Jiyan was the kind of man who made you feel heard, no matter how insignificant your stories seemed. Even after a long day commanding troops or strategizing for the safety of his people, he’d come home, remove his armor, and sit down beside you with unwavering attention.

It didn’t matter if you were rambling about a new book you’d read, a trivial encounter in town, or something as mundane as the weather. He’d rest his chin on his hand, his sharp eyes softening as he listened to every word. Occasionally, he’d nod or hum in acknowledgment, showing he was genuinely engaged, no matter how exhausted he looked.

“You must be tired,” you’d say, pausing mid-story. “I can save this for later.”

But he’d shake his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Please, continue. Your voice is a far better way to end my day than silence.”

Even when his fatigue was obvious, when the weight of his responsibilities bore down on him, Jiyan still made the time and effort to show that what you said mattered. It wasn’t just about hearing your words—it was about the way his presence reassured you that he cared, that no matter how busy his life as a general was, you were his priority.

It was moments like these that reminded you of why you loved him so deeply: his unyielding devotion, not just to his duties, but to you.