Jiyan hated being rough with you. Hated the idea of even raising his voice in frustration, let alone laying hands on you with anything but care. To him, you were like a dandelion in the breeze—fragile, fleeting, something far too precious to risk mishandling.

But you were you.You, who had darted across the house, into the yard, and back again, escaping him like a mischievous breeze. All because you refused to take the bitter herbal medicine he had carefully prepared for your health. He knew it didn’t taste good—he knew. But he was a general, a warrior, and most importantly, a doctor. And when it came to your well-being, he refused to bend.

Still, you made it nearly impossible.

It wasn’t until you made a final dash for the door, breathless and laughing, that he finally scooped you up—firm but gentle, like catching a bird mid-flight. You pouted, flailed a little, and he just held you tighter, carrying you back to bed like it was a battlefield he had to win.

For the first time, he didn’t ask. He didn’t plead. He sat beside you, one arm caging you in while the other lifted the cup to your lips. You turned your head, mouth clamped shut like a stubborn child. And that’s when he sighed, eyes closing for just a beat—then reached up and squeezed your cheek with enough force to puff it out, forcing your lips apart.

The medicine went in.

You coughed, sputtered, and glared daggers at him, betrayed and bitter in more ways than one. But the cup was empty.

He didn’t smile. He just reached for you after, gently easing you against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, guilt tucked in his sigh.

Because even when he had to be firm—he was still as gentle as the wind.