You really hadn’t meant to fluster him.

All you were doing was helping—tending to the cut along his side, fingers careful, movements soft, precise. But your eyes… well, maybe they lingered. Just a little too much.

It was hard not to.

Jiyan sat before you, calm as always, the steady rise and fall of his breath betraying none of the exhaustion he surely felt. But you knew better. His armor had been shed, his hair slightly tousled, his shirt loosened enough to reveal the firm lines of his torso and the now-slowly fading bruises from the last fight. And then there was his tacet mark—faintly glowing, swirling like smoke, shifting each time his muscles moved beneath his skin.

It was mesmerizing.

You didn’t have one of your own. That power, that symbol… it was foreign to your body, but you had become intimately familiar with his. So it wasn’t entirely your fault when your hand paused longer than necessary, fingertips brushing just a bit too close to where the mark flickered with life.

He caught you staring.

Jiyan didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. The subtle tension in his shoulders, the flick of his eyes away from yours, and the faint flush rising across his neck gave him away. He was flustered—actually flustered. And yet, rather than shift away or change the subject like most people might, he did something very… Jiyan.

He stood up.

You blinked, confused, just in time for his arm to loop around your waist and effortlessly lift you off the ground. Despite being freshly bandaged, despite insisting he needed rest, there he was—injured, flushed, and yet carrying you like you weighed nothing.

It was ridiculous. And a little dizzying.

He didn’t say why. He didn’t have to. Maybe it was to distract you from seeing how red his ears had gotten. Maybe it was a silent thanks for how gently you always touched him. Maybe—just maybe—it was his own flustered version of affection, choosing movement over words, action over vulnerability.

You were in his arms now, legs hanging, arms instinctively clutching his shoulders for balance, and his tacet mark glowed brighter from the warmth of your closeness.

You looked at him, and this time, he didn’t look away. Still pink. Still composed. Still Jiyan.

Maybe this was his way of saying: I’m yours too.

And if he kept carrying you like that—wounded or not—well, you couldn’t complain.