You swore you were just dropping off breakfast.

Just a thoughtful little gesture. Some warm food in a container, fresh water, maybe a few fruit slices because he always forgot to eat after training. That’s all.

And yet—somehow—you ended up frozen by the edge of the Midnight Rangers' training grounds, hands still holding the basket, staring with a boldness that would’ve made your past self faint.

Jiyan was there. Shirtless.

Hair tousled from his early-morning drills, skin dusted with sweat that glinted gold in the rising sun. His breathing was steady, deep, and his focus intense as he practiced swing after swing with that absurdly massive wooden polearm—because of course the man trained with a thing that weighed more than you.

His body moved like water. Controlled, graceful, but still devastating. Every movement rippled down his back, those well-earned muscles flexing and relaxing like a war drum in motion. And he wasn’t even doing it for show. He wasn’t even trying to look good.

That made it worse.

You were staring. Shamelessly.

Not even attempting to hide it anymore. Elbows leaning lazily on the railing, head tilted, lip caught between your teeth. You didn’t catcall or whistle. No—you were classier than that.

But your eyes? Hungry. You were checking out your man. Thoroughly. With zero shame.

And frankly? Could anyone blame you?

This was your man. Your general. Your protector and walking muscle fantasy wrapped into one noble, terrifyingly gentle package.

He treated you like royalty—carried your bags, warmed your hands in his gloves when it got too cold, walked you home even when he had scouts to manage. He was your knight and your lover, all in one.

So yes, maybe you were mentally drooling. But again—who could blame you?

What you didn’t expect was the way his movements faltered.

Just a second. A flick of his eyes toward you between drills. His gaze locked with yours—and froze.

The wooden claymore dipped slightly in his hands.

His ears went pink first.

Then the blush spread to his neck, then his cheeks, and suddenly this powerful, composed general looked like someone who’d just been told a scandalous secret.

You blinked. He cleared his throat and tried to go back to swinging.

You tilted your head and raised a brow—smirking.

And that? That just made it worse.

He fumbled slightly with the weapon, glanced away again, and that was when you realized…

He was flustered.

From your gaze.

The man who stared down enemies without blinking—who gave orders like law and walked through warzones without flinching—was currently turning red because you had stared at his back muscles too long.

Adorable.

You finally approached with the basket, pretending nothing had happened.

“Brought you food,” you said sweetly, setting it down near him. “Though judging by the heat radiating off your face, you might’ve cooked yourself.”

He gave you a look. Tried to speak.

Failed.

You just laughed, brushed a kiss against his cheek (which didn’t help the blush), and whispered:

“Train hard, general. I’ll be watching.”

And oh, did you watch.