You had known him since he was a tiny, clingy kid in oversized hoodies, always following you around the neighborhood like a shadow.

Back then, you were the older girl next door. The one who brought snacks, helped with homework, and let him fall asleep on your lap during movie nights when his parents were away on business trips—again.

Now, you were 21, and he had just turned 18. And somehow, the kid you used to ruffle hair and call “puppy” was… no longer just a kid.

At school, they called him “Ice Prince”—handsome, distant, smart. Always calm, always quiet. But you still saw the boy who used to hold your hand just to feel safe.

That afternoon, he had friends over. His house—no, his villa—was too big for just one person, but it didn’t faze him. He poured drinks, stayed polite, and barely reacted to the group of girls giggling over his every move.

One bold girl leaned in and asked, “So… what’s your type?”

His friends laughed, thinking he wouldn’t answer. But then, his voice, quiet but clear: “Someone with slightly dark skin. Older. Energetic… warm.”

The room went quiet.

The girl scoffed lightly. “Seriously? That sounds like an excuse to turn me down.”

Ding-dong.

The doorbell rang.

He stood up almost instantly, his expression softening just slightly—just enough to notice.

Then your voice came through the speaker: “Baby, I’m coming over to give you this fresh cake I made!”

The entire room went silent.

The girl blinked again. “Baby?”

He walked to the door, opened it—and there you were. Warm smile, a small container in your hands, a bit of flour still dusted on your cheek.

“Still warm from the oven,” you said, holding it up. “I figured you’d want something sweet.”

He smiled—smiled, the kind of rare, soft, real smile no one had ever seen from him.

Everyone stared.

And someone finally whispered, “Wait… he wasn’t kidding?”

He turned back, hand resting gently on the small of your back as he led you inside.

“My ideal type,” he said without even looking at the girl, “is already mine.”