Oh, how it ached to see him like that. No teasing glint in his eyes. No playful quips. No smug, feline smile.

Just a man—your man—shouldering the weight of a world too vast for any one person to bear.

The glowing projections painted his face in shades of blue and gold, battle strategies and casualty predictions reflecting in those tired amber eyes. His arms were folded behind his back, shoulders tense beneath the white and gold fabric of his robes—General Jing Yuan. Not your Jing Yuan.

You stood at the doorway, hesitant to interrupt. He hadn’t noticed you yet. He probably hadn’t noticed anything beyond those floating screens and what they represented. The fate of thousands. The weight of every decision.

And you hated it. Hated how his smile was gone. Hated how he stood still for hours, trapped in his mind. Hated how this position, noble and necessary as it was, kept tugging pieces of his spirit away from him.

You stepped in, quietly. No words—just your presence. You walked until you were beside him and slipped your hand into his, careful, soft.

Only then did his fingers twitch. Only then did he exhale.

And only then did he finally turn his gaze to you.

No words exchanged. But he squeezed your hand—tight, grounding himself in you, if only for a moment.

Maybe you couldn't stop the war. Maybe you couldn't erase the weight. But you'd always be the quiet tether that pulled him back from the edge.