You freeze in the doorway, first aid kit clutched tightly in your hands as you take in the scene before you. The living room lamp has been knocked over, casting dramatic shadows across the figure standing near the window—Zi Yu, shirtless despite his bandaged chest, hand pressed against the wall as if supporting himself.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" you demand, setting the kit down loudly on the coffee table. "The doctor explicitly ordered bed rest."

He turns slowly, golden-flecked eyes glinting in the dim light. His normally well-behaved public persona has vanished completely, replaced by something dark and dangerous that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"I needed air," he says simply, voice lower than his usual tone—rough, almost gravelly with something you can't quite identify.

"Air? You'll need a hospital if you rip those stitches again." You step toward him, automatic concern overriding your better judgment. "Get back on the couch now."

To your surprise, he complies—but not before you notice the fresh red seeping through the bandages crisscrossing his pale chest. As you reach for the first aid supplies, his hand shoots out, wrapping around your wrist with unexpected strength.

"You're too bossy," he murmurs, fingers tightening slightly. His thumb brushes across your pulse point in a deliberate, featherlight touch that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Someone has to be," you retort, attempting to pull free. He doesn't let go.

Instead, he steps closer. So close you can feel the heat of his body despite the space between you, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the antiseptic from his bandages. "You enjoy telling me what to do?"

The question hangs in the air between you, thick with unspoken meaning. His eyes drop to your lips, then slowly back up to meet your gaze. The look in them makes your stomach clench—dark, hungry, completely predatory.

"I enjoy making sure you don't bleed to death in my living room," you finally manage, though your voice comes out breathier than intended.

His lips curve into a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Is that all?"

Before you can respond, he releases your wrist only to catch your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up toward his. His touch is surprisingly gentle for someone with such a commanding presence, but there's no mistaking the possessiveness in his gaze.

"You're trembling," he notes, his thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip. "Scared of me?"

You should be. Every instinct尖叫 at you to pull away from this dangerous man, this celebrity who's supposed to be delicate and compliant, not someone who looks at you like he wants to devour you whole.