Everlasting Snow: Chapter 13

Clink. Clank. Psssshhhhhh. Pop. Shuffle.

You lay on your couch, listening to the sounds of Jack rummaging through your kitchen as he whips up your breakfast, opening and closing just about every drawer and cabinet in search of the right tools. You haven’t heard anything break yet, which gives you a small amount of comfort.

No smoke or explosions, either. That’s always a good sign.

The smell of delicious food soon makes its way down from the kitchen and into your nose, encircling you. You take a long, deep breath, your stomach growling in response. Your mouth begins to water.

You hear a pause in the symphony of kitchen commotion. Jack enters the living room and sets up a tray next to you, just as you once did for him.

He doesn’t have his cloak on. He must have taken it off so it didn’t get in the way as he cooked.

“Almost ready,” he reports.

He flashes you a winning smile on his way out. You feel yourself blush, burying your face in your comforter.

Why does he have to be so attractive?

A few minutes and chinks of silverware later, Jack reenters the room carrying your food, smiling proudly.

“Here you go,” he says as he sets it down on the tray. You notice that he’s wearing oven mitts. Probably so he didn’t directly touch anything, you reason.

You’re forced to withhold a giggle. It’s a fairly funny sight—the spirit of winter with oven mitts on.

You sit up, wrapping yourself in your comforter to where you’re covered in it but can still use your arms and hands.

The food in front of you looks like it was cooked and plated like a professional chef.

You look up at Jack, surprised. He winks. “You learn a thing or two in nearly 300 years. Go on, try it.”

You look back down at the food. The smell of it clears up your sinuses significantly. You take up your utensil and lift a bite of it to your mouth.

It’s the best thing you’ve eaten in years. It’s not even close to having been ruined by a cold touch. The flavors are perfectly balanced, working together in complete harmony. You had no idea that (name of the food again) could be prepared in the way that Jack Frost has prepared it for you.

“Is it good?” you hear him ask. He’s taken of the mitts and is holding onto them in one hand, motioning to your breakfast with the other.

You swallow. Still a bit in the trance that the food has put you into, you smile and nod.

“It’s delicious! Compliments to the chef.”

He smiles even wider, obviously happy that you like his cooking.

As you eat, he attempts to light a fire, going through almost a whole box of matches before one finally has a strong enough will to take. You try to tell him a couple of times that you don’t need a one, but he shakes his head, clearly determined to get one going. He sits in front of it, brow furrowed, as if staring at it will make the log catch fire.

You finish eating and lay back down, your stomach full. Jack has successfully started a fire, small flames crackling away.

Resting sounds nice.

The last thing you remember before drifting off into sleep is Jack in front of the fireplace, the flames illuminating his pale face and snow-white hair, reflecting into his deep blue eyes in a beautiful contrast.