He knew.

From the very beginning—before the soft groans, before the sluggish footsteps, before your hand even reached for your forehead with that practiced little sigh—he knew you were pretending.

Your eyes gave you away.

Too bright for someone "feverish." Too watchful. And your voice? Barely hushed, sweetened with just enough false weakness to tug at his heartstrings. It would've fooled anyone else. But not him.

Still… he played along.

Jiyan, dutiful as ever, cleared his schedule. Sent word to the base. Postponed drills and reports. He even pulled out the herbal remedies passed down by his mother, warming them with care, setting them gently by your side.

He tended to you like you were glass—fragile, precious, irreplaceable.

You were wrapped in blankets, cradled by his presence, and not once did he mention the truth. He watched you sneak glances when you thought he wasn’t looking, caught the twitch of a hidden smile whenever he fussed too much. He said nothing.

Not because he believed the lie—but because he understood the reason behind it.

You missed him.

He was often away, a silhouette on a battlefield, a name whispered in strategy halls, a warm hand that lingered just long enough before duty pulled it away again. And sometimes, the only way to keep him close… was to need him.

So you pretended.

And Jiyan, the ever-perceptive, ever-loyal man, let you.

Because there was something deeply human in your little trick. Something tender. Something his heart couldn’t bear to refuse.

So he stayed.

He adjusted your pillows, rubbed slow circles into your back, pressed a kiss to your temple every time you “drifted off.” And as the night deepened and your breathing evened—this time, for real—he sat beside you and whispered, more to himself than to you:

“If pretending keeps me by your side a little longer… then so be it.”

He wasn’t fooled.

He was choosing you. Every time.