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He’s been at the bakery every day that week. He tells anyone who asks that it’s for the hot chocolate — the real stuff, thick and bitter, nothing like the instant packets back home. That’s what he says. But he knows why he’s really there.
By day three, it was obvious even to him. The way he’d stand around pretending to look at the menu, like it ever changed. That he always waited until she was free to take his order and how he lingered like a creep for no good reason, pretending to check his phone while watching her hum some song as she worked.
It’s stupid. He’s leaving. Just one semester. Four months in London — literature, old libraries, Big Ben, people who say “cheers” instead of “thanks.” Everyone keeps saying how exciting it is. He thought so too. Until now.
They’re at the airport. Terminal 2. Gate C. His flight boards in twenty minutes. His dad’s there, being loud as hell. Yuzu’s crying. Karin’s pretending not to. Even Urahara showed up. His friends are there too — the whole damn support squad.
And yet, Ichigo barely sees any of them.
He only sees her.
Orihime stands in front of him, clutching a small gift bag to her chest. It’s got a ribbon and little cats printed on the paper. She looks up at him with that same smile she’s been wearing all week. Too gentle. Too brave.
“Don’t miss your flight,” she says, voice soft and careful. Like if she’s not, something might break.
He swallows and the knot in his stomach’s been there since he woke up, but now it tightens. He should say something. Should tell her something. That she makes it hard to leave. That when he closes his eyes, he sees her instead of London fog and lecture halls.
But he just nods. Of course he does.
She laughs. And for a second, he thinks… maybe. Maybe her smile is a little forced. Maybe her fingers tremble when she adjusts the bag. Maybe she’s got a lump in her throat too, and she’s swallowing it down with the same pathetic effort he is.
But maybe he’s just imagining it. Maybe he wants her to feel it too — this pull, this awful thread — so badly, he’s making it up.
Still, he can’t stop looking at her.
And he’s not sure how he’s supposed to get on that plane.
London is grey. Like, aggressively grey. The sky. The buildings. Even the pigeons gave up trying to be anything else. His dorm room is half the size of his own back home, and the radiator makes a clicking noise that sounds kind of threatening.
The bed’s too soft, the mattress dips in the middle, and the whole place smells of vinegar and damp carpet. There’s a small desk pushed against the window, a wooden board on one of the walls, a kettle that came with the room, and one sad little lamp that flickers if you breathe too hard.
He’s not complaining. It’s fine. It’s just fine.
The other students are strange and friendly. Some stare a little too long. One guy asked if he knew karate. Another girl asked if he could say something “in Japanese, but dramatically.” Whatever that means. He’s not sure if they’re trying to be nice or if this is just how Westerners are. Either way, it’s weird.
Still, he manages to memorize a few names. Oscar from Manchester. Lilly with the nose ring. A quiet girl from Wales who reads mangas during lunch. They smile a lot. Laugh a lot. It’s easy, but he doesn’t feel like he’s really in it.
A couple days later, the first lecture is in a grand old room with stained glass windows and creaky wooden seats, a place where history hangs in the air. The professor has wild white hair and every word is a performance.
"Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs," he quotes, hands gesturing as if he’s on stage, like he is Shakespeare himself.
"Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers’ tears."
Ichigo isn’t really paying attention, not until that line.
It crashes over him — a wave of little memories.
The flour on her apron. Those silly post-its in her notebook. The way she looked, as if she wanted to say something at the airport but didn’t.
He blinks, but it doesn’t go away. She’s there. As clear as if she’s sitting in the front row.
It’s stupid. It’s dramatic. It’s exactly the kind of crap he used to roll his eyes at when Keigo talked about.
But here he is. Thousands of kilometers from Karakura, surrounded by strangers and year old words.
And all he can see is Orihime.
“She sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.”
He’s lying on the bed when Chad calls.
It’s late and rain taps on the window, trying to get in, and the radiator’s doing its weird clicking thing again. Ichigo stares at the ceiling while the phone vibrates against his chest.
“Yo,” he answers.
“Yo,” Chad says.
That’s it for a while.
They don’t need much. Never did. Communication with Chad is quiet, automatic, not always noticeable until it stops. They talk about the basics: how London is cold and weird, how Karakura’s still Karakura. Chad’s been working part-time at the dojo again. Got into a boxing match last weekend — won, obviously.
“Everyone came,” Chad says. “Ishida too. Brought a friend. Girl. Don’t think you know her.”
Ichigo raises an eyebrow. “He has friends?”
Chad huffs something that might be a laugh.
“And Inoue?” he asks before he can stop himself.
“She came too,” Chad says, casual. But then there's a pause. “She... stood out. I mean, she always does. But. Yeah.”
Ichigo waits.
“She laughed a lot. Everyone was kinda... watching her.”
Something unpleasant coils low in his stomach, tight and stupid. He sits up without meaning to. It’s not anger — and he might think of a right word for it but he refuses to name it. Because he shouldn't be feeling that, because what right does he have to feel that way?
He mutters something vague and hangs up before he lets it settle too deep.
His eyes drift to the little paper bag on his desk. The one with the cat print. He still hasn’t opened it. Thought maybe saving it would make it easier somehow. Like she was still here, if he didn’t look inside.
He rises, crosses to the desk, and picks it up. The ribbon’s tied carefully. He stares at it for a second longer and then pulls it open. Inside the bag is a small envelope and something wrapped in a floral cloth.
He unfolds it.
And pulls out an… omamori.
A protection charm. Usually sold at temples, but this one is different. The fabric is stitched uneven, in oranges and pinks and blues, with tiny embroidered kanji for luck and strength. This is not something bought, he realizes, it's something she made. He imagines her, sitting late at night with a needle in her hand, maybe with her brow furrowed, tongue sticking out in concentration.
A charm for safe travels. For courage. For return.
He stares at it, holds it between both palms like it’s the most fragile thing in the world.
The envelope holds a small note and round, open letters seem to smile even on paper.
Don’t forget to eat well and sleep warm. I hope London treats you kindly. Come back with lots of stories, okay?
That’s it. No hearts. No confessions. And yet he has to sit down.
He’s supposed to be good with words. Supposed to know how to read between the lines. But this strips him down to nothing, leaves his mind empty.
After a long moment, he gets up and walks to his phone. His fingers hover over the screen too long before he finally types just one thing:
“Thank you.”
It sends. Two ticks.
Then, just seconds later:
“I’m glad you liked it! I was worried it was a bit silly.”
He stares at the blinking cursor. There’s so much he wants to say — about how her stitches feel steadier than anything in this whole damn city, about how he thinks he could probably carry the whole world with this charm tucked in his pocket — but nothing comes out right. He writes half a dozen things. Deletes them all, the omamori warm in his hand.
And then, because he’s an idiot with no idea what he’s doing, he sends her this:
"How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
—Shakespeare"
He presses send.
And immediately wishes he hadn’t.
What was that?
What the hell was that?
He runs a hand through his hair and mutters something that sounds like a curse, tosses the phone onto the bed like it’s betrayed him, then stares at it from across the room like it might explode.
Why did he do that?
Why is it so easy to fight Hollows, to stand in front of death with his teeth clenched and fists ready — and yet, when it comes to her, he can’t string two damn words together? Normal words? And not some romantic poem shit.
He pictures her again, like he always does lately. The way she looked at the airport, wrapped in that too-bright scarf, trying to smile like she was proud of him. Like she wasn’t hurting. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe it was just him.
He could’ve said something. Anything. Told her he’d miss her. That he was glad she made him lunch all week even though he said he wasn’t hungry. That he noticed when her hands smelled like sugar and cinnamon.
But he didn’t.
He just stood there, hands in his pockets, like some idiot, nodding and grunting and doing nothing. Watching her smile like it wasn’t killing him.
And now he’s in a country where the sky always looks like it forgot how to be blue, and he’s sitting on a bed that smells like someone else’s detergent, thinking about the way her hair flows in the morning sun through the bakery window.
And what does he do?
He sends her Shakespeare.
Shakespeare, of all things.
He groans and falls back on the mattress, arm thrown over his eyes.
God, he’s an idiot.
Of course she doesn’t reply.
Why the hell would she?
He lies in bed, eyes burning from too much screen-time and not enough blinking. The ceiling is blank, cold, a stupid white rectangle that refuses to give him answers. His phone sits face-up on the pillow beside him.
He flips it over.
Then back again.
Then over.
Nothing.
No little typing dots. No response. No Orihime.
The night stretches on in punishment, the entire universe is collectively raising an eyebrow at him, mocking. He buries his face in the pillow and lets out something between a groan and a muffled scream.
Why did he do that?
He’s Ichigo Kurosaki. He fights monsters. He can’t flirt for shit. And now he’s out here — halfway across the world — sending romantic metaphors to a girl who makes cookies shaped like tiny owls.
He turns to his phone again. Opens the chat. Reads his own message for the fiftieth time.
It looks worse now.
He wants to rip his hair out. Or throw the phone across the room. Or book a flight back to Karakura, sneak into her stupid cozy little apartment, find her phone, and delete the damn message before she ever sees it.
Hell, maybe wipe her memory too while he’s at it. Ask Urahara for a brain zap. Wouldn’t be the first time.
He thinks about texting again. A backpedal.
"Oops, wrong chat."
"That was for my professor."
"Didn’t mean to send that to you."
But he doesn’t, because it’d be a lie. Because who else in his life would he send Shakespeare to if not to her?
No one. That’s the damn point.
The sun is rising by the time he drags himself to the bathroom. His reflection looks like shit, bloodshot eyes, hair going in three different directions.
In the hallway, he bumps into Rose. Or Tulip. Whatever. Nose ring girl. She gives him a once-over.
“Dude. You look wrecked.”
“Yeah,” he grunts.
She keeps talking — something about rain, and British breakfast is weird, and how the pub down the street smells like stale feet. He doesn’t listen, her voice is just noise, and that’s fine. Noise is good. Better than the silence clawing at his brain.
He sits through a lecture on Elizabethan drama, his notes are garbage. Scribbles and arrows and one angry doodle of a cookie with a knife.
And still no message.
Nothing.
And then — her name on the screen.
Late. Right before the sky goes orange and everything outside the window turns surreal, his phone buzzes once.
Her name lights up.
He stares at it for a full minute, thumb hovering. He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink.
He’s terrified.
What if it’s a polite rejection?
"Thank you, but maybe keep poems to yourself"?
What if she thinks he’s weird? Or desperate? Or worse — a creep?
But he opens it anyway and it’s not what he expects.
"Even to sleep, there's no place in this world without longing; the autumn wind blows through a traveler’s heart.
—Saigyō"
He blinks.
Reads it again.
And again.
And again.
His heart goes off like an alarm. Like someone dropped a live wire into his chest. His stupid face burns and he doesn’t even know what his mouth is doing anymore but it’s definitely smiling and that’s a betrayal because what if he’s reading this all wrong?
But how else could he read it?
It’s her. It’s from her. And it’s a poem. And she sent it after his. And it’s not a brush-off.
And now he’s doomed.
He flops back on his bed, phone clutched to his chest. His cheeks hurt and his heart won’t shut up.
He should respond, right? Right? That’s what people do when someone sends them something that... that... Like that. Something like that.
He should say something normal for once.
"Thanks. That was beautiful."
"How are you?"
"What’s new back home?"
"Do you want me to come back right now because I will. I swear to God I will."
He rubs a hand over his face and groans and his heart is still doing backflips in his chest and his neck feels numb.
What does someone even say after something like that?
He gets up. Paces. Sits down again.
His fingers hover over the keyboard, type and delete and retype.
And then he gives up trying to be smart. Because he’s not. Not in this.
He grabs his copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse — a little, dog-eared thing his literature professor insisted everyone own. He flips through the pages with urgency, like there is a fire outside of his dorm and he can't escape.
He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for until he finds it. His finger taps on the passage. His lips part. A breath escapes like a whisper. Like her name.
It’s so simple he almost misses it.
But it’s perfect.
It says things he’s too much of a coward to.
So he types slowly, not daring to breathe too loud, like she might hear him across the sea.
"Go, lovely Rose.
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
— Edmund Waller"
He stares at it.
Thumb over the screen.
This is it.
His pulse kicks in his throat.
Too much?
Too soon?
He should definitely wait.
He hits send.
And the moment he does, he's falling down the side of a cliff and knows there’s nothing soft at the bottom.
He drops the phone onto the desk and watches it for a moment, then he turns away. Paces the room twice. Opens the window. Closes it again. Outside, London is a blur of lights and damp cobblestone.
Inside, it’s just him and something he never meant to say out loud.
He leans his forehead against the cool glass and wonders if she’s reading it. If she’s laughing. If she’s staring at it the same way he stared at hers.
Or maybe she’s asleep.
Maybe she’ll wake up tomorrow and think he’s lost his mind.
And maybe he has.
Because it’s just a poem.
Just a message.
Just a girl.
Except it’s not.
He turns off the light and sits on the edge of his bed in the dark.
He gets a few hours of sleep. Not good sleep, not restful — but enough to keep him upright.
She still hasn’t replied.
But it’s okay. It’s not the same kind of waiting as yesterday. It doesn’t pull at his insides or follows him with every step. She already replied once, maybe that's giving him some kind of a pathetic hope that she'll write back again.
His class has an excursion today to the British Museum. Some literature-student thing about cultural context or whatever. He didn't listen too closely, just shows up with his notebook and his usual slouch, hoodie up against the drizzle.
The museum is massive.
He doesn't expect to be interested, but he is.
They’re meant to explore and write reflections. There’s a room filled with marble — the Parthenon sculptures. Limbs of ancient gods, broken and still somehow breathing. A horse’s head, veins carved so finely it looks alive. He stares for a long time at a frieze of warriors in motion, horses galloping beside them, every muscle perfectly preserved. They’re all missing something — arms, eyes. Time.
‘Fragment of a horse from the Mausoleum at Halikarnassos. 350 BC. Even in ruin, the craftsmanship speaks of beauty and movement, a yearning for the eternal.’
Yearning. He wonders if Orihime would look at these statues and feel sorry for them. Probably.
His phone stays quiet.
He moves on. Into the Assyrian Lion Hunt reliefs. The muscles of the lions are frozen mid-struggle, spears etched deep into their flanks. It's brutal.
‘This relief shows the royal sport of lion hunting, symbolic of the king’s power over nature and chaos. From the reign of Ashurbanipal, 645–635 BC.’
He steps closer. The lion’s eyes are still full of rage. Pain.
He thinks of her, watching wildlife documentaries with shining eyes, telling him lions are loyal to the pride even when wounded.
He keeps walking.
Greek galleries next. Stone torsos. Goddesses without arms. Warriors without heads. A child curled in stone, eternally asleep, the name of the sculptor long forgotten.
‘Grave stele of a young girl. Athens, c. 440 BC. A memorial carved in mourning. The gesture of parting immortalized in marble.’
He doesn't know why this one makes his throat ache.
He’s standing in front of a Centaur when his phone buzzes.
He doesn’t move at first, just lets the vibration sit there in his pocket, a pulse against his thigh. Eventually, unable to summon any patience, he pulls it out — and her name is glowing on the screen.
And for a second, the room disappears, centuries of white stone and myth vanish. There’s only his phone and her name and this terrible, awful, stupid pressure building inside him.
Someone bumps into him from behind with a muttered “sorry”. He shoves the phone back into his pocket quickly, like it's something shameful. Like he wasn’t just standing there, breathing her name like a prayer.
He’s not reading it here. Not in front of Athena’s shattered face and a bunch of staring tourists.
He tries to keep moving.
He walks past a display of scrolls, eyes unfocused.
‘The Diamond Sutra. Tang dynasty, AD 868. The world’s earliest dated printed book.’
He reads the words twice. Thinks, absurdly, about the things people choose to leave behind.
His phone feels radioactive in his jeans.
Focus, he tells himself. But his eyes glaze over every artifact now. His thoughts start to blur. He can’t remember if he passed the same statue twice, he’s just counting seconds—
“Oh, fuck this,” he mutters and ducks into the nearest door with a stick figure of a man on it, shuts the stall door behind him.
The light is too white, the space too tight. But it’s silent and finally, he pulls out his phone.
His thumb hovers for just a moment over her name and he opens the message.
"The night is endless,
yet I must rise and go,
for though we part,
my heart lingers behind
in the sleeve of your robe.
—Ono no Komachi"
His eyes scan the lines again and again. They don’t change. They stay the same. Beautiful.
Terrifying.
He swallows and it’s ridiculous. Something just cracked open in his ribs he didn't know was locked. Knees weak, he leans back against the stall wall and tips his head up until the cold tile presses against the base of his skull.
And then he laughs, breathless. A sad, stupid little sound.
Why does she keep doing this to him?
And what the hell is he supposed to do with it?
He covers his face with one arm, even though there’s no one there to see him. His mouth is twisted into this dumb smile he can’t get rid of. His face is burning.
He can feel it, every cell under his skin is glowing, glowing, glowing.
Does she feel like this when she gets his messages?
Does her heart stutter?
Does her face go hot?
Does she reread them like he’s doing now, again and again, as if it means something?
He could delete it. Pretend this never happened. He could pretend nothing is happening. But he’s Ichigo, and he’s a fool, and fools like him don’t get to forget. He forces himself to put the phone back in his pocket and washes his face at the sink, stares at his reflection and it just shows him a flushed, wide-eyed idiot with a crooked mouth and too many feelings.
He heads back out into the halls of the British Museum, pretending he still knows how to be a normal person. As if his insides aren’t still vibrating from six lines of text.
He tries to focus. He really does.
He turns a corner and finds himself in front of another statue — life-sized, softly lit. The body is curved, draped in the suggestion of fabric, though the stone clings like water. Her face is missing. Her arms, too. But the torso remains, hips angled, chest exposed.
‘Marble statue of Aphrodite. Roman copy of a Greek original, 2nd century AD. Depicted at her bath, the goddess of love is caught in a moment of modesty, reaching for her garment.’
He stares at the gentle slope of the stomach, the carved suggestion of motion in the stone.
She’s half-dressed, half-offered, half-gone.
The curve of her waist is too familiar. The poise, the softness, the grace.
He thinks — unavoidably, shamelessly — of… of her. The curve of her back when she stretches. The softness of her stomach when she leans over a counter. The shape of her thighs beneath oversized pajamas. The way her shirt sometimes clings when she gets caught in the rain.
When he realizes what he is doing, the shame is immediate and searing.
What is wrong with him?
He wants to scrub his own thoughts out with bleach. He isn’t better than those bastards who slow their steps when she walks by. Who linger too long at the bakery window, pretending to look at pastries.
He’s no better. He’s worse. Because she trusts him.
Because she smiles when she says his name.
And here he is — thinking of her body like it’s something separate from her.
He looks away from the statue, jaw clenched.
He feels like shit.
Like if she knew what just flickered through his head, she’d never look at him the same again. And maybe she shouldn’t.
Breathe. Control. Right.
Next, he stops in front of a delicate, glass-encased sculpture, he almost misses because it's small, a wooden carving.
‘Koi no Netsuke — Edo Period (1603–1868 ). A small netsuke depicting two koi fish entwined, symbolizing perseverance, fidelity, and eternal love. Koi were believed to swim upstream, against the current, embodying strength and devotion.’
He stares at it. Two fish, carved so closely together that their bodies seem to be one in motion — forever circling, forever reaching.
Of course.
Everything, it seems, is conspiring against him.
He moves to a glass case filled with love tokens from ancient Rome. Small, round pieces of bronze, carved with hearts and inscriptions. He barely reads the plaque.
Because all he can think about is what he should send her next.
Maybe this time something normal. Ask how her day is. If she’s eaten. Something simple.
But he knows himself too well.
He’s already scrolling through his mind, through pages and pages of poems that live in his memory. Dickinson. Rossetti. Keats. Herrick. Lines about stars and fire and trembling hands.
They spin through his head like a storm is gathering just behind his eyes.
He knows he won’t be able to focus on anything else today.
All these relics, these silent things frozen in time, they mean nothing now. Because all he wants is to get back to his dorm, dive headfirst into his pile of books and run his fingers over pages and pages and search for the one.
The next poem.
The right words.
Something stupid.
Something perfect.
Something hers.
It begins the second he steps outside.
Dark clouds are pulling across the horizon when he finally steps outside, fingers dragging shadows. London smells like rain, but he doesn’t care., doesn’t even bother with the hood of his jacket. Just walks fast, faster, eyes low, his pulse chasing thunder.
He takes the stairs to his dorm, unlocks the door with fingers that won't listen to him. And once inside, he doesn’t pause. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t throw off his coat or sit or think.
He kneels on the floor by the shelf and pulls out the first book without even looking at the title and it falls open in his lap.
The storm’s already here. Outside, in the sky. Inside, in him. His breath is faltering and his fingers fearful. His heart, his stupid, reckless heart, is racing.
And there it is. No searching. A single page.
"Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream.
—Christina Rosseti"
He could laugh. He wants to cry. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid. And it’s hers.
He grabs his phone, fingers moving too fast, too clumsy, and he types it out. No greeting. No explanation. Just the words. Just that.
He doesn’t even reread it and he sends it.
The storm rages outside his window. Thunder rolls somewhere far away.
He lets it.
Because inside, it’s louder.
The days drift. Fold and unfold, like turning pages. The storm passes, but inside it doesn’t still.
They don’t talk. Not really.
She replies with something by Ki no Tsurayuki.
"In this world of ours there is nothing but illusions—
yet still, my tears flow forth when I think of you."
On Wednesday, he goes to class, walks through pouring rain. In his dorm, he starts brewing tea in the afternoons and leaves his books open on the floor, flipping them over lazily and sends her an excerpt from William Wordsworth:
"She was a Phantom of delight when first she gleam'd upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent to be a moment's ornament."
It feels like music, like a piece they’re both playing without knowing how, but maybe they don’t need to know.
He reads through old anthologies in bed, wondering if anything will ever feel quite right again. But just as he’s about to drift off, his phone glows by a piece from Lady Ise:
"Though I may see you only once,
I would weave my longing through the thousand nights that follow."
He stares at it in the dark, smiles like a fool, sleeps like a stone.
Friday, he forgets a lecture and doesn’t even care. He writes and rewrites lines from Tennyson and Browning, then picks one from Lord Byron:
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes"
He thinks the distance is his safety. That he has time to get used to the idea, to find a version of himself that can walk into a room and meet her eyes without bursting into stupid, ridiculous flame.
He is wrong again.
Because two weeks after that first message, she is there. Sitting on the cold floor of his dorm, next to his collapsed, half-conscious body.
He had chased a Hollow — his first in London — through alleyways slick with rain and cigarette ends, heart racing, focus shattered by her words in the back of his mind. He had been sloppy. Distracted. Stupid.
He doesn't remember how he managed to come back to his dorm, but he barely remembers hitting the floor, the impact. The pain. The wild message he sent to Rukia, pleading for assistance from Squad 4.
And he remembers watching the Senkaimon open — and then his breath stopping short.
Because she steps through.
Orihime Inoue, wearing a ridiculous pajama set with cartoon fruits and moons on it, mismatched socks pulled up to her knees. Hair tied into a messy bun, cheeks pink from the wind.
She looks like a dream and an impossibility, and she doesn’t say a word before kneeling down and placing her glowing hands over his wounds.
He opens his mouth. Wants to speak. But there is nothing there. Not even poetry.
Just her.
She doesn’t smile. Just furrows her brows with soft worry. And he could cry because he doesn't know what the fuck is happening.
The silence is really not comfortable. Ichigo lies still under the soft golden shimmer of Orihime’s healing dome, muscles easing against the warmth as the pain ebbs away like a tide.
He should say something. Anything.
Why are you here?
How can you be here?
You're supposed to be far away, away from my beating heart!
But he doesn’t.
He only breathes. And listens. The static of her powers, to the shuffle of her knees against the floor, to the stupid pounding in his chest that still hasn’t slowed down.
Rukia, that treacherous little shrimp, had dropped Orihime off like she was delivering a package and then left. Just like that. What the hell had she been thinking?
But then again — this reiatsu. It wraps around him in slow waves, like sunlight through sheer curtains. Familiar. Unbearably comforting. It’s not like anyone else’s, and he realizes — really feels it now — how much he’s missed it. Missed her. It seeps into him, and for a moment, he lets it. Not fighting it. Not questioning it. Just taking it in.
And... it’s not so awkward anymore.
Until it is.
The dome fades and cold air brushes over his skin.
“You’re healed, Kurosaki-kun,” she says softly, her hands falling to her lap.
He blinks and it takes him a second to understand her words. He dares — he can’t believe it — but he dares to look up.
Into her face.
Except she isn’t looking at him.
She stares at the floor. Her fingers twist in the hem of her sleeve, and the way she sits, fragile, her back just slightly hunched forward, shielding herself.
He swallows and his throat is dry.
“...Thanks,” he says, his voice sounds so damn small.
What now?
He glances at the bed. His body lies there, pale and still, like a discarded shell. Right. He should probably — Yeah.
He stands up and lets his Shinigami soul return, blinks his living eyes open and slowly sits up and breathes.
She still hasn’t looked at him.
What now?
His heart feels like a badly tuned drum. Should he offer her tea? Say something funny? Ask her why she came in banana pajamas? Tell her he’s glad it was her, so glad it was her?
Should he pretend this is normal?
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
She shifts and her socks make a faint shfff sound against the floor, knees tucked close to her chest, palms resting lightly against the ground.
And he’s on the bed. He sits there like an idiot. The soft, warm, comfortable bed. Like some kind of royal dumbass.
Seriously, is he stupid?
“Uh,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Do you... want to sit here? On the bed, I mean? It’s— it’s softer than the floor.”
He gestures like a moron to the obvious.
She looks up. Her cheeks are pink already, but they bloom a little darker. Her eyes are wide and soft, and she immediately shakes her head.
“N-no, thank you,” she says, her voice catching on the first word. “I’m good here. It’s fine. Really.”
It’s not fine and he can’t take this anymore.
“Please,” he says, more quietly now. “You don’t have to... I mean — just sit here. Please.”
Her eyes flick to him, and she nods slowly. Stands. She’s so small. And sweet.
How on earth is she this sweet?
He watches her as she walks over with hesitant steps and sits carefully on the edge of the bed, as if she’s afraid she’ll wrinkle the covers. His heart trips over itself.
He gets up before he does something stupid and moves to the chair at his desk.
What now?
He watches her look around his dorm, eyes flicking from the mess on his desk to the single cup on the windowsill to the worn-out book of poems by his pillow. She’s not saying anything. Her fingers fidget again.
Say something, idiot.
“Uh— you wanna go home probably, I— Uh, Rukia.”
She doesn't say anything so he snatches up his phone, resisting the urge to slam it against his forehead in frustration over his own stupid stuttering. Instead, he unlocks it, opens his contacts, and starts scrolling.
Rukia.
He hits call. The phone rings once, twice, three times. Nothing. No answer. Orihime is now quietly gazing at his bookshelf, politely pretending not to notice his panic.
The call drops. He presses again. Rings. Rings. Nothing. Nothing.
He types instead.
"I'm healed. Pick her up."
Send.
He taps his fingers against the screen, then it buzzes in his hand immediately.
"Nope. Sorry, no time. I’ll pick her up tomorrow."
He stares at the message, eyes wide. Thumb frozen over the screen.
What kind of bullshit is this, Rukia?
He considers calling Renji — but knows he won’t pick up. He always vanishes when things get complicated. Urahara’s out too. Other side of the globe. Not even an option.
And deep down, he knows this isn’t about time. Rukia has time. She’s doing this on purpose.
Little smug, meddling, cupid-wannabe menace.
He sighs and looks up. Orihime is still sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, thumbs moving in nervous little circles.
Right.
What the holy fuck now, Kurosaki?
He stares at the message a little longer, as if maybe it’ll change if he looks hard enough. But it doesn’t. Rukia's answer stays the same. Final. Smug, somehow.
He swallows.
He has to tell this to her.
He has to.
But how? How do you tell someone like her, that she’s going to have to stay here without sounding like a creep? With him? In his crappy little dorm room with barely a functioning heater and definitely no second bed? That she’s not going home tonight because that evil midget decided to throw her across dimensions and ghost them in the aftermath?
How in the world does he say that?
He doesn’t know.
So he blurts.
“I—I’m sorry,” he says, standing awkwardly near his chair, as if somehow being vertical helps.
“I— I’m really sorry about this. Your... gift— Uh, no. Visit. I—” He breathes out. “She’s not coming today. Rukia. She’s not picking you up.”
Orihime blinks. Her face doesn’t change right away.
“She says she'll come tomorrow. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted you, I—”
He flails one hand, like that explains it, like any of it makes sense. Like he’s not two seconds away from setting himself on fire just to distract her from this awkward mess.
“No, no, Kurosaki-kun,” she says firmly, voice gentle, cutting off his panic. “It’s not your fault. Not at all.”
He tries to speak, but she keeps going, her words rushing out, water slipping past a dam too long held shut.
“It’s my fault,” she says. “Rukia-chan came to me and told me that you were injured, and I... I jumped at the opportunity. I said yes before I even thought about it. Because I missed you so much, and I told her I could do it. I wanted to do it — heal you, I mean — and before I even realized what I was doing, she had picked me up and the senkaimon had already opened and then— then I was here and—”
Her hands are moving now too, fluttering nervously.
“I can’t believe I did this,” she says, burying her face briefly in her hands, then peeking out again with wide, anxious eyes. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your home or your life, I just... I didn’t want to cause you any problems, and now I’m here, and now I’m stuck, and— no. You’re stuck. With me.”
Her voice drops a little at the end, and she looks almost mortified.
She starts to ramble again.
“I didn’t mean to come here like this, Kurosaki-kun, I didn’t— I thought I’d help and then leave and maybe see you smile just once, but then everything just happened and I— I thought maybe I should take the opportunity because I’ve missed you, I really have, and I didn’t think it through, but when I heard your name I just— I couldn’t stop myself—”
He hears her words in pieces now.
Missed you.
Wanted to see you.
Didn’t know what came over me.
So sorry.
Thought the poems.
Thought they meant something.
I was so silly.
I’m stupid.
I’m sorry.
He’s still not breathing and she’s still going, bright red, clearly hating herself for talking too much, and yet — she’s so brave. Because somehow she still says it all. Because she always has.
And he’s just an idiot who’s done nothing but stare at her and think about how sweet she is, how warm her reiatsu feels, how dumbfounding it is that she just says these things with her heart so open like it won’t ever break.
He admires her.
He admires her so, so much.
And all he can do is just sit there, in that small plastic chair, in his too-small room, and his fingers are clenched into fists on his knees. He’s not sure when that started.
And she’s still sitting there, looking like one word could break her tears free.
But she is not backing away. Not hurrying out.
She just... waits.
And that’s what wrecks him most of all. That she waits. He can’t say anything back. Not really. She’s said too much, too honestly, and all the things that should be in his chest — brave, strong, fearless — are nowhere to be found.
He stares down at his lap, eyes burning.
What is he supposed to do with this?
Because he knows what this is. What she’s done. She’s opened a door and dared him to
walk through.
It’s everything. All the things he’s tried not to feel, tried to hold back for weeks, months — years. Every missed moment. Every almost. Every time he wanted to reach out and didn’t.
Every time he told himself it wasn’t the right time, the right place, the right her.
And now she’s here. And it is the right time.
And he’s frozen.
She shifts slightly — just the smallest move — but he panics. He thinks she’s about to leave. That this was it. That she tried and he let her down and now she’ll walk away, and he’ll have to live with this silence for the rest of his life.
He can’t let that happen.
He pushes to his feet so suddenly the chair legs screech against the floor. She startles, eyes wide.
He moves as if he is underwater and crosses the room to the one wooden board serving as a shelf, heart hammering like a war drum. And she goes still and maybe she doesn’t want to break whatever this moment is becoming.
His hand finds the spine of the one book with pages he’s turned too many times. He doesn’t even think, just pulls it out He doesn’t even need to check the sticky note. He knows exactly where the page is.
He opens the book.
And then stands there.
He could still back down. Pretend it’s nothing. Laugh it off. Say he just likes poetry. Say she misunderstood. Say anything else that might protect him from the truth of this moment.
But it would be a lie. And she deserves better than that.
It takes him a few attempts and he reads the words like a whisper, like he is bleeding.
"I have been... I have been in love with no one else and never shall, unless it should be with you."
It doesn’t sound like literature.
It sounds like a confession.
He doesn’t look at her. He can’t. Not yet. His eyes lock on the words, because maybe they might shield him from what happens next.
His pulse thunders in his ears. She’ll leave now. She’ll thank him for the poetry and walk away, gentle and polite, like she always is, and he’ll collapse into the hole she leaves behind.
He squeezes the book tighter.
The bed is creaking, she must be shifting and his fingers clutch the book tighter.
Don’t move, don’t ruin it, don’t breathe.
And before he can even look, before he can gather whatever pieces of himself are left, her voice comes. Shaking slightly.
“Is— Is this love real? Or is it just a dream I cling to in my lonely sleep?”
It almost breaks him.
He looks up and sees her.
She’s standing there — eyes shining, hands knotted in front of her, cheeks warm.
She’s not hiding, not this time. And she’s not afraid as he is.
Not of this.
And he — he feels like the floor might disappear under him.
Because he’s never wanted to kiss someone more in his life.
He puts the book back and nothing else in the world matters except the girl standing in front of him.
She’s watching him, still glowing, with eyes full of warmth and fear and feelings he doesn’t even deserve but still wants. Has always wanted.
He can’t hold it back anymore.
Not the frustration of loving someone so much for so long in silence that it’s almost devoured him from the inside out.
How the hell do people do it?
How do they wait?
How does anyone in love keep standing when the person they love says things like that and still expect to stay sane?
He moves.
Two steps.
Three.
And then he’s in front of her. His hands rise without thinking. One brushes against her cheek — just lightly, trembling almost — and the other tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.
She inhales, and that little sound...
He’s starving for her.
For all of it.
For every second he never got to touch her or tell her or hold her. For every time he dreamed about her and woke up with his heart beating.
He leans in.
Eyes on her lips.
Soft, pink, parted just slightly. She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t speak.
And how is he supposed to resist this?
He can't take it anymore.
Not the way she's looking at him — eyes bright, wet at the corners, her chest rising and falling. Not the way her lips tremble after reciting that poem, cracking open her whole heart and handing it to him, unsure if he’ll take it or let it fall.
He doesn’t think as his hand slides along her jaw, his thumb brushes her cheek, and she leans into him — just a little, just enough. Her lashes flutter.
And then, finally, finally, finally, he kisses her.
Their lips meet like the gentlest storm — tension and tenderness all at once. And she shakes. Her whole body trembles beneath his touch.
And he feels it — feels her — how she melts into him, how her fingers curl tight into his shirt, needs something to hold on to. Her lips press back against his and a broken sound escapes from her throat, almost a sob, almost a gasp. He can taste the salt of her tears.
When he pulls back, she looks up at him with eyes wide and shining, plump lips parted.
He breathes.
Give me a kiss…
He leans in, kisses her wet cheek. She blinks at him.
...and to that kiss a score…
He kisses the other cheek, such soft skin.
Then to that twenty, add a hundred more...
He kisses her temple, feels the pulse fluttering beneath her skin. Her fingers clench tighter.
A thousand to that hundred...
He rests his lips against her forehead, and she closes her eyes.
...so kiss on.
He touches her nose with his gently, tenderly, and she gives the faintest laugh through her
tears.
To make that thousand up a million…
He kisses the corner of her mouth this time, and she shivers under his touch, her breath ghosting across his skin.
Treble that million...
He leans his forehead against hers, eyes closed.
...and when that is done...
Her hands slide slowly up to his shoulders, her finger brushes against his neck.
Let’s kiss afresh...
Their noses brush. Their breaths mingle. And he kisses her, again, and again, and again and again.
...as when we first begun.