. A glass dining table free of clutter. Even her kitchen gleamed, spotless, though she rarely cooked more than tea and simple meals for herself.

Calm. Controlled. Perfect.

Exactly the way she liked it.

So why was her mind refusing to follow suit?

She sat at her desk, pen in hand, an unfinished column spread before her. The words refused to come. Every sentence felt hollow, stiff. Normally, she could summon sharpness with ease. One cutting phrase, one precise description, and her reviews wrote themselves.

But tonight… her thoughts wandered.

Back to a café with frosting smudges on the counter. To a girl with pink-blond waves spilling messily around her face, oversized sleeves dragging as she slammed her palm on the table, eyes burning with fire.

“You’ll come back. And when you do, I’ll make something so good it’ll knock that poker face right off your perfect cheekbones.”

Yuri set her pen down, pressing her fingertips to her temples. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen passion before—she had. Many chefs burned with ambition, and many collapsed under the weight of it. Passion was nothing without refinement. And Mia… Mia was raw sugar. Sweet, unshaped, clinging stubbornly to its natural form.

Still… raw sugar had its own kind of charm.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. She shouldn’t be thinking of charm. That wasn’t her role. She was a critic, not a schoolgirl with a crush. And yet the memory of Mia’s stubborn grin tugged at her thoughts again and again.

Unprofessional. Dangerous.

Adorable.

Yuri rose abruptly, crossing the room to the balcony. The cool night air brushed against her skin, grounding her. From this height, the city lights spread endlessly, a constellation of gold and white. She leaned on the railing, letting the wind tug gently at her midnight hair.

She should write. She should focus. She should remind herself who she was—Yuri Solberg, a name that held weight, not a woman distracted by soft sweaters and cheeky grins.

And yet… she found herself wondering what Mia was doing at that very moment. Probably flailing in her tiny kitchen, flour on her face, sleeves trailing dangerously close to the mixing bowl. The image almost coaxed a laugh from Yuri’s chest, though she smothered it quickly.

Cute. Infuriatingly cute.

Her phone buzzed on the desk behind her. A message from her editor: “Reminder: your next column draft is due tomorrow morning.”

Yuri exhaled slowly, straightening her posture. She was professional. Controlled. Always on time. But even as she returned inside, picking up her pen, the words that spilled across the page surprised her.

They weren’t for her column. They were notes. Observations. Descriptions she didn’t need to write, yet couldn’t stop herself from putting on paper:

Strawberry cream swirl. Too sweet. Baker: stubborn. Oversized sleeves. Chaotic. Fire in her eyes. Determined.

She stared at the list, lips curving in the faintest, most dangerous smile.

This week would be interesting.

———

To be continued…

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