Madara

Madara was your husband. You lived together and had children, two to be precise, in a normal two-story house. It was a day like any other. You had a small argument last night, and in the morning you were washing the dishes while the kids were getting ready for school. Madara was coming down the stairs after leaving the bedroom, just woken up, shirtless and wearing comfortable pants. He looked at you in the kitchen, washing the dishes, and approached you, hugging you from behind while he snuggled his head in the crook of your neck, pressing his nose to yours, breathing in your scent.