Jing Yuan worked himself into silence.

Night after night, he slipped deeper into the rhythm of duty — memorizing patrols, anticipating threats, reading every report until the ink blurred. He was vigilant for everyone else, especially for you, and in doing so he forgot the simplest truths of living. Meals cooled untouched. Lanterns burned low while he pushed himself past exhaustion. He never noticed the toll.

You noticed.

The night you found him slumped over his desk, his long hair drifting across scattered documents, his breathing shallow with fatigue, something in your chest tightened. He looked peaceful, but it was the peace of collapse, not rest. Carefully, you slid the unfinished report from his loose grip. His hand twitched, as if even in sleep he feared leaving tasks undone.

You draped his heavy cloak around his shoulders, letting its warmth settle over him. Your fingers brushed lightly through his hair before you moved behind him, standing guard in the quiet glow of the room.

You would keep watch tonight.

Sometime before dawn, Jing Yuan stirred. He blinked slowly, disoriented at the warmth around him and the steady presence at his back. His gaze softened when he realized what you had done.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as he whispered, voice still thick with sleep. “…You’re too kind. If I’m not careful, I’ll grow far too used to being protected like this.”

His eyes lingered on you, tender in a way he rarely allowed himself.

“Thank you.” He murmured, softer than morning light. “I suppose… it’s my turn to rest.”