Chapter 39: One Night of Tender Intimacy

She was so light in his arms, weighing almost nothing at all.

Shane carried her step by step toward her bedroom, his movements so gentle as if he were handling a priceless treasure.

He laid her gently on the bed, took off her shoes, and pulled the blanket over her.

Shane stood by the bed, and in the dim light filtering in from the living room, he greedily traced her sleeping face with his eyes.

Without all her defenses and sharp edges, Monica looked especially well-behaved when asleep. Her long lashes cast a small shadow beneath her eyes, her lips slightly pouting, like a child who'd been wronged but refused to admit it.

He suddenly remembered that five years ago, she was the same way. Every time he bullied her too much, she'd look like this when she fell asleep.

Back then, he always thought she was his alone, that she'd never run away in this lifetime.

But she still ran.

A sharp pain shot through Shane's chest. He leaned down, his fingertips gently caressing her still-flushed cheeks, his eyes filled with emotions too deep to dissolve.

Just as he was about to get up and leave, his wrist was caught by a soft hand.

"...Don't go."

She murmured in her dream with her eyes closed, her voice soft and light, carrying a hint of pleading vulnerability.

Shane's body instantly froze.

He looked down at her hand gripping his tightly, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, making it hard for him to breathe for a moment.

Who was she trying to keep?

Was it Ryan?

Once this thought emerged, it spread like wildfire, instantly burning away all his reason and tenderness.

The heartache and pity from moments ago turned in an instant into overwhelming rage and jealousy.

He yanked his hand back forcefully, the motion so abrupt that Monica frowned even in her sleep.

"Monica," he grabbed her chin, turning her face toward him, his voice cold as ice, each word seeming to squeeze through his teeth, "Look clearly—who am I!"

The sudden coldness and fierceness made Monica, immersed in alcohol and dreams, shudder. She was forced to open her eyes, and those hazy pupils met his bloodshot eyes churning with rage, startling her into partial sobriety.

She had never seen Shane like this—the violence and madness in his eyes looked like he wanted to tear her apart.

Fear seized her in an instant.

"What's wrong with you?" She opened her eyes wide.

To him, this was clearly because he'd interrupted her beautiful dream with another man.

"What's wrong?" He laughed bitterly, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, which were filled with terrifying coldness. "I should be asking you that! What, dreaming about him leaving and can't bear it?"

He thought that what she held in her heart was always that "brother" he had personally sent to her side.

He hated it—hated her deception and betrayal.

But he couldn't let go. Five years of torment and longing had already trapped him deep in the mud, unable to free himself.

This contradictory emotion of hatred and unwillingness, like two forces, tore wildly at his chest, almost tearing him apart completely.

"What are you talking about?" Monica was confused by his shouting.

"Don't know?" Shane leaned down, one hand propped beside her, completely trapping her between himself and the bed, his bloodshot eyes locked on hers. "Then who did you want to stay? Hmm? Ryan?"

He almost gritted his teeth as he spat out that name that had haunted him for five years.

Monica's mind went blank. She was stung by the madness in his eyes and the despair in his words, her heart aching.

Seeing him in such pain, all her fear suddenly turned into an impulse.

She didn't want him to misunderstand anymore.

Just before Shane was about to lose complete control, Monica suddenly reached out both arms, wrapped them tightly around his neck, and with all her strength, pressed her lips to his.

"Shane..."

Finding courage from somewhere, she held him, calling his name over and over.

"I was saying, I want you to stay."

Those words struck like thunder, instantly splitting through all the chaos and madness in Shane's mind.

His whole body shook, all his movements stopped, and he looked in disbelief at the woman beneath him with tears streaming down her face.

She had called his name.

She wanted him to stay.

This realization was like a shot of adrenaline, instantly smoothing away all his violence and anxiety. The towering rage receded, replaced by the wild joy of recovery and the love that had been suppressed for too long, now surging forward.

He hesitated no more, lowered his head, and kissed her fiercely.

Swallowing all the remaining alcohol and the saltiness of her tears, forcefully marking her with his own imprint.

The air in the room heated up rapidly, with suggestive tension flowing freely in the dim light.

Clothes were roughly stripped away, burning skin pressed together, stirring up trembling currents.

In the darkness, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breathing hot, his voice hoarse beyond recognition, carrying a barely noticeable tremor.

"Monica, say it again—who do you want?"

She clung to his broad back, her nails digging deep into his flesh, and responded in his ear with a voice that was almost broken yet incredibly clear.

"You... Shane, I only want you."

Both of them fell completely.

The hangover headache arrived as expected. Monica was awakened by the harsh sunlight leaking through the curtain gaps.

She moved slightly and felt like her whole body had been taken apart and reassembled, sore and weak.

Her memories of last night were fragmented, leaving only some broken pieces: the sharp smell of alcohol, repeated words, and... a suppressed yet crazy kiss.

Her cheeks instantly burned.

In the air floated the aroma of food—the smell of oatmeal. Monica's heartbeat skipped a beat. She sat up stiffly and found she was still wearing yesterday's dress, only someone had carefully covered her with a blanket.

She walked out of the bedroom and immediately saw Shane sitting at the dining table.

Shane had already changed into a fresh set of casual home clothes. In front of him was a simple breakfast, the newspaper open, his posture relaxed, as if the man who lost control last night was just her illusion.

Hearing the movement, he looked up, his gaze resting on her face for a moment before quickly moving away, his tone so flat it revealed no emotion: "You're up? Come have breakfast."

On the table were also a bowl of warm oatmeal and two perfectly fried sunny-side-up eggs.

Monica walked over awkwardly and sat down across from him, her mind a complete mess.

"Last night, I..." She gripped her spoon, struggling to speak. "I drank too much. I didn't do anything inappropriate, did I?"

Shane paused in turning the newspaper, looked up at her, his unfathomably deep eyes revealing unclear emotions, but his lips curved into an ambiguous smile tinged with cold mockery.

"What do you think?" he asked back.

This attitude made Monica's heart sink heavily.

Her stomach clenched into a tight ball.

She lowered her eyes, her voice dropping: "I'm sorry, I..."

"No need to apologize." Shane interrupted her, closed the newspaper and tossed it aside, his tone returning to its usual coldness. "You were just drunk and mistook me for someone else."

Mistook him for someone else?