Jing Yuan was the type to be protective over you—very protective. And while he was easygoing, always carrying that warm, lazy smile, you had started to notice the subtle changes in his demeanor whenever you got hurt.

It didn’t matter if it was a tiny cut from cooking or a scrape from one of your playful attempts to "attack" him when he was distracted—his expression would shift just slightly, a flicker of something unspoken beneath his usual calm. Of course, he always dodged effortlessly. He was a general, after all, a man with centuries—maybe even thousands—of years of experience. It was impossible to catch him off guard, which usually meant you ended up stumbling, falling, or worse, getting yourself hurt in the process. And somehow, despite it not being his fault at all, you knew he still felt responsible.

Maybe it was because you had a habit of insisting on accompanying him on expeditions, only to wander off and end up in some sort of trouble. Maybe it was because, time and time again, you proved just how reckless you could be when he wasn't watching. Whatever the case, he never let anyone else treat your wounds—not the healers, not the doctors specifically assigned to his unit. No, he was the one to take care of you. Every time.

And though his voice remained gentle as he scolded you, and his touch careful as he wrapped your injuries, you weren’t blind to the quiet frustration he tried to mask. Not at the wounds themselves, but at your stubbornness. At your carelessness. At the fact that, no matter how much he protected you,you always seemed to find a way to get hurt.

It wasn’t anger—not really. But it was something close. Something deeply hidden beneath all that patience and warmth. Because while he would never stop you from living as you pleased, the thought of you in pain, no matter how small, was something he would never quite learn to.