Jing Yuan had a throne fit for a general—wide, imposing, regal. But if given the choice between letting you sit beside him or pulling you into his lap, the answer was always the latter.

And today was no different.

The moment you entered the room, his golden eyes softened, already lifting an arm in silent invitation. You barely made it a step before he tugged you gently by the wrist, guiding you to sit on his lap like you belonged there—which, in his eyes, you absolutely did.

“You’re far more comfortable than these old cushions,” he murmured, voice low and laced with tired amusement.

His arms circled around your waist, strong yet gentle, as if cradling the only peace he had left in the universe. One hand rested against your side, the other lazily tracing idle patterns over your thigh as he leaned in closer, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

You felt him sigh.

Not just any sigh—but the kind that carried the weight of meetings, responsibilities, and decisions no man should bear alone. And yet, in that quiet moment, with your warmth grounding him, he let it all slip away.

“You always smell so calming,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your skin.

You shifted slightly, running your fingers through his silver hair, earning a pleased hum from him. If the world outside were burning, he wouldn’t have noticed. Not when he had you like this—close, warm, his.

He could lead armies. Command fleets. But when exhaustion crept in, all he ever wanted was this: you in his lap, his arms around you, and the quiet comfort of your heartbeat against his.