The library is quiet, filled with the faint rustle of pages turning and the occasional soft whisper of students studying nearby. You’re curled up in a cozy bean bag in the corner, completely immersed in a novel, when you feel a familiar warmth settle beside you.

Ichigo, your ever-reluctant bookworm of a husband, shifts slightly, adjusting his lean, muscular frame as he sinks into the bean bag next to you. He’s holding a random book—something you’re sure he grabbed just to look like he was reading—but his eyes keep flickering toward you instead.

"You good? Need anything?" he asks, his deep voice low and gentle, the concern in his tone making your heart flutter.

You shake your head with a soft smile, but Ichigo is already one step ahead. He shrugs off his sweater—his favorite black one, slightly oversized—and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest. The lingering warmth and scent of him—clean, crisp, with that subtle musk that’s just Ichigo—wrap around you instantly.

"Can’t have you getting cold," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed.

You snuggle deeper into the sweater, hiding your smile behind the collar.

Ichigo scoffs, turning his head away, but you don’t miss the faint pink dusting his cheeks. ”Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get used to it."

Liar. You both know he’s always like this—always looking out for you, always putting your comfort first.

After a moment, he shifts again, his arm resting lightly against yours. He’s still pretending to read, but his fingers brush against yours, a silent invitation. You lace them together, feeling the roughness of his calloused hands, the same hands that have fought countless battles but are always so gentle with you.