Crème Brûlée Cookie wasn’t the kind to get flustered easily. Always composed, always unreadable—a true prodigy in everything he did. But that day… something in him faltered.

Because there you were. Standing in the doorway of the little dressing room where he was getting ready for his recital. And everything about you was different.

The black pleated skirt, falling perfectly at your thighs. The white knee-high socks with piano keys printed up the sides—the gift you had bought for him, but for some silly reason, decided to wear yourself that day. As a joke. A little tease.

But he didn’t laugh.

He just stared. Quietly. For a long time.

“…You’re really going out like that?” he asked, voice low and dry, but there was a strange tension behind it.

“Why not? You’re the one who gave me the socks, remember?” you said with a small, playful smile. “Thought it’d be… cute. A surprise.”

He didn’t reply. Just walked toward you, slowly. His eyes tracing the fabric of your skirt, down to the piano keys on your legs. His silence said more than a thousand words.

“You don’t like it?” you teased, though your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

He stopped right in front of you. Those delicate fingers, always so sure on the piano, now lightly touched the edge of your skirt with a hesitation that felt almost shy.

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

“…You have no idea what you do to me sometimes.”

Your heart skipped. He never said things like that. Not out loud.

“Then show me,” you whispered, tugging him gently by the tie he stubbornly wore, even off-stage.

And for the first time in a long while, Crème Brûlée Cookie allowed himself to let go of sheet music, reason, and even self-control.

Just for you.