Arguments with Jing Yuan were a battle of patience and composure. While you found yourself venting your frustrations, pacing the room or gesturing wildly to get your point across, he remained seated, his expression calm and unwavering. It was maddening. You felt as though you were a storm raging against an unshakable mountain, and the lack of reaction from him only fueled your frustration further.

“Are you even listening to me?” you’d snap, only for him to continue sitting there, his golden eyes steady, his chin resting casually on his hand. His calm demeanor felt almost mocking, as though your words didn’t matter—or worse, as though he was unaffected by them.

But the truth was far from what it seemed. Jing Yuan wasn’t ignoring you; he was listening, taking in every word and considering how best to respond without escalating things further. He wasn’t one to lose his temper or lash out, believing that arguments didn’t need to be battles to be won. Instead, he viewed them as moments to understand each other better, even if it meant letting you unleash your emotions while he remained the steady anchor.

Still, that composed exterior of his drove you crazy. How could he sit there so serenely while your emotions burned so brightly? “Why won’t you say something?” you demanded, your voice sharper than intended.

He finally leaned forward, his calm eyes locking onto yours. “I’m listening,” he’d say softly, his tone steady, almost disarming. “I just don’t want to say something I might regret later.”

And somehow, those few words had the power to defuse the storm inside you. He wasn’t ignoring you; he was giving you space to feel, to speak, while ensuring his own words wouldn’t add fuel to the fire. It didn’t stop you from being frustrated with his maddening calmness, but it reminded you why he was so respected as a leader—and why you loved him. Even in moments of conflict, Jing Yuan chose understanding over chaos, grounding you even when you felt like falling apart.