A Frozen Man's Sun

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

By the time I pulled up in front of Flemeral's house, she was asleep against the passenger window. Her breathing was even, lashes resting soft on her cheeks. I reached over and tapped her arm.

"Wake up. We're here."

She blinked, stretched like a cat, and yawned. Her gaze flicked to me, then down to my split lip. She frowned. "I'm not getting out of this car unless you come inside. Let me treat that wound."

"I said I'm fine."

Her brows arched, defiant. "If you let it sit like that, it'll scar. Then what? Goodbye, modeling career. Shame to waste a handsome face."

I exhaled sharply. "Just get out, Eral."

"No. Let me do this. After what you did tonight, saving me—" Her voice wavered, but her chin stayed high. "Let me take care of you, Ice. It's the least I can do."

The stubborn set of her shoulders told me she wouldn't give up. I hissed under my breath. "Fine."

We stepped out together and crossed to her door. She bent, lifted the welcome mat, and fished out a key. The lock clicked open. "Come in."

It was the first time I'd been inside.

Memory tangled with the present. Five years ago, we met at one of those endless business parties—our fathers deep in conversation, while we, the disinterested heirs, bonded over shared boredom. Same age. Same rebellion against ties and titles. We had clicked instantly. Friends first. Until that night. Until she left. Until everything broke.

"Sit," she said now, pointing to the sofa. She flipped on the TV and left the room, her steps muffled by the polished floor. I glanced at the screen. Phineas and Ferb.

A low chuckle rumbled from me despite myself. She remembered.

Through the glass wall, I watched her move in the adjacent room—searching shelves, opening drawers. She returned with cotton, a small kit, and an ice pack wrapped in a towel. Kneeling in front of me, she touched the cotton to my lip, gentle, precise.

Her face was close enough for me to notice the tiny freckles dusted across her nose, the faint crease between her brows as she concentrated.

"This'll sting," she murmured, pressing the compress against me. The ache dulled under the cold.

"Hold this yourself," she ordered lightly, handing me the pack. Then, without waiting for an answer, she rose. "I'm cooking."

"Don't bother—"

"Pork sinigang. Still your favorite?"

I stilled. Then nodded.

"Good." Her smile was quick before she disappeared into the kitchen.

The smell hit me minutes later—tamarind broth, vegetables, tender meat simmering with steam. My stomach tightened with hunger, but it wasn't just the food. It was memory again. Nights at her house, both of us laughing over bowls of soup. The comfort of it. Before everything changed. Before I became someone else.

Before another woman came into my life. Two years wasted on her. Two years of trust, only for her to betray me—pregnant by Aisaia's cousin.

The bitterness coiled low in my chest.

"Ice," Eral called from the kitchen. "Tell me if the compress warms up too much."

I stood, drawn by the sound of her voice, and stepped into the kitchen. She stood in front of the stove, apron tied at her waist, ladle in hand, her profile illuminated by the soft light overhead.