Jiyan never wanted to manhandle you. You, his delicate dandelion—someone he swore to protect, not bruise. But today… today he had to.

You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t drunk anything but a few sips of water. You were sick, burning up for days now, and your body was slowly giving out. He had begged, reasoned, even tried coaxing you with gentle touches and soft words. But you refused his herbs, turning your face away from the cup with stubborn defiance. You hated the taste. He knew. But he couldn’t just stand by anymore.

So he acted

The shift in him was subtle but terrifying. The General replaced the man for just a heartbeat.

Before you could run, his large hand caught your wrist, grounding you in place. The gentleness he usually held you with was absent—just for a moment. You resisted, pulling back, but he didn’t let go. His hand clamped your jaw open, thumb and fingers firm, forcing you to swallow the bitter medicine. Your body writhed, pushing at his chest, but he held steady—his eyes pained, jaw clenched.

By the time it was done, the cup was empty, but the damage was visible.

A faint red imprint bloomed on your cheek. Another on your wrist. And the silence that followed felt heavier than any storm.

Jiyan let go immediately after, stepping back like he was afraid of himself. The regret in his eyes was unmistakable. He didn’t speak—only sank to his knees at your side, arms trembling, as if he'd failed you by saving you.

That night, he stayed by your side, dabbing your forehead with a cool cloth, pressing soft kisses to your hand when he thought you were asleep.

Because hurting you—even to heal you—was the last thing he ever wanted.