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It happens at night: Orihime’s hair falls around them like a curtain, veiling them from the world, from the darkness (creating its own pocket of darkness, indeed), so that Tatsuki can almost pretend it’s not happening at all. Orihime’s lips are soft, soft, soft, and so perfectly lovely, stealing all breath from Tatsuki’s lungs, she always has. She can’t help it, she claws into silky hair and pulls Orihime closer, tastes the way Orihime gasps—delightful and bittersweet and terrible—and thinks Ichigo, you idiot.