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Orihime froze in the middle of the living room, nervously biting her lip, her hands clasped behind her back. Ichigo, hunched over his laptop, was frowning as he ran his fingers across the keyboard, staring at the order lines, and at first he didn't notice her. Sometimes she would stop halfway to something, pause thoughtfully, and then, remembering something, abruptly turn around and flutter away. That was how she was: impulsive, a little absent‑minded, forever lost somewhere in her thoughts. Ichigo was used to it. But there was something he wasn't used to.
— Kurosaki‑kun, — Orihime called softly.
Or rather, he had unused it. The last time he had heard that address from her was about five years ago, when they were both eighteen. Back then she still got shy, blushed when their eyes met. But now everything was different. Now they were married. She herself bore his surname — Kurosaki. And suddenly, again — «Kurosaki‑kun», like in those distant days. It cut his ear, stung somewhere under his ribs.
He instantly shifted his gaze from the screen to his wife and set the laptop aside. She looked agitated — tense, pale, with slightly widened eyes, and her fingers behind her back were restlessly fiddling with the hem of her shirt, crumpling the fabric.
— What's wrong? — his voice sounded wary. — Why «Kurosaki‑kun» all of a sudden?
Orihime dropped her eyes to the floor, shifting from foot to foot, and remained silent. The silence stretched on, filling the space between them. Ichigo couldn't take it — he stood up, crossed the distance separating them, and stopped in front of her. He hated it when she was anxious: it threw him off balance and robbed him of his usual confidence.
— What happened, Hime? — he asked more softly, almost pleading, and carefully touched her shoulder, trying to catch her gaze.
Orihime finally raised her head. In her eyes was a mixture of bewilderment and happiness, her lips trembled in a hesitant smile. She slowly held out her open palms to him — on them lay two white tests.
— I think... — her voice broke, becoming almost a whisper, — I think you're going to be a dad soon.
Ichigo was struck as if by lightning — just for a moment, but that was enough for the world around him to cease to exist. He wasn't an idiot and he perfectly understood what two clear lines on a white plastic test meant, especially combined with her trembling «you're going to be a dad soon». And of course, he was well aware that this could happen, given that they weren't the type to regularly use contraceptives. But a cognitive dissonance occurred in his head — thoughts collided, mixed together, got stuck somewhere between «it's obvious» and «this can't be happening».
He shifted his gaze from the tests to his wife. Orihime was smiling uncertainly — timidly, almost guiltily, as if apologising for the storm she had just stirred up in his soul.
— We're going to have... a baby? — his voice broke in the middle of the phrase, went hoarse, became unfamiliar and rough.
— Yes, — she gave a weak nod, and at that same moment her eyes filled with tears. And then it hit Ichigo. Realisation crashed down on him with all its weight and at the same time lightness: inside her a new life was growing, their life, something tiny and incredibly important.
He cupped her face in his palms — carefully, as if she were made of fragile glass — and began kissing her everywhere: the tip of her nose, her wet cheeks, her closed eyelids where unshed tears glistened, her forehead. He kissed greedily, ardently, trying to convey everything he couldn't put into words.
— Thank you, — he breathed out between kisses, — thank you. Thank you, Hime.
In response, she happily wound her arms around his neck — her fingers locked at the nape, pulling him closer — and burst into tears. Tears streamed down her cheeks in hot rivers, fell onto his shoulder, leaving damp marks on the fabric of his T‑shirt, but she didn't try to hold them back or wipe them away. Everything that had been building up inside her over the past few minutes poured out in that silent weeping. She buried her face in his neck, greedily inhaling his familiar scent, and felt his arms press her tighter to him, felt his breath tangle in her hair.
***
Back then, Ichigo thought he was the happiest man in the world. His head spun from the realisation, his chest swelled with warmth, and a smile spread across his face of its own accord whenever he looked at his wife. But the next morning, when the euphoria had subsided a little and the fog had cleared, it dawned on him — the scale of the coming disaster was impressive. And this catastrophe had names, faces, and, most frighteningly, male forms.
It all started with small things. After a visit to the doctor, they confirmed — soon they would have a baby, definitely with Ichigo's red tufts and Orihime's disarming smile. The term was still small — only six weeks, a tiny dot on the ultrasound monitor that had already managed to turn their world upside down. But the future father seemed to have snapped. Every fifteen minutes, Ichigo would jump out of the room to personally make sure his wife was all right. Orihime could just be sitting on the sofa, absorbed in a book, or quietly drinking tea in the kitchen, but in his imagination a horrifying scene was already unfolding: she slipped, fell, hit herself, felt unwell, and he wasn't there. His heart pounded wildly as he ran, and only when he saw her — alive, unharmed, slightly surprised by his appearance — did he exhale and return, only to repeat this cycle fifteen minutes later.
And every working day of Orihime's became a test for Ichigo. He couldn't be there every second, although sometimes he worked at her bakery at a free table, pretending to be focused on his laptop while secretly watching her movements behind the counter. On days when he stayed home, he sent her a message every ten minutes — «how are you?» «everything okay?» «not too tired?» — and called every half hour to hear her voice and make sure nothing had happened to her. Orihime would laugh into the phone, say he was worrying too much, but Ichigo couldn't stop.
But scarier than overprotectiveness was... jealousy.
Ichigo had never been a jealous person before. Yes, he protected his wife from excessive male attention, but he completely trusted Orihime. Now, however, everything had changed. Now every glance thrown at her by a stranger seemed like a challenge to him. Every accidental smile toward a customer or a shop assistant — an encroachment on his territory. He didn't recognise himself: inside, a dull, sticky irritation would boil up when someone came too close to her, and he had to grit his teeth until they ground, holding himself back from being rude.
***
— I'll go myself, — Ichigo jumped up from the sofa the moment Orihime announced she was going to the store to buy groceries for dinner. He was already pulling on his jacket without looking where he was putting his arms, and his voice held categorical determination.
— Ichigo, I need to get more fresh air and walk, — the girl objected softly, slipping on a light cardigan. — I'll combine pleasure with usefulness. Besides, I'm better at picking vegetables than you.
— What's there to pick? — he snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. — Tomatoes are red and round; daikon is like a carrot but white. What difference does it make?
— Ichigo...
— Fine, — he gave in, exhaling loudly. — We'll go together, but hold my hand. And don't take a single step away from me.
In the store, Ichigo never took his wary eyes off Orihime while her own eyes roamed carelessly over the shelves with their colourful packages. He kept turning around, checking that she was still there, and each time he found her among the aisles — so focused, so sweet, her head tilted slightly in thought. Reaching the vegetable section, the girl stopped, scrutinising the tomatoes critically, and it was there that Kurosaki spotted the first «danger».
Next to Orihime, at arm's length, stood an elderly man — grey‑haired, in a rumpled sweater, a shopping bag in his hand — leisurely picking out produce. When she approached the same crate as the man to get a closer look at the tomatoes, Ichigo tensed internally. He stepped forward, loomed over the old man, and said in a voice in which steely notes cut through too clearly:
— Those tomatoes are already overripe. Over there, further along, are better ones. — Ichigo tried to put a friendly smile on his face, but it didn't... work.
The man looked up at him with a puzzled expression, frowned, then silently shook his head and moved away. Orihime smiled at the corners of her lips, but a hint of embarrassment crept into her voice:
— Ichigo, he just wanted to buy tomatoes.
— He was standing too close to you, — he muttered, frowning, and gently but insistently took her by the elbow, steering her away towards other aisles. — And he was looking at you.
— He was looking at the tomatoes, — Orihime repeated patiently, but a faint smirk was already creeping into her voice.
— He was looking in your direction. I saw it, — Ichigo cut in, and his voice held an iron certainty that brooked no argument.
At the checkout they were met by a very young trainee. He enthusiastically began scanning their groceries, deftly handling the scanner, and, looking up at Orihime, beamed with a genuine, almost boyish smile:
— You look wonderful, ma'am!
The girl answered with her disarming smile and thanked him with a nod. And Ichigo froze in place. His hand, already reaching for the bag, hung in mid‑air. He stared at the boy with such a combustible mix of suspicion and barely contained fury that the trainee literally went pale. The boy's fingers trembled as he counted out the change, and his voice treacherously stammered, breaking on every number.
— He said «ma'am», — Ichigo growled as they left the store. The air outside felt fresher, but inside he was still boiling. — He could have said «customer». Or just kept quiet. But he said «ma'am». And smiled. Too wide.
— Ichigo, he was just being polite, — Orihime sighed, but a trace of mockery slipped into her voice. She glanced sideways at her husband, barely suppressing a smile. — How sweet that you care about me.
— I'm not «caring», — he grumbled, shrugging his shoulder, and lifted his head with feigned pride. — I'm protecting my family. — But inside, he already felt like a complete idiot.
***
Then it got worse. Jealousy spilled over onto close people.
Before, Ichigo had always been calm about Orihime's interactions with Uryu and Chad. He understood perfectly well: she was the light of their team not only for him, and that suited him completely. On the contrary, it even reassured him — after all, that made Orihime practically invulnerable in his absence.
But pregnancy changed everything.
Uryu called fairly often. He was still a student, but thanks to his father he sometimes worked part‑time at the hospital, gaining experience. And Orihime was his main patient. Although Ishida himself was a paediatrician, that didn't stop him from giving recommendations on nutrition and vitamins — and Orihime gratefully accepted his care.
That day she was sitting in the kitchen, talking on the phone, absently twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Her voice held its usual warmth:
— I'm taking all the vitamins, Ichigo checks, — she smiled into the phone, occasionally breaking into quiet laughter when Ishida on the other end made some remark. — I feel good: no nausea, just slight weakness in the mornings. And some food preferences have appeared...
Ichigo, passing by with a mug in his hand, stopped dead. His hearing was excellent, and he caught Uryu saying something about «hormonal changes». Kurosaki's eyebrows shot up, his fingers tightened around the mug a little more, and his face froze in an expression of wounded dignity.
— Is he discussing your body with you? — Ichigo burst into the kitchen, looking displeased at his bewildered wife. — That's an intimate topic!
— Ichigo, he's a doctor. He's just giving advice, — Orihime answered patiently, covering the speaker with her palm.
— I can give advice too! — the man resolutely walked up to her and took the phone from her hands, not giving her a moment to react. Uryu on the other end politely waited in silence. — Hey, Ishida, this is my wife. And my child. I know what she needs to eat. I know what vitamins she needs to take!
A tense silence fell, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock. Orihime rolled her eyes and quietly chuckled, shaking her head.
— I understand, Kurosaki, — Uryu's voice on the phone sounded even, with barely perceptible irony. — You're jealous of her GI tract on my behalf. How sweet. Very touching. Give her my regards.
And he hung up. Orihime took the phone, put it to her ear, and heard short beeps. She turned to her husband, and the corners of her lips twitched into a smile:
— Honey, are you jealous of me for Uryu? — she asked softly, with a hint of mockery in her voice, and tossed her hair back. — You know he's like a brother to me.
— I'm not jealous! — Kurosaki started, and his cheeks turned slightly pink — he averted his gaze, staring at the wall. — It's just that he... he's discussing your body with you! He knows too much about you. And I should be the main and only expert on your body!
Orihime laughed out loud — lightly and ringingly — and ran her palm over his cheek, pausing for a moment, touching his cheekbone with her fingers.
— Hey, Ichigo, you're already the main expert. You know things Uryu will never know.
Ichigo snorted, looking away, but inside he thawed a little. His shoulders relaxed, and he no longer looked as ruffled as a minute ago. He raised his mug, took a sip of cooled tea, and muttered something unintelligible, like «he still calls too often». Orihime just smiled, shook her head, and went back to her phone, as if nothing had happened.
***
In Ichigo's mind, Chad was the most reliable person you could count on in any situation. He sometimes dropped by when he was in Karakura — brought gifts from other cities and countries, quietly drank tea, occasionally asked general questions: «how are things?» «any news?» Safe, predictable, reliable. The calmest of all possible intrusions into their daily life.
But now even Chad couldn't escape Kurosaki's jealousy.
The three of them were sitting in the living room. Orihime, wrapped in a soft plaid, was settled on the sofa, leaning against the armrest with her legs tucked under her. Lately, fatigue had been showing more than usual, so she and Ichigo were planning to get details at the first screening. She looked a little paler than usual, but calmness glowed in her eyes.
Chad sat nearby, at the other end of the sofa, and talked mostly to Ichigo, occasionally glancing at Orihime when she chimed in. Nothing new that could have sharpened Ichigo's jealousy was happening — ordinary conversations, ordinary gestures. But it didn't satisfy him. All because Chad was sitting too... proprietarily. Too relaxed. Too calm for a man who was in the same room as his pregnant wife.
— Chad, — Ichigo suddenly cut off the conversation sharply, sitting opposite them in an armchair. His voice sounded dry, with metallic notes. — Move over.
— What? — Sado and Orihime asked at the same time, turning their heads towards him.
— Move to the left, — Ichigo repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze was fixed on how Chad had taken a seat on the sofa.
Chad didn't argue, although a slight puzzlement showed on his face. He obediently shifted, freeing up space. Orihime, however, frowned, looking from her husband to their friend and back.
— Ichigo, he has nowhere else to move! — indignation crept into her voice.
— He does! — he cut in, without even blinking.
— Why? — she slapped the armrest with her open palm in annoyance, and the plaid slipped a little off her shoulder.
— Because he's breathing in your direction! — Ichigo blurted out, and he himself was startled by his own words.
A dead silence fell, so thick you could hear the clock ticking on the wall. Orihime covered her mouth with her palm to keep from laughing, but her shoulders were already shaking with barely contained mirth. Chad slowly shifted his gaze to Ichigo, then to Orihime, then back to Ichigo. For a second he was silent, weighing what he'd heard. Then he stood up and, too calmly, without a trace of offence, said:
— I understand. I'll wait in the hallway.
And he walked out, closing the door behind him.
— Ichigo, you drove a friend into the hallway! — Orihime watched as her husband rose from the armchair, walked over to her, scooped her up along with the plaid, and carried her back, sitting down with her in the armchair. Now she was sitting on his lap, her back resting against his chest. Not that it was comfortable — both Kurosakis were not fans of open displays of affection, and the pose felt a little unnatural to her. But there was no choice. — Ichigo, I love you. And I'm grateful for your care. But please, don't turn into a mother hen. You know Chad would never hurt me. Or do you want our baby to be born and see his uncles flinch away from his father?
Ichigo buried his nose in the top of her head, took a deep breath, and exhaled quietly:
— I'll try...
They called Chad back, and he, as if nothing had happened, silently took his place on the sofa. Calm returned to the living room, as if that strange scene had never happened.
Everyone could use that kind of calm and patience — the kind Chad had.
***
The hardest day for Orihime was the day of the first screening. The anxiety for the baby, mixed with Ichigo's eternal overprotectiveness and her own impatience, drained her strength at an alarming speed. In the clinic corridor, several couples were sitting — all just as tense, with appointment cards clutched in their hands. When they were called, Ichigo stepped into the office first, squaring his shoulders and looking around warily, as if he were preparing not for an examination but for a battle.
The doctor turned out to be a man of about thirty — young, well‑groomed, with a neatly tied tie and a warm, disarming voice that probably made many female patients drop their guard. He turned to the newcomers and gave them a routine, professionally welcoming smile:
— Hello, Kurosaki‑san. How are you feeling?
— Hello! Everything's fine, thank you, — Orihime answered, and her voice sounded brighter than she actually felt.
— Excellent. And this, I presume, is your husband? — the doctor shifted his gaze to Ichigo, who stood beside her with a stony face, jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his cheeks stood out.
— Yes, Kurosaki Ichigo, — Orihime discreetly but insistently touched her husband's back with her palm, as if nudging him into action.
— Nice to meet you, — the doctor extended his hand, and Ichigo responded to the handshake with an expression as if he were squeezing not a palm but a throat.
— Likewise, — he forced out through his teeth, and his smile came out more like a snarl.
— Well, Kurosaki‑san, let's begin. Expose your abdomen and lie down on the examination couch, — the young man gestured to the white, sheet‑covered surface. — And your husband can sit next to you if he's very worried.
He muttered something unintelligible in displeasure but obediently sat down on the chair, gripping his wife's hand with such force as if he were afraid she might be snatched away at any moment. His fingers were warm and slightly damp — it was unclear whom he was trying to calm with this gesture, her or himself. Inside him, two opposing forces were at war: one, reasonable, reminded him that the doctor was an educated specialist, he was friendly with all patients, and there wasn't a hint of flirtation in his words; the other — wild and jealous — was raging, demanding that this handsome fellow be moved as far away from his wife as possible.
The doctor, meanwhile, adjusted the machine, squeezed clear gel onto the probe and onto the girl's stomach, quietly murmuring to himself: «let's take a look». He moved the probe over her slightly rounded abdomen, occasionally pressing and peering at the monitor, and each of his movements echoed in Ichigo's chest with a dull, throbbing pain. All this time, he watched with undisguised hostility as the doctor's hand — young, handsome, single, self‑assured — touched his wife, his child, his territory. Orihime, on the contrary, was trying to make out at least something on the screen, but the monitor was turned awkwardly, and she could see only blurred shadows.
— Well, what can I say... — the doctor held a theatrical pause and smiled more warmly, more sincerely. — At first glance, everything is perfectly fine. You can't feel it yet, but the baby is already very active. Let me show you.
With these words, he turned the monitor towards the future parents, and Orihime gasped — joyfully, ringingly, happily, rising on her elbows, forgetting about awkwardness and tension.
— Ichigo! Ichigo, look! — she tugged at his hand, pulling him closer to the screen.
Ichigo looked. He saw that tiny lump, but in it he could already clearly distinguish the head, the torso, tiny arms and legs, and even fingers, like barely visible dots. Something stirred inside him — warm, viscous, unfamiliar, melting the ice in which his jealousy had been encased. But at the same time, that warmth only fuelled the fire of overprotectiveness: now he knew that this baby existed, that he was already moving, that he was wholly and completely dependent on them — and on how well Ichigo could protect his family.
— Can I move the probe myself? — Ichigo asked unexpectedly, and Orihime froze, digesting what she'd heard. The question was absurd to the point of ridiculousness — who in their right mind asks a doctor for permission to play with an ultrasound machine? But Ichigo wanted to be involved in everything that concerned his child. Even that.
— Ichigo! — the girl practically hissed. She. Hissed. Never in her life had she hissed at him like that. Not once in all the years they'd known each other.
But the doctor, to Ichigo's luck (though he couldn't have cared less about the doctor's opinion), wasn't so categorical. He smiled good‑naturedly, and warmth crept into his voice:
— I understand, Kurosaki‑san, the first child is always exciting. And I can see how devoted you are to your wife. But allow me to finish the diagnostic and perform all the necessary calculations to make sure the baby is developing properly.
He spoke calmly, without a hint of irritation or arrogance, and that for some reason made Ichigo even angrier. He didn't know which was worse — when the doctor was aggressive and spoiling for a conflict, or when he was so... friendly. The second seemed far more dangerous.
— Go ahead, — he forced out through his teeth, feeling his wife's dissatisfied gaze on him. Even she, it seemed, was starting to lose patience.
Ichigo sat and watched as the young doctor methodically moved the probe over his wife's stomach, muttering something under his breath, pressing buttons on the machine, taking pictures. Every movement, every light press, every concentrated glance at the screen provoked in Ichigo a dull, throbbing urge to go out into the corridor and punch the wall. Or something else, less solid. For example, this overly pleasant doctor's face.
When the procedure was finally over, the doctor handed Orihime a tissue — and she began wiping the sticky, cold gel off her stomach.
— Everything is excellent, Kurosaki‑san. The baby, I would say, is developing perfectly. All indicators are within normal limits, I see no risks. The preliminary due date is the first of May. Overall, how are you feeling about the pregnancy?
— Everything's fine, thank you, — Orihime answered, with Ichigo's help rising from the couch and moving to a chair near the doctor's desk. He stood behind her, placing his palm on her shoulder. — It's just that in the last couple of weeks, fatigue has been making itself felt more than usual. I wanted to know if this indicates any... complications?
— Don't worry, — the doctor shook his head, and his smile was genuinely reassuring. — There's nothing unusual about it. Right now you have a sharp rise in progesterone, which has a relaxing effect, causing drowsiness. Besides, your body is working under increased load — pumping significantly more blood, which requires serious energy expenditure. Sometimes your blood pressure may be low, but that's also normal. According to your tests, everything is fine, even ideal. I see no reason for concern whatsoever.
— Thank you, — Orihime exhaled with relief. — Then... can we go?
— Yes, of course, — the man handed her an envelope. — Here's your ultrasound picture. If nothing unforeseen happens, I'll see you at twenty weeks — we'll do the second screening and find out the baby's sex.
Orihime immediately brightened, as if absorbing this news with every cell, while the doctor turned his gaze to Ichigo, who stood silent, frowning thoughtfully.
— Kurosaki‑san, I understand your concern for your wife and child, — his voice was soft but brooked no objection. — But by your own anxiety, you can transfer nervousness to her. Try to keep yourself under control. For her sake.
— I know, — Ichigo immediately bristled, looking away. He resented that some outsider was lecturing him.
They left the clinic arm in arm — she pressed against him, soft, warm, grateful, and her anger at her husband had already evaporated, replaced by peace. Orihime didn't know how to stay angry for long. Especially after they had both seen their baby — tiny, alive, their own.
— You were jealous again, — she said quietly, without reproach, more as a statement of fact.
— It was his own fault, — Ichigo muttered, looking straight ahead. — He smiled too warmly. Young, handsome, confident...
— And you're not young? — she cut in, and a hint of mockery crept into her voice. — Not handsome? Not confident in yourself?
— But he...
Orihime gently interrupted him, wrapping her arms around his torso and pressing herself closer, looking up at him from below with that very smile that always melted something inside Ichigo.
— What difference does it make what he's like? — she said simply, without a shadow of doubt. — I see only you, Ichigo. Always.
***
A couple of days later, Keigo dropped by. He had only recently found out that his school friends were expecting a baby — Ichigo and Orihime had been too worried and wanted to make absolutely sure the pregnancy was going well before sharing the news. Only the closest knew. Asano burst into the apartment with a huge bag of fruit and a radiant smile, ready to shower them with congratulations.
— Orihime‑chan! — he yelled as soon as the girl managed to open the door. — I heard everything! You're pregnant! That's incredible! Can I touch?
He was already reaching for her slightly rounded belly, hidden under her home T‑shirt, when Ichigo materialised in the hallway. Keigo would have sworn he saw wisps of smoke coming out of his nostrils.
— NO! — Kurosaki was between his wife and his friend in a split second, shielding her with his body. — Hands. Off. My wife.
Keigo froze with his arm outstretched, blinking. His eternal emotional background always contrasted with Ichigo's grim seriousness, for which he had been on the receiving end more than once. But even with that in mind, the old friend's reaction was... atypical.
— Hey, Ichigo, I just wanted to congratulate you guys, — he mumbled, stepping back.
— You wanted to touch my wife! — Ichigo roared, and Orihime was sure the neighbours had heard him. — That's unacceptable!
— Ichigo, he just wanted to touch the belly, — the girl inserted softly, but steel had already crept into her voice.
— I know what he wanted! — Ichigo didn't let up, his eyes blazing. — That's my child in there! No one will touch him! No one! Only me! If you want to congratulate us — call. Me. I'll pass it on.
Keigo backed towards the exit, raising his hands in a placating gesture:
— Okay, okay, I got it! I'll just leave the fruit and go! Honestly! I'm not touching anything!
He retreated faster than Ichigo could open his mouth for another salvo, and the front door closed behind him with a soft click. Kurosaki turned to his wife with the satisfied look of a victor, squaring his shoulders.
— See? I protected you.
Orihime slowly, very slowly turned around and silently headed for the living room. Ichigo, sensing no trap, followed. Her face expressed neither anger nor offence — it was frighteningly calm. She stopped by the sofa, folded her arms over her chest, and looked at her husband the way a teacher looks at a misbehaving student already mentally sent to the principal's office.
— Ichigo, — she said quietly, evenly, without a single emotion. Her voice was as smooth as ice, and it sent a shiver down his spine. — Sit down.
— What? — he repeated, feeling unease creep inside him.
— I said, sit down, — she repeated, and steel cut through her voice. — Please.
Ichigo sat down. He had never seen her like this. Usually she was soft, smiling, ready to forgive any foolishness. But now before him stood not just his wife. Before him stood a woman who was ready to incinerate him with a single look.
— Ichigo, — she began, and every word fell like a hammer blow, clear and inexorable. — I love you. You know that. But if you ever look sideways at our friends again, if you ever drive Keigo out again or snatch the phone from my hands to be rude to Uryu — she paused, and Ichigo felt cold sweat slowly trickling down his spine, — I will do two things.
— What things? — he squeezed out, feeling like a guilty schoolboy in front of a strict teacher.
— First, — Orihime raised her index finger, and that gesture seemed almost ominous to Ichigo. — I'll move to Isshin‑san's and your sisters'. For a week. Or two.
Ichigo's jaw dropped. He tried to say something, but only a strangled wheeze came out of his throat.
— You wouldn't do that! — he finally managed. — You can't!
— I can, — she answered with icy calm. — It's my pregnancy, and I decide where I stay. And second, — she raised a second finger, and a dangerous spark flashed in her eyes, — I'll call Rukia‑chan. And tell her EVERYTHING.
Ichigo went pale. His face took on the colour of fresh chalk.
— No, — he whispered in horror. — Not Rukia. Orihime, please. You know she'll laugh at me for the rest of my days! And even after!
— Exactly, — Orihime nodded, and a shadow of a smile flickered at the corners of her lips. — She'll tell Renji, he'll spread the news throughout the entire squad. At the next meeting, all the lieutenants will know how you were jealous of me over an old man in a supermarket. She'll send me messages every day: «Is Ichigo afraid of anyone else? Maybe he doesn't like you breathing in the direction of men?» Is that what you want?
Ichigo covered his face with his hands. The picture was too vivid, too real. Rukia with her caustic, triumphant grin — he could already hear her laughter. She would quote his stupid antics at every opportunity, turn them into legends. She'd even write it into an official report to the Captain‑Commander.
— No, — he groaned from behind his palms. — Please. Don't.
— Then, — Orihime stepped towards him and gently but insistently took his face in her hands, forcing him to look up, — you stop. You stop seeing enemies in every man who looks at me for longer than a second. You stop driving our friends away. You stop making scenes. Do you understand me?
— Understood, — he breathed out, feeling simultaneously crushed and admiring. She was magnificent. In that moment, he loved her even more.
— Good, — Orihime smiled, and her face became soft, warm, familiar again — as if she hadn't just been holding him on the verge of a nervous breakdown. — Now I want a sugar bun and tea. With mint. No sugar.
Ichigo stood up and obediently, like a trained dog, headed for the kitchen. Behind him he heard Orihime's quiet, satisfied laugh, and warmth spread through his soul.
She had gotten angry with him. It was frightening. But at the same time, damn pleasant — to know that his small, gentle wife could be so strong. She was protecting their relationship from him himself. And he was grateful to her for it.
When he returned with the tea, Orihime was already sitting on the sofa, stroking her barely noticeable belly. She looked at him with a warm, slightly sly smile:
— You're a good husband, Ichigo. It's just that sometimes you're too... prickly.
— That's discrimination, — he grumbled, but obediently sat down beside her and pulled her to him.
They sat in silence, and Ichigo thought about how much he loved her. And about how, if she ever did tell Rukia about his jealousy, he would have to change his name and move to another country. Preferably one with no phones, no capacity to send snarky messages, and no ubiquitous Urahara.
— Orihime, — he said quietly. — You really won't tell Rukia?
She looked at him with a sly squint, and mischievous sparks danced in her eyes:
— That depends on how you behave from today on.
Ichigo sighed and pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head. Now he had the most powerful leverage in the world. And that leverage was dressed in his T‑shirt, smelled of pastries and his shampoo, and was carrying their future under its heart.