You didn’t expect your final year of high school to be anything special. You were content keeping to yourself, staying out of drama, and fulfilling your duties as the newly appointed student council secretary.

But then there was him.

Caelum Ishikawa.

Sharp edges and colder silences.

He was the kind of person you could never quite get close to—like frost on a window. Brilliant, distant, and too refined to touch. As president of the student council, Caelum was known for being composed, intimidating, and—above all—unbothered. He never raised his voice, never lost control. And he certainly never looked your way longer than necessary.

At first, you thought he didn’t remember your name. He spoke to you only when he needed something signed or a task delegated. His voice was always measured. Eyes unreadable.

But slowly, you noticed things.

Like how your reports were always reviewed first.

Or how he stood beside you during events, even when there were other council members to talk to.

Or the way he’d wait near the entrance of the school building on rainy days—silent, umbrella in hand—until you arrived. He never said it was for you. But it always was.

You kept your distance, not because you wanted to—but because you didn’t know how to break through the ice.

One day, during a late council meeting for the upcoming cultural festival, the others had already left. You were stuck reorganizing supplies in the back room when the lights suddenly flickered off. Power outage.

A soft groan escaped your lips. “Great…”

You turned, only to bump into someone.

A pause.

“…Sorry,” Caelum murmured, barely audible in the dim light.

“It’s fine,” you whispered back, surprised he was still there.

“I couldn’t leave. Not when you were alone.”

Your heart gave an involuntary skip.

“I’m not a kid,” you replied, trying to lighten the moment.

“I know,” he said. “But still.”

Silence again. It was always like this with him—words lingering in the spaces he refused to fill.

“You’re… different,” he said suddenly, his voice rougher than usual. “You don’t try to impress me. Or talk endlessly. It’s… quieter when you’re here.”

“Is that a good thing?” you asked, smiling faintly in the dark.

“Yes.” No hesitation.

Then came the slowest part of it all—weeks of shared silence turning comfortable, his voice softening when he addressed you, the way his eyes lingered just a bit longer.

There were no sudden confessions. No dramatic gestures.

Just small things.

A second cup of tea placed on your desk.

An extra jacket draped on your chair.

A quiet voice murmuring, “Wait for me after the meeting.”

Eventually, on a crisp afternoon when the autumn wind carried golden leaves across the campus grounds, he finally said it.

“I don’t know when it started,” Caelum confessed, standing beside you as the sun began to set. “But I look for you. In rooms, in crowds… in silence.”

You turned to face him, cheeks warm.

“I’ve been looking too,” you said.

And for the first time, Caelum smiled.

Not a smirk, not a cold curve of the lips.

A real, soft, beautiful smile.

And just like that, winter began to thaw.