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She comes home in the early hours of dawn, lids heavy with exhaustion when he lets her in. If it was up to Ichigo, he’d rather Orihime didn’t take night shifts so often, but a co-worker is pregnant and she wants to be helpful.
Or so she said the first three times he asked her about it. Now when he tells her she looks dead on her feet, she simply rolls her eyes and heads to the bathroom. Soon, the apartment fills with familiar sounds as she mechanically winds down for bed. The lone window in Orihime’s living room lets a splintered, premature ray of light in. Ichigo decides to make her some tea. He’s slept over enough to know the in-and-outs of her apartment, the rattle of her old heater, the creak in that one floorboard between her bathroom and kitchen, the little pots of tea powder and cookies in cabinets.
Orihime’s idle noises shift from room to room as she ambles about, shutting drawers and flicking off switches. By the time he’s set her tea cup on a little plate, she’s already in pajamas and a loose low bun, dragging her futon out to the living room with a single arm.
“Oh.” She lets it flop and dusts her palms. “Thanks.”
Ichigo slides the plate towards her. She’s not a quiet person by any means, but she’s at her most silent after a shift at the bakery, content to just close her eyes and inhale the steam. He absorbs the moment with her, the early morning quiet of her apartment lulling them both into an idle haze. When she finishes up, he takes her plate and cup and sets it in the sink before coming back to her.
"You're such a good boyfriend." She leans over the counter to wrap her arms around his shoulders in a loose hug. He lets his hands drift from her shoulders to her back, then lets her go.
"Thanks. I try."
“No wasabi, though,” she complains sleepily.
“Go to bed,” he dismisses.
Orihime pretends to sulk, letting him lead her to her futon. She gets on all fours and then rolls onto her back, the world forgotten, her bed her only friend. Ichigo shakes his head. On a coffee table are his manuscripts, looking forlorn and filled with illegible pencil scratches. He should probably get back to those.
He feels a tug on his pant leg and looks down, surprised to see Orihime still awake and looking at him, face half-buried in her pillow. She pats her bedcover. “Will you stay with me?”
Ichigo snorts. “Okay.”
He nudges the coffee table away and lifts the cover up to burrow his way in. The sheets are still cold-ish, but in a nice way. He shifts a little, then finds an angle where he can prop himself up on an elbow but still be looking at her.
“I’m home,” she whispers, side-crawling herself closer to him.
“Welcome back,” Ichigo acknowledges, stroking her head gently.
Orihime wraps an arm around his torso and lets her lids fall closed, her body soft and supple with sleepiness. Within seconds, her breathing turns heavy and she’s out. Ichigo presses a kiss to her hair and then reaches for his work, lying on his back so he can keep his promise to her and still read. It probably shouldn’t feel this normal to send her off to work, spend the night here and then welcome her back in the next morning, but it does. He feels so completely himself, actualized, all his bones sitting just right in his body. He feels more man than boy — answerable to no one but himself, responsible for no one but himself and maybe. Maybe her. He likes the thought of that, the feeling of confidence and purpose it brings.
A thought is born, then dies, then is born again—fully formed, clear, right. He reaches for his papers with a renewed vigor. Hours pass, and daylight fully makes itself home in the apartment. Eventually, Orihime’s snores fade out and she starts showing signs of life, searching absently around her to make sure he’s still there.
“We should get married,” he says to her when she fully wakes up, watching her stretch her arms above her with a lazy yawn.
Orihime’s arms freeze and then drop. Her eyes split open and she blinks them again, and again, and again. “Huh?”
“I mean.” He glances at her. “Do you want to get married?”
Orihime stares at him for what feels like a full minute, her cheeks growing redder and redder as his words sink in. She suddenly pulls the bed sheet over her head and—seemingly—tries to disappear inside it.
Ichigo is honestly baffled.
“Hey.” He frowns, dragging the sheet down with two fingers until he can see her face. “What’s with that reaction?”
“Nothing,” she breathes, sitting up, looking lost. “It’s just…I mean, you said…” She flails, making inarticulate gestures.
“That we should get married?” he prompts, and she squeaks, covering her mouth with both hands.
“Kurosaki-kun,” she blurts, and his eyebrows shoot to the roof because wow, has it been a while since she called him that. Her reaction makes him consider what he just suggested, and his heart starts surging fast and hard like a delayed reaction. All that nervousness he didn’t even think to have before returns now, making him a little self-conscious. This is a crossroads in other people's relationships, he thinks and starts to panic.
“Sorry,” he says hastily, sheepish. “Was that out of line?”
“No, no.” Orihime shakes her head quickly. “It was just, um. A little unexpected?”
“Y-Yeah,” Ichigo stutters, feeling his cheeks and ears get warm. Great going, dumbass, he thinks, because honestly, this is the least romantic proposal and he really should have given his thoughts some time to marinate before he let them go to his tongue.
“Right.” Orihime says, and the pink from her cheeks has yet to recede. “So.”
“Yeah,” Ichigo says, a little stupidly.
“Was that-” She stops herself, then forges on, a little too preoccupied with her fingers. “Were you trying to-”
“Yeah,” he says again, finding the courage to reach for her hand. “I was trying to propose, I guess. Sorry it came out like that. I was just thinking, I mean. We were here, and everything felt so normal, I guess I just decided to go for it." He swallows, hard. "I've always–wanted it. Since."
"Since you started sleeping over?"
"Since a little before we started dating," he admits, watching her eyes go wide.
“Ichigo-kun.” Orihime suddenly looks vulnerable, uncertain. "You want to marry me?" She glances around her apartment and he tries to see what she sees, tries to understand why her voice got so small. In Orihime's eyes, all this must not mean much, her humble abode with shitty heating and cramped up space.
To Ichigo, it's proof that she can make life worth living wherever she goes. There's a strength in that and he’s wanted it by his side ever since he had the courage to ask.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I want to marry you."
Orihime sniffs and reaches for him. Within seconds she's in his arms, ("Happy crying," she reassures him through sobs) and he does his best to hold her tight, to calm his racing heart.
"Orihime," he says, pulling back to meet her eyes. "Will you marry me?"
Orihime nods eagerly. Then she releases a sound between a laugh and a cry, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. "Where's my phone," she mutters, still staying in his embrace but glancing around for the device.
"What do you need it for?"
"I have to tell Tatsuki-chan!" she says, sounding astounded that he would even ask such a thing.
Ichigo chuckles despite himself.
"Idiot," he says, strengthening his hold on her so she won't escape. "You haven't even told me."
Orihime whips her head around, surprised, and then her face softens into a deep and fervent adoration, eyes shining with joy. When she looks at him like this, he feels a furious rush of invincibility, like he really is every nice thing people have said about him — kind, brave, a hero.
Orihime cups his face and touches their foreheads together until all he can see is the happy curve of her mouth. "I'll marry you," she whispers, and he memorizes the shape of her lips saying it until she pulls him into a kiss and says it again.
__________
They do the shrine visit on the coldest day of the year, a bandaid they’ve been hesitant to rip off after all the excitement and buzz of the proposal. So far, only Ichigo’s family knows, and once they offer their prayers, they’ll wait until the new year to tell everyone else.
Frost breath puffs out of their mouths as they clear away the snow, their fingers cold and numb on the stone of Sora’s shrine. A ghost watches them, a few headstones away. When they’re done, Ichigo taps Orihime on the shoulder and then heads over wordlessly to perform the konso. It wails at his approach — the way most do when they realize death has come to them, a reality that screams with fear, regret, acceptance, denial, and then silence. Just silence. The air smells faintly sweet for a moment, a half-remembered scent of someone’s perfume, brief and already fading.
Ichigo returns, and they take a moment to offer their prayers — not just to Sora and Masaki, but to all the departed souls that won’t get to see their loved ones’ married next year. Nothing deepens grief more than a missed milestone and the walk back to her apartment is quiet, contemplative, their hands linked down to the knuckle.
They only part when they enter the foyer, blood slowly returning to circulation. Orihime takes the first bath and then she runs him one, too. In the water his body is slightly flushed — calloused in some parts, but not scarred. He has Orihime to thank for softening the blows, and Orihime to thank again for not being able to remember most of them. Like grief or love, the ache is only a phantom one.
When he comes out, still damp and slightly steamy, Orihime is curled under the kotatsu in a heavy robe, chin tucked on her stacked forearms.
“Hey.” He slides in with her, their knees bumping under the low table. “Thanks for the bath.”
She acknowledges him with a small smile, one hand reaching for his thigh as she moves to rest her head on his shoulder. The crown of her head is damp against his neck, but he doesn’t move her. “Today was rough, huh.”
“We knew it would be.” Ichigo throws his arm around her in a loose grip. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.” She sighs, tilting her head back on his shoulder to look at him. “You?”
Ichigo smiles. “Considered eloping once to escape all the…” He makes a gesture that doesn’t really mean anything, but Orihime grins back like she understands.
“That could be fun.”
“Tatsuki would kill me before we even left the district.”
“Oh, poo.” Orihime scowls, and Ichigo resists the urge to kiss her soft, full mouth. “Whatever happened to the punk I married who punched fifteen goons a week?”
“You haven’t married him yet,” Ichigo reminds her. Then, “Was it really that many?”
“I don’t know, I just threw a number out.” For a minute, they just stay like that, their bodies pressed ankle to ankle, thigh to thigh. Then, she pushes herself off of him, suddenly tense. “Ichigo-kun…” She sounds worried, her eyes looking lost as she searches his face.
“What?”
She swallows and her eyes tear away from him to stare at her own knees. “I don’t have a lot — some savings, and very little left over from what my aunt gave me in high school. Everything I know about loving someone, I learned from loving you. And the only real family I have is the one we made together.” Her voice catches. “I don’t…have traditions, and I never—dreamed of what my wedding or my future family would be like. I didn’t even think I would have one.”
Ichigo tucks her hair behind her ear, his knuckles brushing against her soft cheek. “Orihime…”
“This doesn’t happen to people like me,” she confesses, and he knows from the way her throat tightens that she’s trying hard not to cry. “I don’t know what kind of cutlery goes with what kind of meat—”
“ — I don’t care about that.”
“ — And I’m always so loud…”
He doesn’t refute that.
“And I won’t even welcome you home or run your baths because I’ll be at the bakery—”
“I’ll welcome you home,” Ichigo says simply. “I’ll run your baths.”
“Ichigo-kun,” she despairs.
“Orihime,” Ichigo says, “I don’t care about traditions or rules or any of that crap. Whatever we decide from here on, we make the rules. I can’t promise you that it’ll be perfect all the time, and we’ll probably have our ups and downs, but I can promise you that I’ll try. I’ll always try.”
Orihime looks up at him, unsure, and he smoothens her brow with a finger. "I know we're young," he says, "but I want this."
Orihime's eyes soften and she returns to resting her head on his shoulder, relieved, as always, by his simple honesty. "I do, too," she replies, taking refuge in the steady, confident beat of his heart under her fingertips. "You have to know I do."
Ichigo nods and kisses her on the crown of her head. "I know."
"Did you ever think about what our wedding should be like?"
Ichigo pauses. He’s never been to a lot of weddings. He doesn't think his parents even had one – or at least, not a traditional one with both their families around. He thinks back to the last wedding he went to, recalls Renji's nervous face and Rukia's wistful smile amidst a lavish Kuchiki affair — austere and regal, but ultimately happy. He frowns. "Maybe something not so formal, y'know. Something simple."
Orihime hums in agreement.
“What about you?”
She considers it for a moment, then says, "I want everyone we love to be there, and I want them to eat well. And I want to bake our wedding cake myself."
Ichigo raises a brow. "Are you sure?"
Orihime nods, wrapping her arms around his neck so she can press a kiss to his cheek. "Strawberry shortcake."
"Hm? Oh—thought you were calling me that." He quickly frowns when her mouth opens. "Don't."
Orihime laughs and holds his face so she can kiss him. "Thank you," she says, and really, she means it as a catch-all for everything, her eyes fluttering open to see the man she loves in front of her.
Ichigo gives her a small smile. "Don't mention it."
__________
They get married at a courthouse on a lovely summer day, with closest family and friends in attendance. There are no customs, no rituals, just two simple signatures on a family register — one firm and the other neat. At the dinner banquet, they sit at a simple long table with enough food to go around, and a strawberry shortcake slice on every plate. Everyone is full and drunk and just a little weepy and when their gazes are all turned away, Ichigo kisses his bride, just a private moment between the two of them. The rest, as they say, is history.