Mad at him?
Oh, he short-circuited instantly.
Jiyan didn’t argue. He didn’t get defensive. He didn’t even ask why.
He just stood there like someone had pulled the ground out from beneath him—eyes wide, mouth parted, shoulders stiff with guilt. You’d barely raised your voice, barely turned away, but to him? That was enough.
And now here he was.
Standing outside your door. In the rain. Holding a slightly crushed bouquet of your favorite flowers.
He looked like a knight who’d failed his kingdom. Swordless, soaked to the bone, trying to rehearse the apology in his head for the fiftieth time.
He’d been there a while. Long enough for the petals to droop and his hair to cling to his face. The moment you peeked through the curtain, you swore you saw the biggest kicked-puppy eyes known to mankind.
You opened the door. Slowly. He didn’t even look up at first—just offered you the flowers like they were his last chance at redemption.
“…I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said softly, voice hoarse from standing in the rain. “I didn’t know what to do… so I just stayed here. Waiting.”
It was frustrating—so frustrating. Because how were you supposed to stay mad when he looked like that?
“…Jiyan, you’re going to catch a cold.”
“I deserve it.”
You sighed, pulling him inside by the arm. He didn’t resist. He never would.
You dried his hair with a towel, scolding him the entire time, and he just… sat there. Quiet. Obedient. Letting you fuss over him.
And when you finally leaned in—resting your forehead against his—he let out a quiet breath of relief.
“…So, you forgive me?”
“I’m still mad.”
“Then I’ll stand in the rain again tomorrow.”
Damn him.