RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 43: FRIDA -

The pounding in her head felt like a thousand drums beating in unison.

Frida groaned, clutching her temples, the morning light streaming through her bedroom window intensifying the ache.

She hissed under her breath, her voice barely audible, as if even speaking would worsen the throbbing.

It was cold. Too cold. The kind of biting chill that seemed to seep into her bones, wrapping her in discomfort.

Shivering, she pulled the duvet off her bed and wrapped it around herself like armor, the soft fabric providing some small comfort against the icy morning.

Each step down the staircase felt like a battle. Her legs wobbled beneath her, the weakness making her feel fragile, breakable.

She moved sluggishly, her feet dragging against the floor with the weight of exhaustion. A zombie.

She was nothing more than a hungover zombie, stumbling her way through the ruins of her morning.

Her foot caught on the edge of a step, and she tripped forward with a yelp that pierced the stillness of the house.

Pain shot through her knee as she hit the floor, sharp and unforgiving. "Damn it," she muttered, her voice hoarse and croaky, the words scraping against her throat like sandpaper.

Then the nausea hit. It wasn’t gradual, it came like a tidal wave, fierce and overwhelming.

Panic surged through her, and before she could think, she sprinted to the kitchen sink. She gripped the edges with trembling hands, her knuckles turning white, as she emptied the remnants of last night into the drain.

The taste was vile, bitter and acidic, clinging to her tongue even after she was done. She gagged once more before the wave subsided, leaving her breathless and shaking.

"Ugh." Frida splashed her face with cold water, the icy droplets jolting her senses but failing to wash away the pounding in her head. freёweɓnovel.com

She staggered to the fridge, pulling out an ice pack and pressing it against her forehead, the coolness offering a momentary reprieve.

Leaning against the counter, she let her eyes wander, seeking distraction from the misery of her hangover.

Her gaze drifted to the window, catching a flicker of movement outside. And there he was.

Through the glass, framed by the golden light of morning, he stood like a god carved from stone.

The sun illuminated every contour of his body, accentuating the strength and perfection of his form.

Sweat slicked his skin, his tight shirt clinging to his torso as he lifted weights.

His muscles flexed with each movement, hard and defined, veins snaking down his arms like a map of raw power.

Frida blinked, the pain in her head momentarily forgotten.

Every ripple of muscle under his shirt was mesmerizing, every drop of sweat sliding down his neck captivating.

He exuded power, raw and undeniable, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away.

Her lips parted as she watched him, her breath hitching slightly. How could someone look so... perfect? It wasn’t fair.

He shouldn’t look like that, especially not while she stood there, disheveled and hungover, barely holding herself together.

Her stomach growled loudly, the sound breaking the spell and yanking her back to reality.

She groaned, rubbing her temple as her gaze shifted to the top shelf of the pantry. There it was: the box of cereal. Mocking her.

"Why does Laurel put it so high?" she muttered, stretching onto the tips of her toes in a futile attempt to reach it.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the box, but it remained stubbornly out of reach.

Frustration bubbled up inside her, hot and sharp, as she struggled to grab it.

With a defeated sigh, she lowered herself back down, muttering under her breath, "Guess I’ll have to grab a stool-"

Before she could finish the thought, a warm hand snaked around her waist, firm yet gentle, trailing up her arm to her wrist.

The unexpected touch froze her in place, stealing her breath away.

The movement was fluid and effortless, like something out of a romance movie she’d scoff at for being too unrealistic.

Her heart thudded in her chest as the hand reached for the box above her. In one smooth motion, the box of cereal was taken down and placed gently on the counter.

"This one, right?" His voice, low and smooth with that husky morning rasp, sent shivers down her spine.

Frida turned her head slowly, and there he was, closer than she had anticipated.

His damp hair clung to his forehead, and the faint scent of soap mixed with his natural musk filled the air between them.

His dark eyes held hers for a moment, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Y-yeah," she stammered, still reeling from the gesture.

He stepped back slightly, his hand lingering for a moment longer than necessary before releasing her. "You should ask for help next time," he said, his voice teasing but warm.

Her face heated as she watched him, trying to comprehend what had just happened. How was it possible for one man to make even the simplest gesture feel so... electric?

Before Frida could process what was happening, his strong hands wrapped around her waist, lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing.

She let out a small gasp as he placed her on the kitchen table, trapping her between his arms.

Her heart raced, the proximity making her acutely aware of every breath he took, every shift in his posture.

His hand gently rested on her forehead, his touch cool and comforting. His brows furrowed slightly, a shadow of concern crossing his face. "You’re burning," he muttered, his voice soft yet firm.

Frida stayed mute, overwhelmed by his closeness and the intimacy of the moment. She felt like a live wire, every nerve in her body humming with tension.

He didn’t seem to mind her silence, moving around the kitchen with an ease that made her wonder how often he’d been here before.

He grabbed a bowl, milk, and sugar, preparing the cereal just the way she liked it. The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, he remembered. He remembered how she ate her cereal.

Without a word, he turned back to her, holding up a small pill between his fingers. "Ah..." he coaxed softly, his voice gentle yet commanding.

Automatically, she opened her mouth, and he placed the pill on her tongue.

Her lips lingered on his finger for a moment longer than necessary, the intimacy of the gesture sending a jolt through her.

His gaze darkened for a fraction of a second, the atmosphere between them thickening, before he handed her a bottle of water.

She drank it, her eyes never leaving his, searching for something, anything, in his expression.

"Eat," he said firmly, handing her the bowl of cereal. "The hangover must hurt like hell."

Frida nodded, taking a bite, but her focus wasn’t on the food.

It was on him, on the way his broad shoulders moved as he turned to the sink, rolling up his sleeves to wash the dishes.

The sound of running water filled the room, but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart.

Her gaze lingered on his back, her chest tightening with an ache she couldn’t name.

She yearned for him.

To talk to him.

To forgive him.

To find out if he yearned for her just as deeply.