RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 59: FRIDA -

Frida stared at Laz, her back slightly aching from crouching over the pile of laundry she hadn’t gotten around to sorting.

He was pouting, cutely. If she didn’t know him better, she might have assumed that was just his default expression, but no... he was genuinely sulking as he helped her fold clothes in her cramped, chaotic dorm room.

The place was a mess, textbooks stacked like makeshift towers, empty mugs with lipstick stains, and clothes draped carelessly over her desk chair.

The walls were peeling, the kind of chipped paint that screamed "student housing," and she made a mental note that the room desperately needed a repaint. But that would have to wait, exams were hell.

"I don’t like him," Laz muttered for the third time, as he angrily folded one of her sweaters and flung a pair of jeans into the laundry bag.

Frida smiled, her fingers smoothing a tank top. "Alex is a nice guy. He’s really smart. If you just gave him a chance..."

"No." Laz’s voice was sharp as he tossed a hoodie into the bag with a little more force than necessary.

She paused, glancing at him. "Why don’t you like him?" she asked, reaching for a hanger that had tangled with her headphones.

He didn’t look at her right away. His jaw clenched. "He’s self-absorbed... a douche. He thinks he’s so damn great..." Laz glanced up finally, grey eyes intense. "Did I mention he’s a douche?"

Frida snorted, unable to hold it in. His brows knit together at the sound. "What’s funny?" he asked, his voice softening.

She noticed how light his eyes looked under the yellow dorm light...almost silver.

They always got like that when he was genuinely upset, like storm clouds brightening before they poured.

She climbed onto her unmade bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She stood so she could cup his face in her hands, brushing her thumbs softly over his cheekbones.

His skin was warm under her touch, and his lashes fluttered as he looked up at her.

"He’s just my study partner," she murmured. "We’ve only been working together for six months."

Laz winced like she’d stabbed him. "Six months?"

She couldn’t help but grin, it was cute, the way he said it like six months was a scandal.

Her fingers trailed downward, lightly teasing the edge of the tattoo on his neck.

The ink curved right where her fingers wanted to linger, and he exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded.

"What do you think?" he whispered, voice velvet.

She blinked, caught in the spell of how devastatingly gorgeous he looked. "About what?" Her voice was smaller than she intended, breathier.

His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her gently off the bed so their bodies nearly touched. "Don’t pretend you didn’t notice... your name. On my neck."

A jolt ran down her spine, a thrill that made her knees tremble. "Do you like it?" he asked.

Her thumb, bold now, brushed over his bottom lip. "I forgot," she breathed.

He quirked a brow. "Forgot what?" His lips twitched, amused by her fluster.

"That you’re not as nonchalant as you pretend to be... even after all these years of not talking," she whispered, before flicking his forehead.

"Ow!" he winced, stepping back and rubbing the spot. "Awwwoch...I forgot you used to do that!"

She giggled, slipping out of his arms before she stayed there too long. "Laz, less flirting, more folding."

Honestly though... she liked it. Liked him, teasing her. Maybe a little too much.

"I still think your study group with the girls is better," he grumbled while vacuuming the floor. "Studying with a guy? What if he thinks your smile’s pretty?"

She laughed, genuinely amused now. "He’s just my study partner, for the hundredth time."

"I could be your study partner too, y’know..." he mumbled, cheeks faintly pink, eyes focused on moving a stool aside.

She beamed. He looked so good when he was rambling.

"And we’re just friends, Laz. Remember?" she said, reaching for the cookie jar and opening it to sniff the contents.

He moved behind her, and her breath caught. One hand planted beside hers on the counter, the other wiped slowly with a wet cloth.

He leaned in, and the heat of him radiated against her back.

His breath was fire against her neck, and she stiffened, gripping the counter like a lifeline.

"Yeah, I know we’re just friends..." he whispered, his lips ghosting over her shoulder.

Her breath hitched.

"But what if I don’t want to share my friend?"

She closed her eyes, shivering at the raw tension lacing his voice.

"That would be selfish... and toxic, wouldn’t it?" he murmured, lips barely grazing her skin. "But I really don’t want to share."

Her back pressed against his chest and her entire body trembled in silent want.

Then he pulled away.

"Fine. I’ll be the healthy guy," he said, casually walking off...like he hadn’t just wrecked her with a few inches of space and the heat of his breath.

She barely recognized her dorm anymore, it was spotless. Her bed was made, her books organized, the floor shining. Laz had transformed the chaos into something calm.

He ruffled her hair as he passed. "Don’t stay up too late. Don’t forget the clothes in the washer. Don’t fall asleep at your desk. Eat the yogurt and cookies I left on your table. And turn off the lights before bed."

Frida rolled her eyes. "Geez. Yes, dad."

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" he teased, voice low.

She turned to him, biting her lip. "That’s hot."

He laughed, full, deep, rich. The sound wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and way too tempting.

They stared at each other.

Long. Hard. Hungry.

When he reached for the door, she almost begged him to stay.

Her fingers twitched, aching to grab his jacket and pull him back inside. To kiss the ink on his neck. To say, "I like it. I like you."

But instead, she clenched her fists and said, "Good night, Laz."

Her voice cracked on his name.

His eyes flicked to her lips. For a moment she was sure...sure...he’d kiss her.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek.

Her stomach fluttered like paper in wind.

"Good night, Frida," he whispered.

The door clicked shut behind him, soft and devastating.

And there, stuck on the inside of the door, was a red note.

"Yes... I’m fucking jealous."