Chapter 15
Matcha Manipulation
It was an early Saturday morning when Wynter was supposed to pick me up for our second skating practice.
A wave of nervous excitement washed over me as I got ready.
I'd chosen a comfortable outfit—a pair of black leggings and a soft grey sweatshirt—perfect for moving around on the ice.
I glanced in the mirror, trying to tame my unruly curls.
I wanted to look presentable at the bare minimum, even if it was just for practice.
But fate, as it often did, had other plans.
Just as I finished packing my bag, my phone buzzed with a text from Wynter:
Unknown: Hi. It's Wyn. running a little late.
ME: How did you get my number lol
Unknown: Your brother is my best friend “lol”
ME: Wow, so sassy!
Unknown: ?
ME: Dear God we are in fact, living in the midst of a sassy man apocalypse. You want to be one of the girls so bad.
Unknown: I was not being sassy.
ME: uh huh.
Unknown: I’ll be there in 20.
ME: years? Months? Hours?
Seen at 9:40AM
I gasped at his sheer audacity to leave my text message on seen when he was the one who messaged me first. I knew he wasn’t standing me up, but it sure as hell felt like it.
I hadn’t a clue in the world what to do with myself until then so I decided that the only logical solution was to watch clips of him online to see what all the hype was about.
I selected a video called “Wynter Kwon best of duos” which was every performance he had done with a partner.
I watched intently as he moved as gracefully as ever on the ice and lifted his partner up into the air with such ease, almost as if she weighed nothing at all.
I could tell that she’d felt safe with him, her name was Katerina Petrov and she was Russian with striking sharp features, long blonde hair and oceans for eyes.
I got led off on a tangent via a gossip site link that had photos of the pair and dished theories that they were in a secret relationship.
Vines of jealousy contorted around my throat at the thought of it, the mere idea that he’d been with someone else—not that he was ever with me.
Still stung, I couldn’t help but envy everyone he’d ever touched, anyone he’d ever kissed, anyone he’d ever f—no I couldn’t allow myself to spiral and think that way.
There was no point in thinking of what could’ve, would’ve, should’ve been because I was going to make things happen by myself.
I would choose my fate this time. I would choose Wynter.
Eventually, when he showed up at my doorstep wearing a white Stussy hoodie and jeans, he looked practically edible. “Hi.”
“You’re late,” I reminded him, folding my arms.
“What gave you that idea?” he mused, and I rolled my eyes. “Come on, let’s head out.”
We made our way to his car. I sat in the front seat of the Aston Martin just as he received a phone call.
I couldn’t help smiling to myself. Wynter Kwon; always pristine, always on schedule for his shoots and events, yet somehow constantly late to anything involving real life. Almost like he couldn’t find the time to live for himself, he lived for the ice.
“I apologize,” he murmured, his accent thick and voice so low I almost missed it under the hum of the engine.
“Sure, sure,” I replied. “Do you have an actual reason this time, or was ‘fashionably late’ just too hard to resist?”
The corner of his mouth lifted just a fraction, but he didn’t answer.
Instead, he focused on the road ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel with that familiar stoic calm, as though the act of driving required every ounce of his attention.
He always did this—avoided small talk, preferring silence to fill the space between us.
It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but I’d gotten used to it.
Before he could start driving, though, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then pressed it to his ear, his eyes darkening as he listened.
“You cannot be serious, are you certain?” His voice, suddenly firm and distant, reminded me of how he sounded in interviews—measured, cool, detached. “I know it’s in the contract.”
“What’s wrong?” I questioned.
He hung up and looked over at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “It’s for a last-minute shoot for a winter brand called Frostbite. They need me on set for a campaign. I…didn’t plan for this.”
“Clearly,” I scoffed, glancing away.
“You must know that I wouldn’t inconvenience you intentionally.”
I raised an eyebrow, more amused than anything else. “I don’t know anything. But let me guess, the life of a professional heartthrob waits for no one?”
He actually looked a bit remorseful, his gaze flickering away. “If you’d rather reschedule, I’d understand,” he said quietly, hands gripping the wheel a bit tighter.
“Oh please.” I crossed my arms. “What, do you think I’m not prepared for this level of unprofessionalism? I’ll just tag along, sit in the waiting room, and make the best of it. Homework waits for no one either.”
“Homework?”
“I’m auditioning for The Rite Of Spring for the December showcase,” I explained, “and I intend to study it well.”
“Isn’t that ballet really…” he said cautiously, then immediately got flustered.
“Borderline sexual?” I chuckled, “Yeah.”
“And are you comfortable with that?” he wondered, “I wouldn’t be at nineteen.”
“It’s all a part of the job, and yes I am. I think it’d be an interesting challenge for me.”
“As long as you’re certain.” He nodded. “Can I ask you to wait for me, Yesoh?”
“W-wait for you?” I muttered in confusion, his words striking me to my core.
“Yes, while I shoot, we can still practice after.” He asked of me so carefully, like he was asking me to disarm a bomb.
“Oh, yes.” I agreed swallowing hard. “I was gonna do that anyway.”
My answer escaped my lips mechanically almost as if my body had been hard-wired to bend to his will. It felt more like my younger self reaching out for him, I needed to learn to slap her hand away. She who would always wait for him, no matter what.
A hint of relief softened his expression. “Thank you,” he murmured, sounding so formal you’d think I was offering him some great favour.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, rolling my eyes. “Let’s go before your bosses summon you with a bat signal or something.”
He started the car again, and we drove in relative silence.
I stole glances at him, studying the calm, unreadable expression he wore like armour.
He looked so put-together, but there was a tension in his jaw, a stiffness in his posture.
Even when he was quiet, there was something heavy about his presence, like he carried the weight of a hundred expectations on his shoulders.
“So how are your sisters?” I broke the silence, and his shoulders tensed. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s alright. They’re okay, Bae writes her A-levels next year, and Beck has this internship with a law firm.”
“Beck, a lawyer? I should’ve seen that coming.” I chuckled to myself. “She always did have a strong moral compass. What kind of law is she studying?”
“Family law,” he told me, “she had a passion for it since the divorce.”
“Oh yeah,” I acknowledged, recalling how his parents finally got divorced summer of ‘17, and their mother made it explicitly clear that she wasn’t in it anymore. Not even for the kids. “How are your parents?”
“Dad’s good, doing his best for us as he always has. Still working for the local paper, he calls often. He asks about you and your brothers.”
“My dad still asks about you guys too.”
Once we arrived at the studio, he left with the stylists, disappearing into the back with a polite nod in my direction.
I found a seat in the waiting room, pulling out my notebook with every intention of getting some studying done, but my mind wandered.
My eyes drifted to my bag, where his diary sat snugly tucked between my books.
I knew I shouldn’t, but the curiosity was unbearable.
Besides, he had dragged me here; a little sneak peek seemed fair.
Opening it carefully, I thumbed through the pages until I landed on a particular entry:
June 23rd, summer ‘16
Diary Entry:
I spent today wanting nothing but matcha.
It's become quite the unexpected ritual, a quiet kind of comfort in the rush of my life.
I think it started back in Nottingham, those freeze-your-nose-off mornings when the world felt too heavy, and the ice was the only comfort.
Cup of warm, earthy, rich matcha would ground me, chase away the chill, and give me this feeling of focus.
It is kind of funny, though, how certain tastes, certain scents get so tied up in the good old memories.
Every time I have matcha, I am transported back an era into those early mornings in the kitchen, the steam curling up from the mug, the scent of ginger and lemongrass permeating the air.
My sisters, cuddled around the table, sleep-eyed but always ready with an infectious smile.
Those were the days before the world knew my name, before the weighty expectations came to settle on my shoulders.
Back then, ice was merely a place of joy, a canvas for my dreams.
Sometimes I think of just that easy life. The world is so noisy now and so demanding. But it is those moments, quiet but with a cup of matcha in my hands, that I can almost recreate that silence, that peace.
A smile tugged at my lips. Wynter, king of stoic self-control, finding comfort in something like matcha? It was oddly endearing, and I could already imagine how annoyed he’d be if he knew I’d found out. Still, the idea sparked a plan.
When he finally emerged from the shoot, he looked worn out, his usual calm replaced with a kind of quiet frustration. His eyes met mine briefly, and I quickly stashed the diary away, adopting an innocent expression as he approached.
“Shitty shoot?” I asked, standing up and trying to keep my tone casual.
He nodded, exhaling a soft sigh. “You could say that.”
“Well,” I said, nudging him toward the door, “I know just the place to make it all better. Trust me.”
He gave me a sceptical look but followed without question, his usual stoicism slipping just enough for a hint of curiosity to show. I led him a few blocks down, stopping outside a small, cozy café with soft lights and the unmistakable scent of matcha wafting through the air.
When he saw the sign, he froze, glancing at me with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.
“Have you tried matcha?” I questioned,
“I love it actually.” He smiled, “Did you… How did you know?”
I shrugged, doing my best to look nonchalant. “Lucky guess. Or maybe I just have this weird, almost supernatural ability to sense people’s favourite things.”
He held my gaze for a moment, as if trying to decipher some hidden truth, but eventually he let out a soft chuckle—a sound so rare I felt a small thrill of victory. We ordered our drinks, and as he took his first sip, I watched the tension slowly melt from his shoulders, his expression softening.
“Feeling better?” I asked, breaking the silence.
He nodded, looking down at his cup. “Yes. Thank you, Yesoh. You…didn’t have to do this.”
“Oh, please,” I teased, leaning back in my seat. “I’m just here for the free drinks. Besides, you looked like you needed it.”
He shook his head, still looking faintly amused, but there was something else in his eyes now—a warmth, a kind of quiet gratitude that went unspoken.
“So,” he asked after a pause, “do you always know the right thing to say, or do?”
I shrugged, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “It’s called paying attention, Wynter. And trust me, I do.”
“You always have, haven’t you?” he said.
Just then I heard a familiar voice coming from behind me, I turned around as my gaze met that of Remi.
She wore a long flowing white skirt and fluffy green sweater; she carried a brown Chanel bag with trinkets hanging from it.
“Oh my God what a coincidence?” she gasped and I rolled my eyes immediately knowing it was nothing of the sort.
“Hey Remi.” I smiled as she invited herself to sit down at our table. “What brings you here?”
“You know I love anything matcha, and I saw online that this place has matcha mochi balls.” She smiled then turned to face Wynter. “We meet again.”
“Hello,” he greeted as she reached to shake his hand. “Are you a friend of Yesoh’s?”
“Yes I am. I’m Remi, it’s nice to meet you. My sister loves your work, she used to watch you all the time during the Olympics,” she gushed, “my whole house was rooting for you!”
“That’s so kind, I’m sincerely honoured.” He bowed his head, and she damn near toppled over her seat.
“If you wouldn’t mind, would you sign—” she said, taking out a scrapbook from her bag, but I leapt and stopped her mid-way.
“Okay, that’s enough, Rem!” I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry about her today, she’s off her meds.”
“It’s really no problem. I don’t mind doing this for your sister, her support means a lot,” he responded with perfect chivalry, taking the pen from her and signing the scrapbook. “What’s her name?”
“Wendy,” she told him. “That’s W-E-N-D-Y.”
“I think he’s got it…” I seethed, and she finally caught the drift.
“I’ll see you both around, have fun!” She giggled before the barista called for her order. She took her overpriced mochi balls and left screaming to her sister on the phone.
“I’m pretty sure you just made her year,” I informed him.
“Quite the contrary, that made my day.” He smiled, glancing down as his fingers brushed mine on the table. “So did you, Soh.”
“I—it’s not like It was my intent to aim to please you or whatever.”
“Doesn’t matter, I appreciate you being there when I need you. You’ve always been that way,” he recalled as my pinkie brushed his.
“It’s nothing,” I assured him.
“You should know, the uh—the girls, they really missed you.” He hummed, taking a slow sip from his green drink.
“The girls remember me?” I questioned, at a loss for words.
“I don’t think anyone could forget you,” he assured me with the kind of certainty that moved mountains within me.