Jiyan always noticed before you did.

It wasn’t something he said out loud, nor did he make a show of it—but there was always a quiet shift in the way he moved around you. A subtle softening of his gaze, a calmness in the way his hand lingered at the small of your back a second longer than usual.

He had once been a doctor, and no matter how far the battlefield had pulled him from that life, those instincts had never left him. The patterns of your body, your moods, the slightest changes in your behavior—he picked up on them all without effort.

Before the ache began, he had already placed your favorite tea beside the bed. Before the cramps could settle in, the heating pack was warmed. And before you could even think to reach for pain medicine, he had it laid out neatly on the table next to fresh water and a folded cloth.

You never had to ask. He didn’t need reminders.

Because this wasn’t just you, not anymore. It was his person, his partner. The one whose well-being he now held in the same regard as his blade, as his duty, as his very breath.

He adjusted his schedule without a word, keeping battles short, rests longer. His usually firm routines softened just slightly, enough to accommodate your pace without ever making you feel slower.

There was no fanfare in his care—just a quiet, unwavering presence. A steady rhythm behind the chaos of your days. You didn’t have to tell him what you needed. You didn’t even have to speak.

He was already there. And he always would be.