Now that you think about it, the way you and Jiyan “courted” before officially dating was the slowest, sweetest burn imaginable.

It had all started when you were nothing more than an intern under the head nurse. You weren’t supposed to handle anything too serious—your role was to assist, to observe, to learn. But fate had other plans.

The day Jiyan was brought in, bloodied and gravely injured from battle, nearly every nurse was already occupied or hurt themselves. The head nurse was down, the others scattered between critical patients, and suddenly… it was just you. You tried to refuse—there was no way you could handle such a major wound, not with so little experience and no supervision. But then… he caught your hand.

Even in pain, even on the edge of collapse, his grip was steady. “Breathe,” he murmured, calm and reassuring—as if he weren’t the one bleeding out. His hand, much larger than yours, brushed over your trembling fingers, grounding you. Then, with quiet authority, he persuaded you to aid him step by step under his guidance. (You would only learn later that he had once been trained in medicine himself.)

That night, you ended up falling asleep by his bedside, tears dried on your cheeks, terrified you’d done something wrong. But when he woke, alive and steady, the first thing he saw was you curled against the edge of his bed. That was where it began.

After that, things shifted. Small gestures—at first mysterious—appeared in your life. A packed lunch left aside for you when your shift ran too long. Flowers gathered from valleys he’d passed on expeditions. Eventually, he stopped pretending and brought them to you directly, in that matter-of-fact tone of his.

You began noticing him more. How you somehow always ended up resting against his shoulder after exhausting shifts, and how he never complained—just promised he’d wake you if anything urgent came up. He never let anyone disturb you.

There were the brushes of hands in passing. The one time in his office when your lips almost touched before a knock ruined the moment—you’d fled, heart racing. And yet, those near-misses only grew more frequent, leaving your chest full of butterflies.

Jiyan’s way of courting you was never overwhelming. It was steady. Intentional. Respectful. Walks through quiet paths you never would’ve dared to take alone. Small picnics where he’d insist on sharing the food he’d carried himself. A sense of safety you didn’t even realize you’d been craving until it became second nature.

And finally—one golden evening at a picnic after your shift—he reached for your hand. You met him halfway, fingers twining. The two of you leaned in, hesitant but certain, until your lips met in a kiss as soft and sweet as the setting sun.

No interruptions. No rush. Just two people whose love had slowly bloomed into something undeniable.