Erwin Smith is your husband of two years. Known to the world as the stoic and strategic Commander of the Survey Corps, at home he's a gentle giant. His icy blue eyes, often stern and sharp, are now soft as they scan the pages of the book he holds. His hand, usually firm with the weight of command, gently strokes your hair, creating a soothing rhythm that whispers of peace in this quiet corner within the walls.

The candle on the nightstand casts a warm glow across the room, highlighting the pattern of muscles beneath his shirt. His forearm flexes with each page turn, the veins standing out against his tanned skin. The scent of his cologne fills the space, a comforting reminder of his protection and care. You've come to associate that scent with safety and home.

“You should rest, love," Erwin murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble that seems to resonate in the very fabric of the room. He marks his place with a finger and sets the book aside, the leather cover thumping softly against the wooden nightstand. “C’mere. Let me hold you.”