Before Ice could fully process his thoughts, his mother appeared in the doorway. She must have heard the commotion. Concern etched across her face the moment she saw him.
"What happened to her?" she asked, her voice soft but heavy with worry.
He opened his mouth to explain, but the words stuck in his throat. The tension clung to his chest, making it hard to speak.
Ice told the story as best he could—at least the part he saw—but afterward, he was only met with disapproval.
"But, Ma, it's her fault," he finally said, trying to sound firm—but even to his own ears, it rang hollow.
His mother sighed, her gaze steady and calm. "I know. But for someone as innocent as her... you went too far. You made her cry like that—it's too much, Keice."
"But Ma" Ice shook his head, frustration flaring. "She keeps messing up! She's clumsy—a walking disaster!"
His mother placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "People are different, Keice. She's still learning. And maybe one day, she'll understand her mistakes. But right now, she needs someone who'll help her grow—not tear her down."
His lips pressed into a tight line. Deep down, he knew she was right. But it didn't make the frustration easier to swallow.
"She almost burned down the kitchen, Ma," he muttered. "You know how much that place means to me. It's filled with memories."
She gave a small, knowing smile. "Those memories aren't in the kitchen, Keice. They're in you. And I'm grateful you two are safe. That's what matters."
He stared at her, unable to argue. She always knew what to say. Then she struck a nerve.
"And what if someone yelled at your sister the way you yelled at Fire?" she asked quietly.
Ice recoiled. "That's—Ma, that's different!"
But her eyes didn't waver. "Your sister is just like Fire. Innocent. Clumsy. Careless in her own way."
He froze. His defenses crumbled. She had him.
"Fine," he muttered, defeated. "I'll apologize. Happy now?"
His mother smiled. "You'll feel better when you do."
He didn't answer, already heading for the door.
Ice ran across the quiet highway, past shuttered shops and dim streetlamps. The city had calmed, but his mind raced. Where could she have gone? She wasn't even wearing shoes. His heart sank at the thought. Holding the pair of heels she was wearing earlier.
He turned toward the nearby playground—almost abandoned now, the flickering streetlight casting eerie shadows across the still swings and empty slides.
No sign of her. A sigh of irritation escaped him. Why was he the one out here, chasing after her? She was the one who'd caused all this. He nearly turned back.
Then he heard it—a faint sob, so soft he almost missed it. It came from one of the playground tunnels.
He stopped, uncertain. He didn't want to do this. Not again. But something inside him refused to walk away.
He found her curled up inside the tunnel, her small frame hunched over, knees drawn tightly to her chest. Her arms wrapped around herself like a shield. Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. She looked so fragile—nothing like the vibrant, chaotic girl he was used to.
Was he too harsh?
"Why am I like this?" she whispered, voice cracked and raw. "Am I always the problem? I didn't even know… Maybe I was."
The words hit Ice harder than he expected. He looked away, guilt twisting in his gut. She wasn't even aware he was there.
Then she muttered something that made his breath catch.
"Mama, I miss you. Please get me out of here."
He stepped forward, slow and unsure what to do.
"I don't want to be here." Her faint voice was trembling, sounding almost like a plea.
Then, without thinking, he knelt beside her and wrapped his arms around her.
He hated himself for it. But he couldn't stop. Every instinct told him to pull away, to let her deal with it on her own. Yet seeing her so broken, so vulnerable—it was too much. His fingers ran gently through her hair, his chest tightening with emotions he couldn't even begin to untangle.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. The words tasted foreign.
It reminded him of his little sister. When she cried, he used to comfort her the same way. But this was different. More complicated. More painful.
After a while, Fire's sobs began to fade. She looked up, eyes red and swollen, like she couldn't believe he was really there.
He was still holding her.
He immediately regretted it.
What the hell was he doing?
She blinked at him, confused.
He tried to suppress the awkward churn in his stomach. "I'm sorry," he muttered again, avoiding her gaze.
A faint blush bloomed on her cheeks.
"It's not your fault," she whispered, voice trembling. "I'm just… really useless. I should die, right?"
Her words hit him like a gut punch.
No. He hadn't said anything like that.
Anger turning into something else, something protective. And he wouldn't let her believe it.
Without thinking, he pulled her closer.
"Don't say that," he said firmly, his hand gently resting on her head.
Why was he doing this? He didn't want to protect anyone. Especially not her. And yet…But here I was, Damn it
"But I make everyone's life harder," she murmured. "I ruin everything. Even this."
"No," he said again, more sharply this time. He wiped a tear from her cheek. "It's me. I'm the one who was wrong. So please... just stop saying things like that."
His voice cracked. The guilt was eating him alive. He wanted to push her away, scream at her to stop being so... so much. But he couldn't. Not when she looked at him like that.
And worse—he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks. He hated this. He hated how close it felt to something else.
Don't be stupid. Don't turn this into a drama. This isn't some dumb romantic moment. You're not the hero, he told himself, the words looping like a chant.
"But—" she began.
"No," he cut her off.
This was the line. He wouldn't let it turn into something ridiculous. No kissing. No weird confessions.
Just… this. Quiet guilt. Quiet comfort.
And maybe, for now, that was enough.