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As the evening chill settles in, Ichigo shivers on their walk home, pretending not to notice the cold. Without a word, Grimmjow shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around Ichigo’s shoulders, acting like it’s nothing. But to Ichigo, it feels like everything. An unspoken confession wrapped in warmth and the faint scent of him. Their hands brush, linger, and when Ichigo finally looks up, Grimmjow’s already watching him. The space between them narrows, their breaths mixing in the cold, and before Ichigo can say a word, Grimmjow leans in and kisses him steady, deliberate, and just enough to steal the warmth back for himself.
Ichigo stays still for a moment, startled by the suddenness of it, the heat of Grimmjow’s mouth against his. Then instinct takes over he exhales softly, fingers gripping the front of Grimmjow’s shirt as if to pull him closer. The world around them fades away the streetlights, the sound of distant traffic, even the bite of the cold air. All that remains is the pulse of shared warmth and the taste of something that’s been simmering between them for far too long. When they finally part, Grimmjow’s grin is softer than usual, almost uncertain, and Ichigo can’t help but smile back, cheeks flushed.
“Cold now?” Grimmjow teases, voice low.
Ichigo shakes his head, still breathless. “Not anymore.”