You had a bad habit. A dangerously adorable, wildly reckless habit. And it was called: curiosity.

It didn’t matter where you were—whether tagging along on Jiyan’s expeditions or simply walking through a foreign market—if something caught your eye, you had to go after it. Strange herbs? You were already sniffing them. Unusual footprints? You were crouched, analyzing like a seasoned tracker (you weren’t). Glowing cave entrance? Oh, you definitely had to peek inside.

And poor Jiyan? He tried. He truly did.

He began every journey with the patience of a saint and the discipline of a general. But patience, it turned out, had its limits—especially when you were involved. One minute, you were right beside him. The next, he was turning around with a sharp sigh, already muttering your name.

You’d flash him an innocent grin from twenty feet ahead, waving like you hadn’t just given him a heart attack. “Look at this, Jiyan! Doesn’t it look ancient?”

“No,” he gritted, stalking over. “It looks like a trap.”

Still, he never truly scolded you. Instead, he learned to wrap an arm around your waist when you got that gleam in your eye. Learned to carry a tether of silk cord in his pack—just in case. Learned to expect the unexpected whenever you were near.

He wasn’t mad. Not really.

Because your curiosity, reckless as it was, made his world bigger. Brighter. Full of wonder again.

Even if it did give him new gray hairs.