This ought to be a miracle, I'm updating this collection thrice in a week. Lol. This probably means I'll be going into an indefinite hiatus again. I could just see it. XD

Olah~ You're probably not interested but I'm being a bad student. I wrote this instead of the Thesis I'm supposed to finish by tonight and I'm not even halfway done. Still, I'm strangely motivated for reasons I couldn't specifically say (but it had something to do with being given a spoiler for Child of the Winter Solstice, GAAAH! I LOVE YOU KAREN-NEE! YOU'RE THE BEST! WOOHOO!). I needed a break lest I go into a mental breakdown and not be able to do anything at all.

Still, I never proofread any of my works here (this is my nook for all the stupid, fluffy, reject and basically a plethora of not seriously written stories) so read at your own risk. :3

Mrs. Uzamaki - Dragneel, glad you liked it dearie but don't die. I'll be sad. D: I mean, who'll read and spazz about this once you do? By the way, I'm still brewing out something for you. I'll give you a shout-out once I'll be able to publish that drabble. Anyway, have a good read~

Guesthuuu, well, it could work that way. :3 But seriously though, I don't know if I'll be able to continue "Dance", however, I have a drabble I meant to write that still includes Jelsa and ballroom dancing. Maybe you'll like that. What do you think of the waltz?

Hi Guest who feels like Trapid, you actually are. Writers I know are very appreciative of your reviews since they're concise and straight to the point though not necessarily critical. You review story-wise and according to your opinions which is very admirable. Still, thank you.

To all the silent readers out there, thank you for taking your time in reading this. I hope you'll enjoy.

Three seconds

Jack stared blankly at the picture of a platinum-blonde haired woman he'd taken several years ago when he was but an amateur photographer pushing the boundaries of his limits. He allowed a small, barely noticeable, bitter smile to dwell on his handsome face. He didn't know her age, her address, her name—she was basically a stranger and yet when he was looking for the perfect picture to complete his portfolio for the final phase of his apprenticeship... she was just...there, sitting serenely on an isolated park bench under a massive willow tree right across from him. The only thing that separated them was the huge man-made pond with ducks floating about in-between them.

He couldn't help himself as he reached for the camera and, with a click, he took her picture without her consent. To say that he was surprised at how well it looked considering that it was a stolen candid shot wasn't an overstatement. She looked so calm and tranquil and peaceful and detached from the trivialities of the mundane world… it was so hard to try not to look at her. She was there, sitting and simply enjoying the now rather than rushing about for the future.

She was content and absolutely gorgeous.

And it drove him crazy how he couldn't forget about her even until now. It's been years. It's about time he got over her.

Three seconds, he remembered, it took him three seconds to fully capture her image and engrave it in his mind—and unwittingly, his heart.

It's stupid, he knew, how could he feel so enamored and attracted to a stranger he never had the guts to formally meet and introduce himself to? Much more so when he never even had the chance to meet her again.

When he came back to the park after he passed his portfolio, a good few days ever since that day he took her picture, she wasn't there anymore but he still persevered-his foolish love struck self still hoping he'll get a chance to meet her again.

But it never happened.

After a year and a half of trying: he gave up and now he just carries his one and only picture of her.

She became his lucky charm, his muse and, hell, she didn't even know him, didn't even know he exists.

It's all so stupid.

But despite his thoughts, he brought her image to his lips, "Bring me more luck again this time around too." He murmured, whispering it heartily as if it's his prayer.

Which probably technically is… he'd been saying that mantra over and over ever since he started his career as a newbie photographer and continues saying it even when he shot up to fame and became famous among well-known companies and agencies who clamored to get a hold of his schedule.

Even when he faced hundreds of beautiful female models, he never forgot her. She was there in the back of his mind, deeply rooted and stubbornly strong—holding his thoughts and actions and continuously inspiring him in ways he couldn't fathom.

He didn't know if he could call it infatuation, if so, is it possible to hold a crush for years?

And it's not like either, the feeling is much deeper than that… and love?

He doesn't even know her.

Perhaps he's in love but not with her but with the idea of her; of how she's like or how she'll turn out to be. He wanted to meet her again and actually get to know her. He wanted to learn what she's like and how she's like... to know more about her more than just the simple detail that she has a younger strawberry blonde-haired sister and a small pet dog who came to pick her up that one breezy afternoon in the park.

He drew the picture away from his lips and stared at it.

The photo itself looked tattered and old but he didn't care as long as he could still clearly see the contours of her face, the way she was so… ethereal and otherworldly. She wore an over-sized green sweatshirt, her messy braid covering whatever design the said clothing had, and paired it with a black skirt, probably laced basing from the texture and faint floral pattern. She was leaning back against the wooden bench, her hands folded neatly on her lap, her legs elegantly crossed and her eyes were closed.

He didn't even know the color of her eyes, he mentally mused. He briefly wondered if they were as green as her sweatshirt or as blue as the ocean… or if they were a golden shade of brown or a unique shade of onyx black.

Deep down inside, he hoped they were a glassy or icy blue. Pretty common, sure, but he thought the color of winter would suit her.

He sighed as he tucked the picture away, as gently and as carefully as he always had, in his wallet before he stuffed it in his pocket.

He should seriously stop.

"Mr. Frost?" The secretary called his attention and he hastily stands up, nodding his head amicably in acknowledgement, "We're sorry for the delay but the models for today's photo shoot were late. Ms. Arendelle, my boss, sends her deepest apologies for the tardiness of our hired talents."

"It's fine." He waved her off coolly, not in a condescending manner but in an attempt to calm her down.

The secretary, however, is apparently not comforted, "We really are very sorry Mr. Frost," She frowned, "You're a very busy person and it was extremely hard to finally book an appointment with you and yet the models had the audacity to show up late. I'll talk to their agency and make sure this doesn't happen again next time." Then she flushed, suddenly flustered as if she'd chosen to speak the wrong set of words, "Given, of course, if we'll be able to book another appointment."

He chuckled in amusement, a gesture that made it obvious how he knew he intimidated her but it held a tone that pointed out how he couldn't get why. Honestly, he really couldn't get why they think so highly of him. He's just doing his job, really, and even though he's quite well-known in the advertising and entertainment industry, he's just… Jack.

He's just plain old Jack with a widowed mother and an obnoxious little sister.

He's nothing special.

And don't even bring up his monthly salary because those are just figures-even if those figures would render your jaw slack and force your eyeballs out of your eye sockets. It doesn't define him.

"Relax, it's fine, I'm cool." He replied, "Things happen for a reason."

The secretary opened her mouth to retort but she was cut off by the sound of her work phone ringing. She briefly fished it out of her pocket, and he watched as her frown become more apparent than what he thought was possible, which in turn made him fight the urge to laugh at her expense to avoid being rude, "Ms. Arendelle said that she would personally supervise the shoot later," She scrolled down, her brows drawn so close together, it could pass as a uni-brow, "And that for the meantime, I should lead you to the studio you're going to use." She increased her pace, flicking her wrist and stuffing the sleek black smartphone in the pocket of her ashen grey pencil skirt.

"Okay." He consented as he silently lagged behind. He patted his pocket that contained his wallet and he idly wondered if he'll ever meet her again.

She stopped, and he briskly stopped too, sighing in relief when he didn't bump into her. She opened the doors and gestured for him to enter first.

He did as implied and whistled appreciatively at the sight. As expected of Arendelle Corp., they are indeed top of the notch. The studio is wide and spacious and is designed accordingly to the Victorian Era theme the corporation wanted him to do. All he has to do left is to project the image they wanted him to project which is good, because contrary to popular belief, in which the public holds him as a respectable, industrious and diligent young man, he is actually a lazy procrastinator.

You know, That's exactly the reason why he needed the schedules—to arrange a time to just relax, not necessarily to organize his time and to fit all clients in. Heh.

"I'm glad you liked what you see, Mr. Frost." An unfamiliar voice, seductively sweet yet authorative, snapped him out of his reverie making him briefly face the owner.

And within three seconds his heart did a somersault with his jaw nearly falling to the floor. Good thing he was quick to gather his cool and was able to give the lady a suave smile.

It was her. The lady he was musing about.

"Mr. Frost," The secretary called, standing stiffly behind whom he presumed is Ms. Arendelle, "This is Ms. Elsa Arendelle," Ah, so he was right, "The CEO of Arendelle Corporations."

Elsa (he's allowed to address her that in his thoughts, right?) held out her hand for a handshake.

He tentatively took it and stupidly felt high, as if he's on drugs or something, with how her palms felt very soft and smooth yet sturdy against his calloused one. "The name's Jackson Overland Frost." He said, taking the initiative to introduce himself and to spare the stiff secretary some work. "But I think you already know that." He added with an impish grin, not really intending to sound cocky but in a failed attempt to sound both playful and friendly.

They, regrettably for Jack's side, let go of each other's hand and he took notice of her amused expression. Her eyes were lidded as a small smile crept up her lips. He nearly cheered upon realizing that her eyes were indeed blue—though not icy or glassy as what he originally hoped them to be. Her shade of blue was much better-beautiful-er if such a word exists.

"I do. You're quite famous among the ladies." She affirmed as she rolled her slender shoulders, straightening her back and standing in a rather regal posture. He flushed, sort of shy and timid about the idea and not fully comprehending the flattery, "I'm truly sorry for the delay. I was sure to inform their agency with the schedule."

He shook his head, "It's really fine. I'm not one of those pompous photographers or anything." He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

Her lips curved even more and she nodded, "I could see that." And he swore her eyes twinkled, "You're very humble Mr. Frost."

"Jack."

"Pardon?" She stared at him confusedly.

"Jack," He repeated, his voice both friendly and determined, "Just Jack. Mr. Frost makes me feel old."

She bit her lip, as if to keep herself from grinning, and was that really necessary? He swore he wanted to bite it himself. Ew. He sounds like a creep and a pervert. "Understood." She nodded emphatically, "To be fair, you can address me as Elsa."

"Then it's nice to meet you, Elsa."

"The pleasure is mine."

And in three seconds, he realized, that he wanted to be her friend.