You were late on your footwork again. Barely half a second behind, but in a spar with Jiyan, that was enough.

He moved like a storm—relentless, precise. Each clash of your weapons rang through the quiet field. You tried to keep up, to match his rhythm. Because he never treated you like you were fragile. He expected more from you, always.

But today… your limbs were heavier. Each strike cost you more breath than it should’ve.

He noticed.

Before you could reset your stance, your knees nearly buckled. You caught yourself on instinct—but he was already there.

One hand gripped your back firmly, grounding you. The other brushed your wrist, steadying your sword hand.

“You’re overdoing it,” he said, eyes narrowing. “We’re stopping here.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t let you speak. Instead, he took your blade from you with a practiced ease, setting it aside as if you weren’t going to argue at all.

Then came the silence.

Jiyan stepped close—closer than usual—and wordlessly pulled you against his chest. You stiffened at first, startled. He rarely initiated things like this without a word.

But then he rested his forehead gently against yours.

“Training can wait,” he murmured. “I need you to be okay first.”

The wind moved past you both, cool and soft. In that moment, you realized something.

He pushed you hard, yes. Demanded your best. But he was always watching. Always ready to catch you the second your body faltered or your spirit dimmed.

And when it mattered most… he chose you over perfection.