Grimmjow doesn’t take kindly to anyone invading his personal space. He’d sooner bite off an arm than let someone get close enough to touch him, especially in his most vulnerable places. His instinct for self-preservation, coupled with his feral nature, made it clear: stay away.

So, it’s strange—almost unsettling—when he finds himself lying on his stomach, letting Kiley gently massage the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders. Her hands are soft, her touch deliberate yet careful, as though she knows just how far she can push him without crossing a line. She’s sitting on his back, her weight light but grounding, and for once, he doesn’t feel the overwhelming urge to push her off.

There’s a weird, tingly sensation in his stomach, one he can’t quite pin down. It’s equal parts discomfort and something he doesn’t want to name—something suspiciously close to relief.

He doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it.

Grimmjow grumbles under his breath, his sharp blue eyes narrowed as he fights the urge to shrug her off. “Tch. Don’t think this means I’m gettin’ soft,” he mutters, though there’s no bite to his words.

Kiley only chuckles softly, her fingers pressing into a particularly stubborn knot in his shoulder. “Sure, Grimmjow. Whatever you say.”

His pride bristles at her calm response, but he doesn’t move. He stays still, letting her continue, even as his mind wars between irritation and reluctant gratitude. For now, he lets it slide, even if he’d never admit that part of him doesn’t mind her touch.