Of course you could. Good thing Jiyan has plenty of patience.

He’s the kind of man who exhales slowly through his nose, closes his eyes for a moment, and composes himself with quiet restraint. He won’t raise his voice—but the air around him will shift. Calm. Tense. Controlled. Like a coiled dragon beneath silk.

So naturally, here you were, tangled up with him mid-spar, your thigh hooked over his hip, one arm locked around his shoulder as you tried to maneuver a take-down. You flipped him—well, sort of. Let’s be honest, he let you flip him. There’s no way you could’ve brought a man like him down that easily if he were truly resisting.

But he humored you, like always. Quiet, warm eyes watching your every move, hands steady as he allowed himself to be your personal training mannequin. He took every strike, every miscalculated blow with practiced ease. You, on the other hand, managed to land wrong on your ankle trying to dodge a move he didn’t even commit to fully.

Not only did he let you use him as your human punching bag, but at the end of it all, he knelt beside you without a word, his hands gentle as he examined your injury. His touch was firm, precise—no scolding, no mocking. Just that calm, unshakeable presence.

And then, as if it were nothing, he crouched and let you climb on his back.

“Come on,” he said, voice low and steady. “Let’s get you home.”

Because that’s the kind of man Jiyan is—your training partner, your protector, and the one who always carries you back when you push yourself too far.