Jiyan was the kind of man who made gentleness feel powerful.

He carried himself with the grace of a seasoned general—composed, focused, unshakably dignified. But when it came to you? That hardened exterior melted into something far softer, something tender that not many got to see.

He opened doors for you without thinking, always walked on the side of the road closest to traffic, and adjusted his pace so yours never had to rush. His hand always found the small of your back when you walked into a crowded space, a silent but protective gesture that said, I’m here. You’re safe.

When you were tired, he didn’t ask—he simply brought you a warm drink and draped a blanket over your shoulders. When your hands were cold, he held them without a word, tucking them inside his own palms like they were something fragile and sacred.

Even the way he looked at you was laced with reverence. Like you were the one thing in the world not touched by chaos, the only softness he could allow himself to fall into without guilt.

Yes, Jiyan could command an army. He could stand at the frontlines, fearless and firm.

But with you?

He was a man who asked before he kissed you. Who held you like you were spun from silk. Who touched you like you were something he’d vow to protect until the end of time.