Jiyan wasn’t one to raise his voice. He was a man of discipline, of carefully measured words and restrained emotions. But when he was mad—truly mad—it was unmistakable.

The air felt heavier, charged with unspoken tension as he stood before you, arms crossed, his piercing gaze locked onto yours. There was no shouting, no outburst, just the suffocating weight of his disappointment. That was always worse.

His jaw was tight, his usual warm expression replaced with something colder, unreadable. He didn’t pace, didn’t fidget—he just stood there, silent, waiting. Waiting for you to explain, to justify, to understand why he was so upset.

He had warned you—told you not to act recklessly, not to put yourself in danger. Yet here you were, standing before him after doing the exact opposite.

And then, finally, he exhaled, rubbing his temples as if to push away the frustration simmering beneath his skin. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual, steady but laced with something sharp. Not anger—concern.

Because no matter how mad he was, nothing could overpower the fear of losing you.