The mornings weren’t quiet. Not with him around.

You’d think someone who once ruled Hueco Mundo with a bloodied jaw and a torn-up grin would learn how to close a damn cupboard softly. But no — the cabinet door slammed again, hard enough to make the spoon in your cup rattle.

“Where the hell’s the cereal?” came that gravel-edged voice, loud enough to wake the dead — or your poor neighbor upstairs.

You didn’t answer. Not because you were annoyed (though you kind of were), but because Grimmjow didn’t expect an answer. He was still shirtless, his hollow scar visible across his chest like a warning sign. Hair wild, blue as the sky over Las Noches — though somehow more chaotic now that he slept in your bed rather than some stone tower.

He rooted through the pantry like a man looking for a fight, not food. “Tch. Who the hell buys bran flakes?”

You sipped your tea and watched him. He caught your gaze, scoffed, and pulled the box off the shelf anyway.

“Shut up. I’ll eat it.”

You hadn’t said a word.

The apartment was small, but bigger than what you’d expected to share with a former Espada. The furniture was mismatched, the tile in the kitchen cracked at the corner, and the hallway light still flickered whenever you used the microwave. But Grimmjow walked around like he owned the place — probably because he had threatened the landlord when the hot water ran out last month.

Now, he flopped into the chair across from you, dragging the entire box of cereal and pouring it recklessly into a cracked porcelain bowl — one of the nicer ones, which you winced at. Milk splashed. Some spilled. He didn’t care.

“Gotta say,” he muttered through a mouthful, “this whole ‘tame husband’ thing? Boring as hell sometimes.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I miss ripping people’s arms off,” he continued casually, chewing like it was no big deal. “Now all I do is clean blood off my own nose when I stub it opening the fridge.”

You nodded faintly. He grinned like you’d laughed.

But still — there was something different about him. Not soft, not really. He still growled in his sleep sometimes, body tense under the sheets, hand curled near your neck like he was ready to fight even then. He didn’t trust easily. Didn’t say thank you unless it was through action — fixing the sink without you asking, standing between you and that sketchy guy in the alley last week, holding your hand a little too tightly when the grocery store got too crowded.

He was still a wild thing, wearing the word “domestic” like a collar with spikes turned inward.

But he was here. Every day. Even when he claimed he was bored. Even when he tried to pick fights with the coffee machine. Even when he refused to admit that he liked the way the sunlight hit the living room couch at noon, always ending up there napping with one arm over his eyes.

And sometimes, when he thought you weren’t watching, he looked at you like you weren’t just some weak human. Like you were the only thing that could keep his claws sheathed.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

He tilted his head lazily, eyes sharp. “You gonna sit there starin’ at me all day, or you gonna come here?”

You didn’t move.

Grimmjow’s smirk widened. He patted his lap. “C’mon. You married me, didn’t you? Might as well make it worth my while.”