You weren’t usually this irritable, but today was different. The moment Jiyan appeared at your bedside with a steaming cup of some dark, bitter-smelling concoction, your mood soured instantly.

“Absolutely not,” you rasped, pulling the blanket over your head. “That smells like something that could kill me, not cure me.”

Jiyan didn’t flinch—of course he didn’t. He used to be a doctor, and that part of him had never left. He set the cup on the table with infuriating calm and crouched beside you. “It will help. Herbs don’t need to taste good to do their work.”

You peeked out just to glare at him. “So now I have to drink something that smells like death? Might as well sign my will.”

His lips pressed into the faintest line, patience stretched thin—but never snapping. Instead, he reached under the blanket, finding your wrist and guiding your hand to the cup. His voice was steady, but softer than usual. “Humor me. Please.”

And that was the problem. Jiyan wasn’t just protective—he was paranoid. Every time you coughed, his eyes sharpened, like he was counting the seconds between each breath. If you so much as shifted in bed, he was there, adjusting pillows, checking your temperature, hovering with hands too gentle for a man who had seen war. It was suffocating at times, the way he paced the room as if guarding against invisible enemies, as if sickness itself was a foe he could fight off if he only stayed alert enough.

“Jiyan,” you groaned, “you’re worse than the illness.”

He chuckled low under his breath, not insulted in the slightest. “Then I’ll bear that title gladly.”

Still, when you tried threatening him—no kisses, no cuddles, not sharing the same bed—he only leaned down, tucking the covers tighter around you until your protests turned muffled. “You can’t win this one,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

And when you finally gave in, grimacing at the awful tea, his relief was so obvious it softened your frustration. He stayed close, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand steadying yours until the cup was empty.

It was maddening—his stubbornness, his suffocating watchfulness—but when he wrapped you into his arms afterward, letting your cold hands rest against his chest, you realized it wasn’t just paranoia. It was fear. The kind he’d never put into words, but you could feel it in every careful touch.

At least you’d chosen the right man—one who would fight your sickness harder than you ever could, even if it meant smothering you with his gentleness.