If there was one regret Jiyan carried, it was the quiet, unshakable truth that he could never offer you a normal life.

He could not be the kind of husband who came home every evening, who could hold you close when the nights grew cold. He could not be the man who chopped firewood while you hung the freshly washed clothes to dry, or the one who left quiet surprises for you in the morning — breakfast by the window, a note folded beside your cup. Those things belonged to another kind of man, one who lived far from the battlefield, far from duty.

And yet, as he sat there — in that old wooden chair by the small cabin — he found himself mesmerized. The late afternoon light kissed your hair, and when the wind blew hard enough to undo the tie holding it, the sight almost made him forget to breathe. You looked so achingly human, so real — far removed from the violence that filled his world.

He wondered how many times you’d had to fend for yourself while he was gone. How many nights you’d slept alone, waiting for a man who wasn’t sure if he’d return. The thought stung more than any wound he’d ever taken.

He didn’t notice when he stood up. His body simply moved — drawn by some quiet instinct he didn’t question. His steps were soundless, deliberate. By the time he reached you, he was close enough to see the fine droplets of water still clinging to your hair, to hear the soft rhythm of your breath as you worked.

His hand lifted, almost without his permission — reaching out to brush a stray lock from your cheek. But just then, you turned.

Your eyes met.

And he froze.

For a heartbeat, he looked like he’d been caught in something forbidden — hand suspended midair, expression unreadable. You blinked up at him, half confused, half tender, and it was that look that made his chest tighten. Slowly, he lowered his hand, his usual composure slipping into something quieter… almost vulnerable.

Maybe he could never give you the ordinary life you deserved. But as he stood there — close enough to feel your warmth, to hear you softly call his name — he realized something.

If being selfish meant he could have this — a few fleeting days, a single quiet evening, your laughter brushing against the wind — then he would bear that sin gladly.

Because even if he couldn’t always be the man who stayed, he would always be the one who came back.