It wasn’t even something you thought about anymore. You just felt… safe with Jiyan. Comfortable, like your body naturally leaned toward him. Maybe too much sometimes.

When he came back scratched up, you’d be there waiting, already with a cloth and ointment. If he sat on the edge of the bed, you would kneel between his knees, tilting his face up so you could mend the cut on his cheek. If he refused to sit properly, you’d simply perch yourself on his leg, steadying yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you dabbed at his skin. And sometimes, without hesitation, you’d straddle his lap to get the best angle—completely focused on tending his wounds as if nothing about the position was unusual.

Jiyan, of course, noticed. His composure rarely faltered, but there were moments when his hands would settle on your hips, steadying you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were too concentrated on scolding him for “letting himself get hurt again” to notice the way his golden eyes softened as you leaned in so close.

The truth was, he didn’t know whether you trusted him too much or if he simply wanted you to. But each time you sat comfortably on his lap, brushing ointment over a scrape, forehead inches from his, he couldn’t help but think—if this was the price of your trust, he’d gladly come home wounded a thousand times.

And when you finally leaned back, proud of your work, he would just murmur, “thank you.” before pressing a kiss to your forehead.