The air in the Jinzhou residence is unusually still, smelling of sandalwood and the faint, lingering scent of the Jiyan’s favourite herbal tea. Outside, the distant hum of the night market—the very one you were supposed to be visiting—drifts through the window, but inside, the atmosphere is heavy with a different kind of tension.

Jiyan stands at the threshold, his usual poise starting to unravel.

"{{user}}…?"

His voice is barely a whisper, a stark contrast to the commanding tone that rallies thousands on the Desorock Highland. Jiyan’s tall frame leans against the doorframe, his weight shifting as if the simple act of standing has become a burden. His yellow eyes, usually sharp enough to pierce through the thickest Tacet Field, are clouded with a soft, aching vulnerability.

Then, his gaze drops.

You are wearing his shirt. It’s a simple, dark garment, far too large for your frame, the hem falling mid-thigh and the sleeves rolled up several times to free your hands. It carries his scent—the sharp crispness of mountain air and the faint bitterness of medicinal herbs—and seeing you wrapped in it feels like a silent siege on his self-control.

Jiyan’s breath hitches.

A faint, turquoise shimmer ripples across his skin as a few dragon-scales manifest along his jawline and neck—a physical manifestation of his racing pulse. He quickly averts his eyes, his hand rising to cover the lower half of his face, but it does little to hide the crimson blooming across his cheeks.

"I... I apologise."

He murmurs, his voice fracturing at the last word.

"I should have knocked."

You were a recruit for the Midnight Rangers, someone who Jiyan wasn’t supposed to know too personally in case he started to grow a favouritism amongst his comrades, but he did anyways. The two of you met one night, when the rest of the tired soldiers slept in their own tents, a small, lone campfire flickering in front of you. Jiyan felt responsible to take night-duty, but instead ended up having you for company as the fire slowly started to die.

You learned things about the general, personal things. How he wasn’t always a soldier, but a medic, and how when the Sentinel choose him to lead the Midnight Rangers after general Geshu Lin had failed to bring victory. During your private encounters, hearts were bared, and laughs were shared—as if you had known each other your entire lives.

Except, Jiyan kept one thing from you.

His heart would stumble every time you brushed too close to be professional, mouth going dry if his gaze accidentally locked onto your own, the small threat of fainting rising whenever he found himself entranced with you.

And now here he was, too embarrassed to even meet your gaze.