qifrey x gn reader
cw: none
word count: 815
notes: this is my first time ever posting the stuff i write so bear with me, i just watched the newest episode of WHA and binge read the series, and im in love. big fan of librarian gojo so i def want to write more in the future with him lolz, (also i lowk bs thru the setting so dont mind that too much)
The sun had barely begun to peak over the rolling hills surrounding the atelier when you awoke, the tiniest rays slowly inching their way through your window gently pulling you from slumber.
For a moment everything was still, the kind of stillness that only existed in early mornings like this one.
A faint winter chill lingered in the air, brushing against your exposed skin and seeping into the room, while outside the wind stirred the hanging chimes, their distant, delicate sound carried through the atelier.
The cold felt sharper than usual only because the space beside you was empty, the warmth you had fallen asleep next to noticeably absent. Somewhere deeper in the house the faint creaking of wood marked Qifrey’s quiet movement through the halls, already awake and moving with familiar purpose.
By the time you rose from bed and made it down the hallway the familiar scent of ink and fresh parchment had reached you. The smell led you to the master work room like an invisible guidance orb, pulling you to your destination, and of course Qifrey.
He sat at the long work table, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, one hand steadying a stack of diagrams while the other carefully drew along a spell in progress. His posture was relaxed in a way that came from years of repetition and hard work, and now you had the pleasure of sitting right beside him as he toiled away.
Qifrey made no move to turn around when you shuffled to the doorway, he didn’t need to.
“You’re awake early,” he said, voice still rough from sleep and yet so gentle at the same time.
“You say that like its unusual,” you replied, finally crossing into the threshold.
“It used to be,” he answered with a hum.
You huffed in amusement as you approach him, eventually standing slightly behind him, and without thinking too much of it, you leaned over his shoulder, just enough to peer at his work. There was no more hesitation between either of you anymore, no careful distance, and no awareness as to what might or might not be appropriate.
Just this.
Qifrey finally looked at you then, and his expression softened in that familiar way when he missed you. “Sleep ok?” he asked. “Decent,” you replied “You were up earlier than normal, why is that?”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth, “I had work.”
“You always have work.”
“And yet,” he replied lightly, “you act surprised.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no hint of malice in the motion. You reached for a quill to start your own work, brushing your hand with Qifrey’s for only a second and he paused.
Then he reached for your hand and caught your fingers more deliberately this time, making you drop the quill onto the desk with a faint clatter. He lifted your palm in his and his brow furrowed faintly.
“You’re freezing,” he said.
“It’s Winter,” your replied plainly.
“It shouldn’t be this cold indoors” he countered, and before you could argue further, he brought your hand to his face, not to study or inspect it but simply to warm it. His breath ghosted over your knuckles for a moment before he gently brought them to his mouth.
Warm air, steady and soft, brushed against your skin as he exhaled slowly into your fingers.
You blinked at him. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
His grip shifted slightly, and before you could react, his other hand slipped around your wrist, guiding your second hand forward as well.
“Both of them,” he added quietly.
You didn’t argue this time.
He repeated the motion, warming your other hand just as carefully—breath soft, unhurried, deliberate in a way that made the cold feel distant, like something that had already passed. Then he gathered both of your hands between his own, rubbing slow warmth back into your fingers.
After a moment, he released you just long enough to tug his sleeves down from where they had been rolled, covering his forearms completely. The fabric fell into place with a soft rustle before he reached for you again, guiding both of your hands beneath the warmth of his sleeves.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
“You should wear something warmer in the mornings,” he added, though there was no real reprimand in his voice.
“What are you, my caretaker?” you muttered.
A faint hum of amusement. “I suppose I am, in some sense.”
The atelier settled back into its usual rhythm after that. Ink scratching softly, pages turning, the wind outside still persistent but less intrusive now that warmth had returned to your fingers in small, lingering traces.