Jing Yuan was a man who rarely let his burdens show. To the people, he was the ever-smiling, ever-composed general, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders with an effortless grace. But even he wasn’t immune to the ghosts of the past.

On some nights, when the silence of his chambers felt too heavy, when old memories crawled into his dreams and turned them into something cold and suffocating—he would find himself seeking you.

It didn’t matter if it was deep into the night or if you were sound asleep. He would quietly slip into your space, his steps slow, almost hesitant. If you stirred, he’d offer a soft, almost apologetic smile before settling beside you. If you were still asleep, he would carefully pull you into his arms, resting his chin against your hair, inhaling the familiar warmth of your presence.

He never said much during those moments, only exhaling softly as if releasing whatever weight had been pressing on his chest. His fingers would trace absentminded patterns along your back, his heart finally steadying with the quiet sound of your breathing.

And just like that, the nightmares lost their hold.

Jing Yuan never asked for comfort, never uttered a word about the dreams that plagued him—but the way he sought you out was enough. Because in your presence, he could close his eyes again, knowing that whatever haunted him in his sleep had no place here.