CHAPTER 42: CHAPTER 42- OWE YOU?

When Catherine woke up the next morning, the aroma of food filled the tip of her nose. Half-awake, she felt as if she had returned to the days when she lived with Renata—waking up every morning to the delicious breakfast Renata carefully prepared, giving her warmth and strength for the entire day.

But breakfast being ready only happened when Renata was home. And right now, Renata was in the hospital.

As her consciousness gradually cleared, she sensed something was wrong. She immediately threw off the blanket and rushed out—only to see Bert sitting in the small living room, head lowered as he scrolled through his phone. His sharply defined side profile looked even more handsome and deep under the morning light.

But Catherine had no time to appreciate any of that. In a panic, she rushed over, stopping in front of him and exclaiming in shock:

"You—you—you—!"

"What are you doing in my house?!"

As she questioned him, she also quickly checked whether anything seemed off with her body. Having experienced intimacy with a man two years ago, she knew very well what discomfort would follow if something like that happened again.

Everything felt normal. So she should have been safe last night.

But even so, she could NOT accept waking up to find a man in her home!

In her panic, she completely forgot she was drunk the night before. She had no time to recall anything in detail. In fact, after she opened the door and let Bert in, her memory was practically one big blur—she couldn’t remember what happened after that.

While she was fiercely interrogating him, Bert calmly put his phone away. He lifted his gaze to her, his eyes carrying an overwhelming sense of pressure.

"Finally scared?"

He didn’t answer her question at all. Instead, the sternness in his tone forced Catherine backward a step out of sheer guilt. Still, she braced herself and continued questioning him:

"W–what do you mean by that?"

He gave her a meaningful look. Then he turned elegantly, reaching down to pick up two empty beer bottles beside the sofa. He set them on the coffee table right in front of her, each word spelling out her "crimes":

"Drinking alone in the middle of the night. Opening the door for someone without checking. Getting so drunk you were completely unconscious with zero sense of self-protection."

"I kept the evidence on purpose—just in case someone tried to deny it."

It was that last mocking line that made Catherine’s face burn with embarrassment.

Did he have to go that far? Leaving "evidence"?

It’s not like she’s someone who refuses to admit her actions...

Catherine stared at the two beer bottles, and memory suddenly returned—how she bought two bottles of beer at the convenience store near her apartment building last night, chugged both down... and everything after that was fuzzy.

She bit her lip, trying hard to recall. But then—suddenly—images of irresistible masculine beauty flashed through her mind. A strong, lean, completely unclothed male body moving before her eyes. Her face instantly reddened.

She sighed in frustration, wondering what nonsense her brain was imagining. She tapped her head lightly, attempting to recall properly. But the moment she tried again, another image surfaced—

A man holding her in his arms, kissing her.

And the place they were kissing in seemed to be...

...the kitchen?

That kiss had been lingering and deep—domineering, warm, almost scorching. Even now, it felt as if the taste of that man’s lips still remained in her mouth.

Her face grew even hotter, and she didn’t dare let her eyes drift toward the man across from her, whose gaze was dark and fixed on her.

She didn’t understand why the moment she tried to recall last night, her mind was filled entirely with such intimate, seductive images. She had no idea whether they were simply dreams... or if they had actually happened in reality.

If it were all a dream, that would be easier to accept.

But if those scenes really existed...

There was no way she could bring herself to ask the man before her whether the things she remembered had actually happened. So all she could do was stand there, face burning bright red from her own imagination.

Flustered and mortified, she spun around and fled back into her bedroom. Only then did she realize—she wasn’t wearing anything under her loungewear. And last night, she had been with him in this exact state...

Catherine genuinely wished she could disappear into a hole in the ground.

After retreating into her bedroom and leaning against the door to calm herself, she finally managed to think back to the moment she opened the door. It really had been her who carelessly invited him inside...

Running her hands through her hair with frustration, Catherine paced silently around her tiny room several times. What on earth was all this?

Suddenly, a knock sounded on the door—crisp, steady, neither too soft nor too forceful. The sound snapped her out of her chaotic thoughts.

His calm voice sounded from the other side.

"If you’re done getting ready, come out for breakfast."

Catherine didn’t respond. She quietly walked to the wardrobe to change her clothes. She wasn’t even sure what she was feeling now. A man waking up early to make breakfast for her...

It felt a little warm.

But he wasn’t her anything.

Catherine remembered she’d been wanting to ask him why he was helping her like this. She’d never had the chance. She decided she would definitely ask him once she went out to eat.

Breakfast was already set on the coffee table—mostly Western-style dishes.

She had already tried his cooking once, and it had been excellent. So she had no doubt about his skills now. Just one glance was enough to tell her it would taste amazing.

The color of the fried eggs, the crispness of the toasted bread—everything looked absolutely flawless.

He was already seated on the sofa, wearing a high-quality navy shirt that set off his tall, straight posture. Not the shirt she’d dirtied with tears and snot at the hospital yesterday. Remembering how he’d said she needed to compensate him for his suit and shirt, Catherine’s heart ached.

His shirts and suits probably cost tens of thousands each. And with the little money she had left after paying for Renata’s medical treatment, some of it would soon have to go toward paying him back.

Catherine could only resign herself to that fate.

After sitting down on the sofa beside him, she politely asked,

"May I ask... what was the reason you came to see me last night?"

Catherine assumed he must have had something important to discuss. Otherwise, why would he come to her place so late at night?

What she didn’t know was that he had simply wanted to see her.

Bert raised a brow at her question, giving her a brief, indifferent glance.

"I came to ask how you plan to compensate me for my shirt and suit."

He figured that if he told her the truth—that he merely wanted to see her—she would probably be scared out of her wits. So he improvised with this excuse. It might make him seem a bit petty, but that didn’t matter; he could always fix his image later.

Catherine: "..."

So it was something important after all.

She quickly said,

"Then... later, just give me your bank account number and the amount I need to compensate. I’ll transfer the money to you."

Bert did not immediately respond. His hand paused over his breakfast, his dark eyes lifting briefly to look at her. Then he lowered his gaze again and said quietly,

"Just owe me for now."

Catherine was puzzled.

"Owe you?"

"Mm."

He didn’t even lift his head as he replied,

"I’ll tell you when I decide how you should compensate me."

Catherine was even more confused.

"Isn’t it enough to just buy new ones?"

It was just a shirt and a suit—shouldn’t paying for it settle everything? Why was it so complicated with him?

He looked up again, brows slightly furrowed, his expression carrying a hint of displeasure.

"I’m the victim. Shouldn’t I be the one to decide how you compensate me?"

Catherine fell silent.

Fine. Like he said, he was the victim. If he wanted to handle it this way, she couldn’t argue.

Setting the matter aside for the moment, Catherine lowered her head and prepared to eat.

"Happy birthday."

It was just a simple birthday greeting that slipped into her ears. The words were ordinary, but spoken from the man’s lips in such a quiet morning, they struck Catherine with unexpected force, as if a string in her heart had been lightly plucked.

She lifted her eyes to him in astonishment, not understanding how he even knew it was her birthday. There hadn’t been any sign of a celebration at home. She certainly didn’t remember ever telling him...

"Thank you."

Out of politeness, she still offered her thanks, then added softly,

"My birthday was yesterday."

He glanced at her.

"No one ever said birthday wishes can’t come a little late, right?"

"And sometimes, the ones that come late... are the best."

Those were the words he added quietly at the end, holding her gaze, and Catherine froze completely. She had no idea what he meant by that.

Late... but the best?

She didn’t understand why he suddenly said such things, yet somehow, his words felt warm.

So she stared at him blankly and asked,

"Why are you so good to me? Why do you keep helping me over and over?"

It was the question she had always wanted to ask.

He frowned slightly, as if amused.

"When was I ever good to you?"

Catherine: "..."

Helping her again and again—was that not being good to her?

He spoke again, sounding almost intrigued.

"That already counts as being good to you?"

"Then your standards are way too low."

After saying all that, he still never answered her question, casually sidestepping it.

If this had been before, Catherine might have simply dropped the matter. But this time, for some reason, she felt uncharacteristically persistent—she needed an answer. So she asked again,

"Why, exactly?"

His deep black eyes settled on her small face, his earlier indifference fading. His voice sank slightly as he asked her in return,

"Do you really need a reason to be good to someone?"

Catherine countered,

"Isn’t that something that does need a reason?"

In this world, aside from parents—aside from her mother Renata—who would be good to someone for no reason at all?