Chapter 49 Ambiguous Application of Medicine

Chapter 49 Ambiguous Application of Medicine

He walked to the bedside, picked up the ointment and cotton swabs from the nightstand, and pulled out a loose white shirt from the bag.

"The doctor said you have several scrapes on your body, and your scalp needs medicine too." He handed her the shirt, his gaze falling on her torn cashmere coat. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. "Change your clothes, I'll help you apply the medicine."

Monica's cheeks instantly burned. She looked down at her damaged clothes, then at the shirt he was offering, then at his calm dark eyes—there was no trace of improper thoughts in them, only pure concern.

But even so, the idea of undressing in front of him made her feel uncomfortable all over.

"I can do it myself." She reached for the ointment, trying to avoid his help.

Shane dodged her hand, his tone leaving no room for argument: "You can't reach your back and scalp."

He didn't give her a chance to refuse. He helped her sit up, then raised his hand, his fingertips lightly yet firmly touching the buttons of her coat.

Monica's body went rigid, her heart feeling like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand.

She could feel the warmth of his fingertips, clearly transmitted through the thin fabric.

"Undo your bra so it doesn't rub against the wounds." Shane's voice was calm, as if he were talking about the most ordinary thing.

Monica's face turned completely red. Almost instinctively, she blurted out: "I'm not wearing..."

The moment the words left her mouth, she realized what she'd said. Her voice cut off abruptly, and she instantly wished she could find a crack in the ground to crawl into.

Shane's movements stopped.

He looked down at her, emotions churning in those unfathomably dark eyes.

He suddenly leaned in, one hand propped beside her, trapping her between the headboard and himself. His low voice carried a hint of dangerous allure as it pressed against her ear: "Monica, are you trying to seduce me?"

His warm breath sprayed on her ear, carrying his unique cool scent, instantly igniting heat throughout her body.

Monica's heart beat so fast it nearly burst from her chest. Only then did she realize how inappropriate her earlier action had been.

That kind of unintentional intimacy, in their current awkward yet ambiguous relationship, was undoubtedly adding fuel to the fire.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to." Her voice was as low as a mosquito's buzz, her cheeks burning hot. She quickly pushed against him, urgently trying to create distance. "Go out first, I'll... I'll change myself."

Shane's gaze lingered on her flushed cheeks for a moment, a barely perceptible smile flashing in the depths of his eyes.

He straightened up, no longer making things difficult for her, simply turning his back and leaving her with his broad shoulders.

"Be careful, don't pull at the wounds." His voice returned to its usual coolness, yet carried a hint of barely perceptible tenderness.

Monica took a deep breath, trying hard to calm her racing heart.

With her back to him, she quickly removed the damaged coat and put on the oversized white shirt.

The shirt's hem nearly reached her thighs, hanging loosely on her body, giving her a long-lost sense of ease.

But even after changing clothes, her cheeks still burned hot. The scenes from moments ago replayed in her mind like a movie, making her feel ashamed beyond words.

"Done." She said quietly.

Shane turned around. Seeing her red face and evasive eyes, the smile in his eyes deepened.

He picked up the ointment and carefully lifted the hem of her shirt, exposing the scrapes on her legs. His fingertips, slightly calloused, dabbed with cool ointment, gently applying it to her skin.

That gentle touch, like a feather, teased her nerves, making Monica's whole body tingle.

She could feel his focused gaze, could feel the warmth of his fingertips, as if all his attention was concentrated on this small patch of her skin.

"Does it hurt?" He asked quietly, his voice carrying a hint of barely perceptible concern.

Monica shook her head, her throat somewhat dry.

She wanted to say it didn't hurt, but each touch of his fingertips was like an electric current, sending ripples through her heart.

She tried hard to control her breathing, not letting herself reveal any sign of disturbance.

After treating the wounds on her legs, he carefully lifted her long hair, his fingertips dabbed with ointment, gently applying it to the swollen areas of her scalp.

He was very close to her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of body wash on him, mixed with a hint of cool masculine scent.

Monica's heart beat even faster. She felt heat throughout her body, yet her rationality was screaming: they were friends now, just friends! They couldn't cross that line again. She forced herself to calm down, suppressing all the fluttering feelings rising in her heart.

Shane finished treating all the wounds and tucked in the corners of her blanket.

He put away the ointment and cotton swabs, then took a breakfast from the nightstand and placed it on the small table in front of her.

"These medicines, once in the morning and once at night, don't forget. Eat breakfast while it's hot, I'm going out for a bit." His voice returned to its usual coolness, but Monica still caught a hint of urgency.

He turned and strode out of the bedroom. Soon, the sound of rushing water came from the bathroom.

Monica looked at his hurriedly departing figure, then at the steaming breakfast on the table, and couldn't help but curve her lips into a sly smile.

Guessing he went to take a cold shower, after his shower he took a phone call and went out.

The aroma of oatmeal porridge spread through the morning apartment.

Monica picked up the porridge bowl and took a light sip, a long-lost warmth welling up in her heart.

This ambiguous yet tacitly understood time made her feel as if she'd returned to many years ago, back to that most beautiful time between them, when there were no barriers, no hurt.

"Knock knock knock—"

Suddenly, a series of urgent knocks broke the tranquility.

Monica's body went rigid, nearly dropping the porridge bowl in her hands.

Who? At this hour, who would be knocking?

She put down the porridge bowl, moving so lightly as if afraid of disturbing something, and walked barefoot to the entrance.

Through the peephole, Monica saw that familiar yet suffocating figure.

It was Linda.

She wore a faded old cardigan, her hair somewhat messy, her eyes red and swollen, her face showing obvious fatigue and haggardness. She was also carefully holding a thermos.

Monica's heart sank heavily, the emotions she'd just calmed surging up again.

Almost instinctively, she tensed her body, her fingertips ice-cold. She thought she'd escaped, but her mother had still found this place.

"Mom, what are you doing here?" Monica didn't open the door, only speaking through the heavy security door, her voice carrying wariness and distance.

At this moment, wearing Shane's oversized shirt, with unhealed wounds on her body, she didn't want her mother to see her in such a disheveled state, and even less did she want her to enter this space that belonged to her—and to Shane.