Jiyan was a man of quiet yearning.

It was in the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, as if memorizing every detail before duty called him away once more. In the way his hand would reach for yours in fleeting moments, fingers brushing, hesitant yet desperate to hold on. He was a man of discipline, of restraint, but when it came to you, all control threatened to crumble.

He yearned in silence—when he left, when he returned, when he sat alone in his tent at night, rereading your letters as if they could bring you closer. He longed for the warmth of your presence, the sound of your laughter filling the quiet halls of his estate, the simple comfort of knowing you were safe, within reach.

Each time he held you before leaving, he lingered just a moment too long, his lips pressed against your forehead, his grip tightening as if he could somehow take a piece of you with him. And each time he returned, no matter how exhausted or bloodied, his first thought was always the same—where are you? Because no matter how far he traveled, no matter how many victories he claimed, Jiyan would always yearn for one thing above all else.

You.