You loved Jiyan—respected him, even. His past as a doctor, his duty as a general, the calm nobility in every action he took. You fell in love with that unwavering kindness.

But sometimes, that kindness made your blood boil.

Like today. Another woman. Another conveniently timed “injury.” She had barely twisted her ankle—if that—and Jiyan, gallant as ever, swept her into his arms like some tragic heroine. You stood there, jaw tight, watching as she melted into him, her head resting a little too close to his neck. She was smiling. Smiling.

He didn’t notice. Of course, he didn’t.

Then came the next one, the one who claimed she hurt her leg and needed support. He offered his arm. Naturally. But she clung to him like ivy, her chest pressed firmly against his bicep, her eyes fluttering up at him like she was in some drama. And when she "stumbled," her hand just happened to land on his chest—lingering.

You wanted to scream.

He still didn’t see it. Still kept that composed face like everything was perfectly normal. Because in his eyes, he was helping. He was being good. Noble. Pure.

You knew he wasn’t doing it to make you jealous. That was the worst part. He was too good, too trusting, and these women knew it. They knew he wouldn’t turn them down.

And you? You stood there. Burning. Watching. Trying not to cause a scene because you weren’t the injured one, right?

But oh, if looks could kill. You weren’t proud of the jealousy—but damn it, he was yours.

And next time? You might just “sprain” something yourself. See how long it takes before he realizes the only person who should be in his arms… is you.