Chapter 56 Idiot

Chapter 56 Idiot

He didn't say anything more. He just picked up the ointment again and half-knelt down. His tone returned to its usual coldness, but with a barely noticeable hoarseness.

"Lie still. Don't move."

Monica froze in place, not daring to make any extra movements.

She resigned herself to closing her eyes and lying back down on the sofa, burying her burning cheeks into the soft cushion, letting his cool fingertips, dabbed with ointment, gently apply it to the wounds on her back.

The atmosphere fermented in silence, both intimate and dangerous. Monica could clearly sense the changes in his body, that forcibly suppressed desire, like a wild beast about to break free from its cage, making her heart race with both alarm and attraction.

She finally couldn't stand this almost torturous ordeal and shifted her body, speaking softly: "Um... I can do it myself."

Shane's movements paused, the ointment on his fingertips still resting on her bare back.

He said nothing, only applied slightly more pressure, spreading the ointment evenly.

"You can't reach the wounds on your back yourself," his voice was still hoarse, carrying an unquestionable command, "Moving around will leave scars."

Scars? Monica paused, then as if hearing something trivial, mumbled sullenly: "If it scars, it scars. Nobody's going to see it anyway."

This sentence, like an offhand murmur, made Shane's movements stop completely.

The air seemed to freeze in that moment, and the coldness he had barely suppressed surged back.

"Nobody's going to see?" He repeated those words, his voice devoid of emotion, yet making Monica's back inexplicably go cold. He suddenly leaned down, his hot breath spraying on her ear, enunciating each word with a hint of gritted teeth, "Your future husband will feel bad about it."

That strong possessiveness, conveyed through his words, almost wrapped around her entire being.

Monica's heart clenched sharply, and almost instinctively, she blurted out: "I'm not getting married."

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted it.

This barbed rejection, like a sharp knife, instantly severed the thread of intimacy they had barely managed to draw closer.

Shane fell silent.

He said nothing more, just silently used cotton swabs dipped in ointment to treat every small wound on her body.

His movements remained gentle, but lost the warmth they had moments ago, leaving only a mechanical coldness.

Monica could clearly feel the change in atmosphere, that coldness transmitting from his fingertips, freezing her heart with panic.

She knew she had said the wrong thing again. This man was sensitive and vulnerable in certain ways. Her thoughtless self-protection, to him, had become the most hurtful weapon.

"That's not what I meant..." She tried to make amends, but her voice was as weak as a mosquito's hum.

Shane acted as if he hadn't heard. After treating the last wound, he stood up, screwed the cap back on the ointment, and tossed it on the coffee table.

"Get some rest." He dropped this cold sentence and turned to go back to his room.

That distant figure looked exactly like the resolute back he had shown her when she left five years ago.

Monica's heart clenched sharply, panic seizing her in an instant. Before she could think, her body had already reacted. She sat up from the sofa, not caring that she was still undressed, and stumbled after him, reaching out just before he could close his door and desperately grabbing the corner of his clothes.

Shane's steps halted, but he didn't turn around.

"Are you angry?" Monica looked up at his tense profile, her voice carrying a tremor and grievance she hadn't even noticed herself.

Shane finally turned his head slightly, looking down at her from above. Those unfathomably deep eyes held unclear emotions, but his lips curved into a cool, mocking smile.

"What do you think?" he asked back.

This expression instantly scattered the grievance in Monica's heart, leaving only overwhelming guilt. She lowered her eyes, not daring to look at him anymore. Her fingers clutching his clothes unconsciously tightened, her voice soft and quiet, as if admitting fault.

"I'm sorry."

She paused, as if afraid he still wouldn't forgive her, and added in a small voice: "Tomorrow... I'll make you breakfast."

This promise, like a clumsy gesture of goodwill, precisely hit the softest spot in the man's heart.

Shane's tense jawline finally relaxed a bit. He said nothing more, just fully opened his bedroom door, tacitly accepting her "compensation."

The next day, Monica got up early with two dark circles under her eyes.

Standing in the kitchen, facing a refrigerator full of premium ingredients, she questioned her usually proud intelligence for the first time.

In the end, she could only find the simplest items—toast, eggs, and cheese—and decided to attempt a grilled sandwich she had never made before.

Oil in the pan, eggs beaten, toast placed in the skillet.

Monica held a spatula in one hand and her phone in the other, looking at tutorials, flustered and awkward.

Just as one side of the toast had turned golden and she was about to flip it, a low voice suddenly sounded behind her without warning.

"It's about to burn."

Monica jumped in fright, her hand shook, and the spatula nearly flew out.

She whipped around to find Shane standing behind her at some point, still wearing his robe with the collar slightly open, revealing his sexy collarbone.

He had just woken up, his hair still a bit messy, but his whole body carried a crisp, pleasant scent.

"I... I'll flip it right now!" Monica turned back in a panic, trying to save the toast that was about to burn.

The next second, a warm, solid chest pressed against her from behind, encircling her entire body.

Shane leaned down, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder, and one well-defined hand reached from behind, steadily covering her hand holding the spatula.

His palm was dry and hot, just like that, wrapping around her hand and guiding her with extremely professional movements to neatly flip the sandwich.

"Dummy." His low voice carried the hoarseness of just waking up, sounding by her ear, his warm breath spraying on her sensitive earlobe, triggering a wave of tiny shivers.

Monica's body instantly stiffened, and the heat in her cheeks rushed up with a "whoosh."

Shane seemed quite satisfied with her rigid reaction. The corner of his lips curved into an extremely faint smile, and he added a teasing remark by her ear: "Even that hyperactive brother of yours can cook a few home dishes. How come you can't do anything?"

This teasing brought Monica back to her senses. Encircled in his arms, her nose filled with his pleasant scent, her heartbeat racing almost out of control.

She stiffened her neck and quietly retorted: "I did it on purpose."

"Hmm?"

"When I was little, my mom always made me do chores—washing dishes, mopping floors, cooking... The worse I did, the more she scolded me, and then the less she let me do it," Monica looked at the sizzling sandwich in the pan, her tone as calm as if telling someone else's story. "That way I could save time to read books."