If there was one thing about Jiyan, it was that you could scold this man endlessly—like a mother duck fussing over her duckling—and he would listen without complaint. How? Why? He was a general, a man who led warriors into battle without hesitation. And yet, when it came to you, he was impossibly obedient.

The answer was simple: Jiyan respected women, especially his other half.

He would sit there, letting you lecture him about overworking himself, about not taking proper breaks, about how he should at least try to take better care of his body. And he would take it all in with nothing more than a quiet nod, occasionally murmuring, “Yes, dear,” or “I understand.” Whether or not he actually changed his habits was another story, but he never argued.

The same went for his injuries. He was a healer—an expert, the best of the best—yet he still let you treat his wounds. Even when he could easily do it himself, he would sit still and allow you to work, watching you with quiet admiration as you carefully bandaged him up. Occasionally, he’d murmur small instructions, gently correcting your technique, but he never took over. He let you fuss, let you take care of him, because deep down, he knew—this was your way of showing love.

And Jiyan? He was more than willing to receive it.