You didn’t quite know when you started liking Crème Brûlée Cookie. Maybe it was that rainy day when he silently shared his umbrella. Or maybe it was way before that — when you were both kids and he played the piano so perfectly it felt unreal… yet still let you sit next to him, even when you missed every note.

He was always the kind of Cookie who felt like he belonged on a different level. Impeccable, serious, with that calm look that rarely showed emotion. A prodigy. A genius. A robot with golden fingers. And you… well, you were chaos wrapped in sugar.

Messy, loud, head-in-the-clouds, always falling for the wrong Cookies and getting into trouble. You were the type to forget your own birthday and get crushes that lasted three days. Except for him.

Crème Brûlée Cookie knew your name. Always did.

“You’re throwing off the rhythm,” he’d say every time you barged into his practice room. But he never told you to leave.

“Your shoes are mismatched,” he’d murmur, one eyebrow raised. But he was the one who’d quietly switch them out later so you wouldn’t notice.

You never knew if he liked you or just barely tolerated you. But somehow, he was always there. Always listening, even if he didn’t say much. Always saving your projects last-minute. Always offering his silence, which felt oddly comforting.

And then one day… you got brave.

You found him alone in the music room, as always. Playing something soft and sad, as always. You sat beside him… like always.