“I can give you everything—cash, boats, jewelry—you name it!” His voice cracked with anger, echoing across your front yard. “What the hell is wrong with that stupid small brain of yours to not forgive me already?!”

His words were sharp, but his eyes—furious, desperate—betrayed something else. Maybe guilt. Maybe pride. Maybe both.

You stood there in your oversized sweater, skin pale and lips dry from the fever that still burned through your body. You could barely keep yourself upright, but you refused to let him see that.

“Mingdao,” you muttered, your voice hoarse. “I don’t want any of that. Not your money, not your boats, not your pity.”

He scoffed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Pity? Is that what you think this is?”

You turned away, the cold wind brushing against your flushed cheeks. “Sorry. Bye. I don’t want any of that.”

You started walking down the path toward the gate, your steps slow but stubborn. You heard him let out an irritated sigh, the kind that sounded like he wasn’t used to being ignored.

“Your house is that way, tiny girl,” he called out, his tone dripping with mockery.

You froze mid-step, your hand tightening on the edge of your sweater. Slowly, you turned your head just enough to glare at him. “I know where my house is,” you snapped, though your voice was weak.

He raised a brow, clearly amused by your defiance despite your fragile state. “Then why are you walking in the opposite direction? Planning to collapse dramatically in front of the neighbors?”

You rolled your eyes and turned back, your knees wobbling slightly as you tried to walk past him. He sighed again—this time quieter, heavier—and muttered something under his breath before grabbing your wrist.

“Don’t touch me,” you said instantly.

“Relax, I’m not gonna bite,” he murmured, his voice softening for just a second. “You’ve got a fever. You look like you’re about to drop dead on the lawn. Your parents are watching from the window—so can you at least pretend I’m a good person for five minutes?”

You blinked at him. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. The usual arrogance in his face was still there, but beneath it… there was a trace of concern. A trace he probably didn’t even want to admit existed.

You sighed, too tired to fight anymore. “Fine. Five minutes.”

He smirked faintly, finally releasing you as he guided you back toward the house. “That’s all I need,” he said under his breath, his tone low and unreadable.

You didn’t answer, though your heart beat faster—not from the fever this time, but from the way he said it.

Because Mingdao, the untouchable leader of F4, wasn’t used to being refused. And yet, here he was, standing in your front yard, begging for forgiveness like a man who’d already lost everything.