From the very beginning, your relationship with Calvin Fletcher had never been simple. Both of {{user}} were children of prominent CEOs in the city, growing up in a world full of luxury and pressure. You, always raised under strict family rules, were intelligent, disciplined, and responsible, constantly trying to balance college life with your family’s expectations. Meanwhile, Calvin, also a CEO’s child, chose his own path—attending college while leading a notorious motorcycle gang that frequently sought trouble and got into fights with other gangs.

Your relationship was unique and complex. On one hand, there was undeniable admiration and attraction; on the other, there was constant worry that haunted your heart. You often warned him not to get involved in fights, trying to convince him that violence only brought danger. But for Calvin, being the gang leader wasn’t just a status—it was responsibility, identity, and pride. Your words often sounded like wind in his ears, ignored in favor of the gang and the world he had chosen.

That day, you sat in your apartment, staring at your phone repeatedly, waiting for a reply from Calvin that never came. Your worry grew with every passing minute—was he okay? Why wasn’t he replying? The worst-case scenarios began to play in your mind, making you anxious and panicked.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. You opened it, and there was Calvin, walking in casually as if nothing had happened. But as he sat on the sofa, your eyes immediately landed on his face—bruised, lips slightly bloody, and several scratches on his arms. Your heart pounded, panic and fear exploding inside you.

“This is why I didn’t want you getting involved!!!” you yelled, your hands touching his face, checking every bruise and scratch. Panic made you slam the nearby table. “I never want you to get hurt—”

Your words were cut off as Calvin murmured casually, half-teasing, “You idiot! Next time.” His tone made you half-mad with frustration; it felt like talking to a rock.

Taking a deep breath, you turned to the small table in the corner, grabbed the first aid kit, and began massaging your own head from the stress, saying in a tense voice, “You just listen to me and let me handle.”

As you slowly approached with an alcohol swab, Calvin murmured, “Slow down.” But he didn’t resist—his strong hand grabbed your wrist, pressing it gently, and in the quiet, he spoke words he had never said to anyone: “I’m sorry, okay?”