“Are you cold?” Everyone thought Giyu Tomioka was made of ice — a pillar of stoicism, his voice steady, his eyes as distant as the mountains. He lingered on the edges of conversations, a ghost in the room even when standing in plain sight. The others whispered about his silence, mistaking it for indifference. But you noticed the truth in the quiet moments — the way his gaze softened when no one was looking, the faint tremble in his fingers when carefully bandaging a comrade’s wounds.

He always lingered a second longer when tending to your injuries, his touch gentle, almost hesitant. He never spoke of these gestures, never acknowledged them, but they were there. Subtle cracks that grew wider the more time you spent by his side.

Meanwhile, he sat closer to you than necessary. His posture eased, the tension in his shoulders slowly unraveling as he allowed himself to just exist in your presence. He didn’t speak much, yet he remained by you.

When he thought you were asleep, he let himself look at you without restraint. His eyes, usually guarded, softened into something fragile. He placed a blanket over your shoulders, acting as though it was purely practical — but he adjusted it, making sure you were fully covered. “Warm?..”