Terminally-ill Instructor in Romance Fantasy

Flour dusted the air like pale smoke as Ian Saint Varquees slammed the metal bowl onto the counter.

"I said I want to learn properly."

He muttered, rolling up the sleeves of his expensive academy blazer.

"Not just stand here and watch."

Across from him, Penelope Renee did not flinch.

She stood in her usual soft-colored cardigan, pale hair tied back loosely, small hearing aids tucked neatly behind her ears.

Her hands moved with quiet certainty as she measured sugar into a scale, tapping the bowl gently until the numbers aligned.

Ian clicked his tongue.

The kitchen room reserved for extracurricular activities wasn't large, but it was clean.

Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching in Penelope's hair.

She didn't look at him when he spoke.

That irritated him more than it should have.

Ian Saint Varquees — heir to the Saint Varquees estate, known campus delinquent, rumored to have broken a senior's nose in his first year ... was not used to being ignored.

"Are you even listening?"

He asked sharply.

Penelope glanced up at him then.

Her gaze was calm and unhurried.

She tapped lightly at her hearing aid, then gestured toward her ear and gave a small apologetic shake of her head.

Ian frowned.

Right.

She was deaf.

He knew that. Everyone knew that.

But she had hearing aids.

Didn't that mean she could hear?

He exhaled harshly and ran a hand through his red hair.

"Whatever..."

"Just show me what to do."

Penelope nodded gently.

She pushed a bowl toward him and handed him a whisk.

Ian stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"You want me to mix?"

She nodded again.

He began whisking stiffly, muscles tense like he was preparing for a fight rather than baking cookies.

After a few seconds, Penelope reached out and lightly touched his wrist.

He froze.

Her fingers were warm and soft.

She adjusted his grip slightly, angling the bowl with her other hand.

Slow circles.

Much Gentler than before.

Ian swallowed.

"Like that?"

She nodded once, offering the faintest smile.

He looked away first.

It was stupid.

Why was he nervous?

It was just baking.

Minutes passed with only the sound of whisking and the scrape of spatula against metal.

Ian's patience wore thin.

"Are you not going to say anything?"

He asked suddenly.

No response.

She continued measuring flour.

His jaw tightened.

"Is this how you teach everyone?

Just silent treatment?"

She paused.

Then slowly, she set the flour down and looked at him fully.

Her expression wasn't offended or angry.

It was confused.

Ian scoffed lightly.

"Right...Of course."

He turned back to the bowl, mixing harder than necessary.

He hated this feeling... like he was standing outside a wall he didn't know how to climb.

"I'm trying to learn..."

"How am I supposed to learn if you won't talk?"

Penelope lowered her gaze.

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes ...something small and wounded ...before she turned and reached into her bag.

Ian watched, confused, as she pulled out a small notebook and a pen.

She wrote something carefully.

Then she turned it toward him.

[I can hear a little. But speaking is hard]

The words were neat and slightly rounded.

Ian stared at the page.

"Oh."

He hadn't thought about that.

He'd just assumed silence meant unwillingness.

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I didn't mean… I just…"

He exhaled.

"I really want to learn.

Properly."

Penelope studied him for a second before writing again.

[Then ask]

He blinked.

"…Ask?"

She nodded.

He stared at the bowl. Then at her.

"…Okay. Fine."

He cleared his throat.

"How much flour do I add?"

She held up two fingers.

"Two cups?"

She nodded again.

He added it carefully this time, slower, watching her expression for approval.

It was strange... relying on nods and small smiles instead of words.

But it wasn't impossible.

Still, a thought struck him.

"This is going to be slow..."

"You writing everything."

Her hands stilled slightly.

Ian hesitated.

Then an idea sparked.

"Wait."

He grabbed the notebook gently from her hands and flipped to a new page.

"When you want to reply..."

He said, scribbling quickly.

"...just use this whenever.

Agreed?"

He pushed it back toward her.

Penelope looked at the messy handwriting.

Then at him.

Her lips curved into a soft smile as she nodded.

Agreed.

Something eased in his chest.

"Good."

They continued.

Butter was creamed. Sugar folded in. Eggs cracked ... Ian botched the first one and got shell in the bowl.

Penelope didn't laugh.

She simply picked it out carefully with the edge of a spoon and handed him a small towel to wipe his fingers.

"You could laugh, you know."

She tilted her head.

Then wrote:

[You look serious. Not funny]

Ian stared at the page.

"…Serious?"

She nodded.

He huffed a quiet laugh despite himself.

"Yeah....Sure.

Serious...

...I'm the least person to be called serious."

As they mixed the dough together, shoulders brushing occasionally in the small space, Ian found himself glancing at her more often.

She moved with quiet confidence.

There was no wasted motion in her actions.

Even without speaking, she communicated by pointing, gesturing, tapping the counter twice when he forgot to preheat the oven.

At one point, flour puffed up as he dumped it too fast, dusting both of them lightly.

Ian coughed.

Penelope blinked, startled ... then brushed flour off his sleeve gently.

He froze again.

Her fingers lingered only a second before she pulled away.

His heartbeat felt oddly loud.

"...uhh..s-sorry..."

She shook her head and wrote:

[You are trying]

He read the words twice.

Something about that ...about her noticing made his throat tighten.

They shaped the cookies into small rounds on the tray.

Penelope's were neat and uniform.

Ian's were uneven, slightly aggressive-looking.

"They don't have to look perfect."

He said defensively.

She looked at his tray.

Then wrote:

[They look strong]

"You can stop pulling my leg now...

Strong cookies?"

She nodded solemnly.

As they slid the tray into the oven, silence settled between them again but it felt different now.

Penelope wiped her hands and opened the notebook once more.

[Who are the cookies for?]

Ian blinked.

He looked at the oven.

Then at her.

"Oh."

He scratched his cheek awkwardly.

"Remember that girl I told you about?"

Penelope nodded slowly.

He'd mentioned her once vaguely

while pretending not to care.

"They're for her..."

He admitted.

"I thought… if I learned to bake, maybe it'd be something different."

He shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant.

"Most guys just buy gifts.

I figured making something would be… I don't know.

Better."

Penelope watched him quietly.

Then she wrote:

[You like her a lot]

He stiffened slightly.

"…Yeah."

He looked away.

"I don't want her to think I'm just some thug."

Penelope studied his profile ...the sharp edges he wore like armor.

She wrote again.

[You are not]

Ian's eyes flicked to the page.

His breath caught.

"You don't know that..."

She met his gaze directly.

Then slowly, deliberately, she wrote:

[You are careful with the dough]

He stared at the words.

The oven timer dinged softly.

Neither of them moved for a moment.

Finally, Ian cleared his throat and turned to retrieve the tray.

The cookies had risen slightly, golden at the edges.

He grinned despite himself.

"They don't look terrible."

Penelope stepped beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched again.

She leaned in to inspect them.

Ian became acutely aware of the warmth of her arm against his.

Her hair smelled faintly like vanilla.

She gave him a thumbs up.

He laughed quietly.

"Guess I'm not hopeless."

As they transferred the cookies to cool, Ian hesitated.

"Can I ask you something?"

She nodded.

"Why do you help me?"

Penelope paused.

Then wrote slowly, thoughtfully:

[Because you asked]

He frowned lightly.

"That's it?"

She looked at him for a long second.

Then added:

[And because you looked nervous]

Ian blinked.

"Nervous?"

She nodded.

He scoffed reflexively.

"I don't get nervous."

Penelope raised an eyebrow.

He sighed.

"…Okay. Maybe a little."

She smiled again... that quiet, patient smile.

Ian found himself smiling back before catching himself and putting on his poker face.

As they packed the cookies into a small box, their fingers brushed while folding the ribbon.

Neither pulled away immediately.

Ian cleared his throat again, softer this time.

"Thanks."

She wrote:

[You did most of it]

He shook his head.

"Not without you."

She hesitated before writing once more.

[Will she like them?]

Ian looked down at the box.

"I hope so."

A pause.

"And if she doesn't… I'll just make better ones next time."

Penelope nodded, satisfied.

As they cleaned up, Ian found himself slowing down, stretching the time.

He didn't want to leave just yet.

At the door, he stopped.

"…Can I come back...and ask for your help..?"

He asked, trying to sound casual.

"You know...to practice more."

Penelope's eyes brightened slightly.

She opened the notebook one last time.

[Yes]

He smiled.

"Good."

He adjusted his blazer and stepped into the hallway, cookie box in hand.

Behind him, Penelope watched quietly.

Her fingers rested lightly on the notebook.

She flipped to a blank page.

Then, slowly, she wrote something only she would see.

[I hope she likes them]

She closed the notebook gently.