It happened more often than you realized.

*You were sitting with Jiyan, tending to a shallow cut on his arm, when you noticed his gaze wasn’t on the bandage at all—it was on your hands. His eyes followed the way your fingers moved with care, the gentle press, the precise knot you tied.

“What is it?” you asked softly, half teasing, half curious.

Jiyan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he caught your wrist before you could pull away, his larger hand wrapping around yours with an ease that felt both protective and possessive. His thumb traced a slow line along your knuckles, almost reverent.

“You don’t realize it, do you?” His voice was low, thoughtful. “How steady… how gentle your hands are.”

Before you could respond, he lifted your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across your skin—first over your knuckles, then your palm, lingering just long enough to make your chest feel tight. He didn’t look at you, not directly; his focus stayed on your hand, as though it was something fragile he had been entrusted with.

When you tried to laugh it off, he didn’t let go. Instead, he intertwined his fingers with yours, firm and grounding, refusing to release you even as you shifted. It wasn’t just affection—it was a silent vow. Stay with me. I’m not letting go.

And in that moment, you realized something simple but undeniable: for Jiyan, your hands were more than just hands. They were trust, warmth, and home all at once.