Could I Be Happy?
RONNY’S POV
The steam was still clinging to the glass when I leaned over the sink, bracing both palms against the cold marble counter. Droplets slid down my temples, down the hard lines of my jaw, tracing a path to my collarbone before disappearing into the towel slung low around my hips.
I stared at my reflection.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t recognize the man looking back at me.
My hair was damp, falling over my forehead in messy strands, and my eyes… Christ, my eyes looked different. Softer. Alive.
All because of her.
Liliana.
She had done something to me last night, something I hadn’t thought possible. She had stripped me down to bone and marrow, not just physically but mentally—emotionally. She’d broken past the walls I’d spent years stacking like concrete slabs around my chest.
I thought if I had her once—if I just gave in, fed the hunger that had been gnawing at me since the day she stormed into my life—I’d be done. That I’d get her out of my system, rip her out like a splinter.
But I’d been dead wrong.
Because now?
Now she was under my skin.
Now I knew what her laughter sounded like muffled against my throat. Now I knew the way she screamed my name, the way she clawed at me when I drove her to the edge and past it. Now I knew how her lips tasted at dawn when she was too weak to fight me, too broken to do anything but kiss me back like I was her lifeline.
And the worst part?
One night wasn’t enough.
It would never be enough.
I wasn’t purged of her. I was obsessed. Addicted. A starving man who’d finally tasted food after years of famine, and now nothing else would ever satisfy me.
I dragged a hand down my face, trying to pull myself back together, but the truth was undeniable. She had woken something in me I didn’t even know existed.
And that scared the hell out of me.
Shaking my head, I pushed off the counter and left the bathroom.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, drowning in one of my shirts, her bare legs swinging lazily over the side. The fabric swallowed her whole, sleeves too long, hem brushing her thighs. My shirt had never looked better.
My gaze lingered on her—messy hair, sleepy eyes, lips still swollen from the night before. She looked like sin wrapped in innocence, and I wanted to drag her back under me until she forgot her own damn name.
Her eyes flicked up and caught me watching.
“You ruined my clothes,” she said, shrugging as if it wasn’t the most absurd accusation in the world.
One brow arched automatically. I didn’t say anything, just let the silence stretch between us until she rolled her eyes.
“What?” she pressed.
“You’re blaming me?” I asked, my voice rough from disuse.
“Well…” She tilted her head, lips twitching, playful. “You tore half of them. The rest are… not exactly wearable anymore.”
A smirk tugged at my mouth, but I didn’t let it form fully. I turned away before she could read too much on my face, heading for the closet.
Inside, order waited. Rows of black—shirts, jackets, pants—lined like obedient soldiers, everything neat, precise, as it should be. My sanctuary. I tugged on a pair of soft joggers and a plain shirt, ignoring the faint echo of her laugh from the bedroom.
When I stepped out again, ready to tell her to stop snooping around my things, the words died on my tongue.
She was curled up on the bed, my shirt swallowing her whole, lashes fanned against her cheeks. Fast asleep.
Something twisted low in my chest.
I crossed the room quietly, pulled the covers up over her bare legs, and just… stood there. Watching her breathe.
Her lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. She looked peaceful, defenseless. She had no idea what she did to me, no idea the storm she had unleashed.
Before I could stop myself, I bent down and pressed my lips to her forehead.
It wasn’t planned.
It was instinct.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Straightening quickly, I shoved a hand through my damp hair and forced myself to leave the room before I did something else reckless.
Downstairs, the house was quiet. My footsteps echoed faintly as I made my way into the kitchen, the same kitchen I usually avoided. Cooking wasn’t something I did. Not really.
But today?
I found myself pulling out pans, eggs, bread, the works. My hands moved almost automatically, muscle memory guiding me through motions I hadn’t used in years.
The sound of soft footsteps behind me made me glance over my shoulder.
Maria stood there, arms crossed, a knowing smirk on her face.
“What?” I asked flatly.
“Nothing,” she said, but her tone dripped with amusement.
I narrowed my eyes. “Say it.”
“Maybe I’m just surprised.” She leaned against the doorframe, arching a brow. “It’s been a long time since you’ve set foot in this kitchen, Mr Ronny. And now suddenly you’re cooking? For a woman?”
I scoffed, shaking my head as I turned back to the stove. “Don’t start.”
She chuckled softly, not moving.
“Maria,” I warned.
“What? I’m just saying…” She let the pause stretch, then added casually, “She fits you. You look very happy.”
The words hit harder than I expected. My hands stilled on the spatula, grip tightening.
Happy.
I almost laughed.
Happy wasn’t a word in my vocabulary. Happiness was a mirage—something you saw in the distance, something other people chased like fools, but never something I reached for.
I’d built my life on discipline, control, shadows. Happiness was for men who didn’t know what it felt like to lose everything.
And yet—
Her face flashed in my mind. The way she’d splashed water at me in the shower, laughing like a damn child. The way she’d curled into my shirt, my scent wrapped around her like a second skin. The way she looked asleep upstairs, fragile and untouchable.
I swallowed hard, leaning against the counter, staring at nothing.
Could I really be happy?
No. That wasn’t possible.
But Liliana… she brought out something in me I couldn’t explain. Something deep, raw, dangerous.
It wasn’t just sex.
It wasn’t just obsession.
So what the hell was it?
Love?
The thought slammed into me like a fist to the gut.
No.
Not me. Not ever.
But then why did my chest ache every time I thought of her smile? Why did my hands itch to touch her even when I wasn’t near her? Why did I just kiss her forehead like some fool in love?
I clenched my jaw, forcing the thought away.
No.
It couldn’t be love.
And yet, as I stood there in my own kitchen with Maria’s words still echoing, I wasn’t sure I believed myself anymore.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
