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Ichigo and Orihime hadn't noticed when it started. Kazui had always been an affectionate boy — he willingly migrated from his father's arms to his mother's, wrapping his chubby little hands around their necks and pressing his cheek to their shoulders with equal trust, like a little panda.
But at some point, their two‑year‑old Kazui had transformed into an impenetrable little jealous guardian who erected an invisible wall around his mother and declared a personal ban on affection for his father.
That particular morning was especially quiet. A milky, still timid light crept through the gap in the curtains, and in that semi‑darkness the room felt incredibly cosy. Ichigo woke first. He turned his head and froze, studying the sleeping Orihime: her eyelashes trembled slightly, and her hair was spread across the pillow like a waterfall of warm copper. His chest warmed with its familiar feeling, and without a second thought, he reached for her — lightly, almost weightlessly, as he did every morning.
Their lips met in a half‑sleep, softly and familiarly. Orihime, without even opening her eyes, smiled into the kiss — that same sleepy, defenceless smile that always made Ichigo's heart skip a beat.
But no sooner had he tasted her lips than an indignant patter of tiny feet came from the corridor. Someone small and very fast was slapping bare heels against the parquet with the speed of someone saving the world.
Kazui appeared in the doorway. He was in his strawberry‑print pyjamas, sleepy, tousled, but his eyes — his mother's brown eyes — were already wide open and blazing with righteous fury. In his right hand, he clutched a green dinosaur, which seemed to be expressing indignation as well.
— Mama! — the little one cried out so desperately, as if his father had been caught doing something forbidden.
The dinosaur landed softly on the floor — Kazui dropped it without looking back and tore towards the bed with all the speed his short legs could muster. With difficulty, he scrambled onto the mattress, the little jealous one squeezed himself between his parents, knelt up — towering over his lying father — and pointed a finger at Ichigo.
The finger trembled with tension, his little brows drew together at the bridge of his nose, and his lips formed an offended little bow.
— Don't kiss mom! — he declared in a voice that mixed sleepy hoarseness with unshakeable sternness.
Ichigo froze, still not having pulled away, with his mouth half‑open and a completely stunned expression. He shifted his gaze to Orihime — she had already opened her eyes and, biting her lip, was desperately trying not to laugh. Her shoulders shook slightly from suppressed laughter, and mischievous sparks danced in her eyes. Ichigo looked at his son, at his sternly raised finger, then back at his wife, and only breathed out:
— Seriously?
Kazui didn't flinch. His little finger remained frozen in the air, aimed at his father, and in those brown eyes splashed unshakeable resolve.
— Baby, Daddy just wanted to say hello, — Orihime gently lowered his raised hand, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and pulled him to her, calming his ardour. She stroked his red crown, trying to soothe him.
— I'll do it myself, — Kazui immediately turned around, clung to his mother's neck, and pressed against her so trustingly, as if she were his only salvation. — Only me.
Ichigo propped himself up on his elbow and stared at this scene with a completely bewildered expression. He blinked, as if hoping the vision would disappear. Just a few days ago, this same little boy had been hanging on him like a monkey on a tree — legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to his hair, demanding to be tossed into the air. And now he had staged a full‑blown jealous rebellion, declaring his father persona non grata.
— Kazui, — Ichigo began patiently, — I'm your dad. I want to hug Mom too. We all want to hug Mom.
— No! — Kazui's voice came out louder than usual, and he pressed himself harder against Orihime, closing his eyes, as if that were his final argument. — Mom is mine! Only mine!
And he squeezed his eyes shut, hiding his face in his mother's neck, showing with his whole being that the conversation was over, appeals were not accepted, the court was closed.
Ichigo sighed and slowly lay back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. He felt slightly offended — and at the same time puzzled. A flood of words sat on the tip of his tongue, but all of them seemed useless against a two‑year‑old tyrant who had taken his wife hostage. He glanced at Orihime — she was looking at him over their son's head with that same sly, slightly guilty smile that meant: «I can't help it, he inherited your character.»
When Kazui finally peeled himself away from his mother and ran off to the living room for his toys with a satisfied look, Ichigo gave Orihime an offended glance.
She laughed softly, rolled onto her stomach, and rested her chin on his shoulder, looking up at him from below.
— How did this happen? — he asked with genuine bitterness. — A week ago, he was hanging on me and wouldn't get off, and now I'm his number one enemy.
— Lately, you've been working late and paying less attention to him, — Orihime said softly, and her fingers lay on his chest, barely touching. — Maybe it's a kind of rebellion. A little protest.
She kissed his shoulder — briefly, soothingly, as if apologising for their son.
Ichigo frowned, mulling over her words. He really had been staying late at the computer the past few evenings — a big translation contract for some large company that couldn't be put off. But he still came out for dinner, read Kazui bedtime stories, and had breakfast with them every morning.
— He thinks I'm taking you away from him? — he asked, kissing her forehead and running his fingers through her sleep‑tangled hair.
— It looks that way, — she nodded, closing her eyes at his touch.
He frowned thoughtfully, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts raced through his head: some strange, peculiar crisis in their son. Ichigo had always worked from home — he rarely went out to clients or did simultaneous interpreting, preferring to stay in his familiar environment. So he was always in Kazui's sight, always nearby. Kazui loved to draw next to him while Ichigo worked. And yet, was that still not enough?
— I don't want him to think that, — Ichigo said quietly, and in his voice appeared that same vulnerability he rarely showed to anyone. — He's my son. I want to be with him.
— It's just a phase, — Orihime raised her head and met his gaze, warm and calm. — Children grow, change, go through stages. You were very jealous too when I was pregnant, remember?
She smiled softly at the memory, then wrapped her arms around his neck, moved closer, and settled comfortably between his legs, resting her head on his chest. Her breath touched his collarbone.
Ichigo relaxed a little. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, feeling her warmth spread through his body, pushing out the remnants of his offence. He ran his palm down her back — slowly, soothingly, inhaling the scent of her hair mixed with morning freshness.
— He takes after me, — he muttered. — All his father.
— I know, — she whispered, touching his neck with her nose. — And that's why I love both of you. Even when you gang up against me.
He snorted, but smiled. And for a second, just a second, it seemed to him that if he closed his eyes and breathed out, this moment — warm, cosy, full of quiet voices from the next room, where Kazui was talking to his dinosaur — would stay with him forever.
But not five minutes had passed when a tousled red head appeared in the doorway again. Kazui had returned — apparently, loneliness in the living room had proved too boring a trial. He stood on the threshold, clutching the green dinosaur by the tail, and glared at his father with displeasure from under his brows. In his gaze, there was everything: from hurt to determination to reclaim his mother at any cost.
— Dad, go to work! — Kazui declared, trying to look serious. He frowned and drew his little brows together at the bridge of his nose, clearly copying that expression with which Ichigo looked at... well, a lot of people, to be honest. But his childish face was too soft for such a mask — it came out more comical than threatening.
Ichigo blinked, shifting his gaze from his son to his wife and back.
— Sweetie, it's a day off today, — Ichigo reached his hand out to his son, palm open in an inviting gesture.
Kazui hesitated for a second, shifting from foot to foot. His gaze darted around the room, as if he were trying to invent a reason that would allow him to save face while simultaneously getting rid of his father.
— Then... — the little one hid his hands behind his back and dropped his eyes to the floor, suddenly shy. — Then go to the kitchen. Make... make tea. And leave.
Orihime couldn't hold back. She buried her face in her husband's chest, trying to hide a muffled but utterly sincere laugh. Her shoulders shook, and the laughter turned into a silent giggle.
Ichigo pouted even more. He felt not just offended, but exiled, dethroned by his own two‑year‑old son. And the fact that his wife was laughing at his humiliation only added to the bitterness. He gently nudged her shoulder, and Orihime, wiping away the tears that had sprung up, finally got out of bed. She straightened his T‑shirt, which had long and imperceptibly become hers — wide, loose, slipping off her shoulder — and knelt before her son, bringing herself to his level.
— Kazui, — her voice became softer, calmer, — you're so jealous. You can't talk to Daddy like that, he might get upset. Really.
She took him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes, stroking his arm with her thumb. The little one pouted, but at his mother's touch, his shoulders relaxed slightly.
— I love Mom, — he muttered, dropping his eyes.
Ichigo, still lying on the bed, propped himself up on his elbow, holding his breath. His heart skipped a beat for some reason, as if something bigger than just a morning squabble depended on his son's answer.
— And you don't love Dad? — he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, although inside everything tensed.
Kazui slowly raised his eyes. He looked at his father — at his tousled hair, at his serious face, at his open palm that was still extended towards him. He paused, thinking.
— I love you, — he answered, but then, as if afraid his words might be misinterpreted, he hastily added: — But Mom more.
And with that, he stepped into his mother's arms, wrapping his arms around her neck and hiding his face on her shoulder. Orihime turned to Ichigo — with that same guilty but happy smile.
---
Breakfast passed under the sign of Kazui's gloomy glances toward his father and the demonstrative eating of fruit porridge from his mother's spoon. Every time Ichigo reached out — whether for a biscuit or simply to brush a strand of hair from Orihime's face — the little jealous one, without even swallowing, would raise his index finger and declare with his mouth full: «Dad, don't touch.» He had to drink his coffee and pretend he didn't notice, although inside everything boiled with a mixed feeling of hurt and tenderness.
After breakfast, Orihime began washing the dishes, and Ichigo stood beside her, drying each plate with a towel. In this familiar ritual, they exchanged glances, and he could feel her smile even without looking. And Kazui, left in the living room on the carpet among scattered felt‑tip pens, was trying to draw an angry dinosaur on paper. From the loud sniffling and occasional sighs, it was clear that things weren't going well. In the end, something between a cucumber and a striped scarf appeared on the paper — a gloomy, toothless vegetable that inspired no fear at all.
— Ma‑a‑am! — came a desperate cry from the living room, making Ichigo flinch. — I can't!
Orihime quickly wiped her hands on her apron, but halfway to the door, she suddenly stopped. She turned around, narrowed her eyes, and familiar mischievous sparks danced in her eyes. She walked up to her husband, rose on her tiptoes, and whispered in his ear:
— You know, I don't know how to draw dinosaurs at all. But you, it seems, are pretty good at it.
Ichigo raised an eyebrow, instantly catching her hint. Noticing how slyly she was looking at him, he smirked, but doubt still crept into his voice:
— You want me to go and offer him help? He'll kick me out.
— Try it, — she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a warm, moist trace. Her whisper touched his ear: — For me.
He sighed, but couldn't resist her gaze. He pecked her on the lips and headed for the living room, feeling almost as if he were going into battle, only this time the enemy was his own two‑year‑old son.
Kazui sat on the floor, cross‑legged, and stared at his failed drawing with such deep bitterness, as if it had personally betrayed him. The sun from the window fell on his red crown, and in the morning light, even the cucumber‑dinosaur looked almost touching.
— Heard you're having trouble with a dinosaur? — Ichigo carefully crouched down beside him, keeping a respectful distance so as not to startle the little artist. He tried to speak lightly, without any hint of encroaching on Mom's territory.
Kazui glanced at his father warily, as if at a potential threat, then looked at the drawing, then back at his father.
— Not scary, — he muttered, jabbing his finger angrily at the paper. — He's funny.
Ichigo looked at the drawing. A cucumber with teeth. He barely held back a smile, but managed — he didn't want his son to think he was mocking him.
— You want me to show you how to draw a toothy one? — he asked as casually as possible, shrugging. — I know how. I used to know a dinosaur, very scary.
Kazui tensed. His brain, judging by his strained little face, was frantically calculating all the options: help from enemy number one was certainly dubious, but if the dinosaur turned out truly frightening — it would be worth it.
— Are you lying? — he asked, narrowing his eyes, just like Orihime had a few minutes ago.
— I never lie about dinosaurs, — Ichigo replied with the most serious expression he could muster.
Kazui thought for a second, no longer. Then he decisively tore a new sheet from the album and handed it to his father:
— Draw.
Ichigo suppressed a satisfied smile, took a red felt‑tip pen, and without much thought, sketched a fairly menacing T‑rex with a huge maw, needle‑sharp teeth, and comically short front legs in a couple of minutes. He added a few scales, tilted the head slightly to make it look more aggressive, and pushed the sheet aside for his son to judge.
Kazui watched with his mouth open. His brown eyes rounded, and genuine delight lit up in them.
— Can I? — escaped him almost involuntarily, and in that question there was not a drop of jealousy — only pure, childish desire to learn.
Ichigo handed him the felt‑tip pen and pushed the sheet closer. They sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, as Kazui tried to copy the outlines, and Ichigo patiently, almost in a whisper, showed him how to make the teeth sharper and the maw wider. A few times his son made mistakes, but his father didn't scold him, only showed him again, and ten minutes later they had produced an almost equally ferocious predator, only slightly crooked and with one eye bigger than the other.
When the drawing was ready, Kazui, with pride worthy of a victor, raised it above his head and dashed to the kitchen, waving the sheet like a banner.
— Mom! Look, scary! Dad helped! — his voice rang with happiness, and there was no trace of the former wariness in it.
Orihime turned from the stove, wiping her hands, and saw her son's beaming face, and behind him — Ichigo, who stood with a satisfied, slightly shy smile. She took the drawing, carefully unfolded it, and with due seriousness studied every line.
— What a good boy! — she said and winked at her husband. — And Daddy's a good boy too.
Kazui froze for a moment. His little face expressed intense deliberation: should he acknowledge that Dad was a good boy, given all the morning's grievances? But the dinosaur was too good to argue with.
---
Closer to evening, when the sun had lost its scorching heat, they went out to the park. The air had become fresher, lighter, and the wind pleasantly cooled the skin, ruffled their hair, and crept under their collars. Leaves swirled in a slow, lazy dance, and Kazui, forgetting all his morning grievances, enthusiastically chased them across the grass, trying to catch first one leaf, then another, in his little palms.
Orihime and Ichigo walked slowly along the path, enjoying the silence and that rare moment when they could simply be alone together. His fingers intertwined with hers, and that sensation — warm and familiar — seemed the most right thing in the world. Ichigo felt her palm gently squeeze his, and calmness spread through his chest — the calmness he valued so much.
Kazui noticed it from a distance. His little eyes, which had seemed occupied with chasing leaves, suddenly focused sharply on his parents' clasped hands. And in the next second, he was already dashing back.
He flew between them like a little red rocket, decisively pried their fingers apart, grabbed his mother's hand, and, throwing a short but indecently triumphant look at his father, pulled her forward towards the pond.
— Mom, ducks! — he declared so loudly, as if it were the salvation of the entire world. — Dad will walk behind.
Ichigo remained standing there with his empty hand outstretched. The wind stirred his hair, and he looked at his palm, which still held the warmth of his wife, with a slight bitterness. He sighed and trudged along behind, hands in his pockets, watching the scene: Kazui, standing on tiptoes by the water's edge, pointing at the grey ducks; Orihime leaning down to him so he could throw crumbs, her hair touching his shoulder. She stroked his head, and the little boy squinted contentedly.
Ichigo felt superfluous. But then he noticed one detail: Kazui, while throwing bread into the water, would occasionally glance back at him. He seemed to be checking whether Dad had come too close, whether he was trying to invade forbidden territory again. It was almost funny. Almost.
When the ducks, having quacked contentedly, swam to the other shore, Kazui lost interest in them and fixed his gaze on the children's slide — tall, bright yellow, with a steep descent. He climbed up the ladder with delight, clinging to the railings with his hands, and reached the top. But the moment he looked down, his resolve vanished. He stood there, gripping the railings so tightly that his knuckles turned white, staring down with a mixture of longing and fear.
— Mom, I'm scared! — he cried, and in his voice trembled almost genuine panic.
Orihime had already stepped towards the ladder, ready to climb up and rescue him, but Ichigo gently stopped her by the elbow and whispered almost soundlessly:
— Let me.
Ichigo walked up to the slide, stood directly at the bottom of the descent, raised his hands palms up, and said evenly, calmly:
— Kazui, Daddy will catch you. Daddy's strong, he always catches you.
Kazui looked down at him. The wind tousled his red tufts, and in his brown eyes raged a whole storm of doubt. He was silent, his little fingers picking at the railings.
— Mom is mine? — he finally asked, and his voice sounded surprisingly serious.
Ichigo rolled his eyes for a second, but held back and answered as patiently as possible:
— Yes. Mom is yours. I'll just catch you. That's all.
Kazui squeezed his eyes shut, let go of the railings, and slid down with a desperate, piercing shriek mixed with delight. Ichigo caught him — deftly, gently, like a feather — and set him on the ground. For a moment, Kazui, without opening his eyes, hugged him tightly around the neck. His little arms squeezed with such force that Ichigo felt something warm and prickly lodge in his throat. But a second later, the little one pulled away, as if suddenly remembering himself, and ran to his mother, shouting as he went:
— Mom, I did it myself! I did it myself!
Orihime and Ichigo exchanged a long, knowing glance that contained everything: a smile, tenderness, and quiet gratitude. A small step, but a step.
---
After the walk, when the first yellow lights had begun to appear outside the windows, Orihime set about preparing dinner. The kitchen filled with the usual cosy sounds: the sizzle of oil in a pan, the clatter of dishes, soft humming. Kazui, who adored watching his mother's cooking rituals, as usual, settled himself on his little chair in the corner. He swung his legs in the air, holding a toy, and watched every movement of Orihime's with such attention, as if it were a thrilling show.
Ichigo looked into the kitchen after finishing a short phone call. He paused in the doorway for a moment, observing the scene: his wife bent over the cutting board, his son sitting with a toy, and there was something so right about it all that he held his breath for a second.
— Let me help? — he asked, coming up behind Orihime and gently placing his hands on her waist while Kazui was distracted by the window. His fingers slid down to her hips, and he leaned in to kiss her temple, smelling of sun and wind.
She smiled, tilting her head back slightly, and her hand covered his palm, squeezing for a moment.
— Of course, — she turned and handed him a knife. — Chop the onion, please.
Ichigo got to work. He stood beside her, slicing the onion into even half‑rings, trying not to cry. But the onion turned out to be treacherous — treacherous and ruthless. After a minute, his eyes were already watering, and he squeezed them shut, trying to cope with the burning spreading across his eyelids.
— Dad, are you crying? — Kazui immediately noticed, drilling him with his gaze from his corner. The little one's voice had a suspicious note, as if he'd caught his father in something shameful.
— No, — Ichigo breathed out, trying to speak evenly, and hastily wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. — The onion stings. It's very angry.
Kazui snorted with the air of an all‑knowing professor who had just exposed the most intricate deception of the century. His little nose wrinkled, and he pronounced with absolute childish certainty:
— Onions don't sting. Dad's crying because Mom loves me more.
Ichigo laughed — hoarsely, abruptly, with a taste of tears on his lips. The laughter mixed with the burning in his eyes and the lump in his throat, but there was no bitterness in it. Orihime smiled too, but noticing how her husband squinted and rubbed his eyes, she came closer, took the knife from him, and gently touched his hand.
— Step aside, — she said quietly, almost in a whisper. — I'll do it myself. You've suffered enough.
— No, I can handle it, — he insisted, trying to take the knife back. — It's just an onion. I'll survive it.
But Kazui was already frowning, seeing that Mom had touched Dad's hand. His little face instantly darkened, and his voice rang out demandingly:
— Don't touch Dad, Mom! You're mine!
Orihime turned around, left the knife on the table, walked over to her son, and crouched down in front of him, bringing herself to his level. She took his hands.
— I'm yours, Kazui. That's true, — she said softly, looking into his brown eyes. — But I'm Daddy's too. We're a family. We all belong to each other. And Daddy is trying very hard to make you love him. Look at him, — she nodded towards Ichigo, who had picked up the knife again and, frowning, was valiantly trying to finish off the onion, tears still streaming down his cheeks. — He's cutting onions even though they sting his eyes. And he's not crying. It's just the onion.
Kazui looked thoughtfully at his father. At his reddened eyes, at his lips compressed into a thin line, at how diligently, though with obvious effort, he continued his task. The little one was pondering something, and his small forehead furrowed with concentration.
— Dad, — he said unexpectedly, and his voice softened a tone. — Come here.
Ichigo put down the knife, wiped his eyes, and came over. Kazui handed him a tissue.
— Don't cry, — he said, looking up at his father from below. — I love you. A little bit.
And he showed «a little bit» with his fingers — literally half a centimetre between his fingertips, a distance that could easily be overlooked. But Ichigo saw it. He took the tissue, wiped his eyes, and chuckled — that same warm, slightly hoarse chuckle that held no trace of hurt.
— Thank you, — he said, and in his voice sounded genuine gratitude. — A little bit is already something.
Orihime looked at both of them and, biting her lip to keep from laughing, turned back to the stove. And in the room hung that same silence that exists only between those who truly love each other — and who know that love is measured not by the distance between fingers, but by how a person looks at you when you're not looking.
---
By nightfall, Ichigo was drained dry. He was tired of the constant alienation with which his own son met him. Every extended gesture, every attempt to touch Orihime met a wary glance or a demanding: «Dad, move away.» He stood in the doorway of the boy's room, leaning his shoulder against the jamb, watching Orihime, who sat on the edge of the bed, trying to put Kazui to sleep. The soft light of the nightlight cast shadows of toys on the walls — dinosaurs, cars, stuffed rabbits — and in this semi‑darkness, little Kazui seemed particularly stubborn and unyielding.
— I want to be with you, Mom, — he said, pulling the blanket up to his chin and looking up at her.
— I'm right here, — she answered, smoothing his hair. — I'm here. Go to sleep, sweetie. Tomorrow is a new day.
— Let Dad leave, — he said, not taking his eyes off his mother, but pointing a little finger towards the door. — He's in the way. He's standing and watching.
Ichigo turned around — slowly, with a heaviness in his chest — already ready to leave and close the door behind him, leaving them alone. But on the threshold, he turned back and met Orihime's gaze. Her eyes, warm and deep, looked at him with soft insistence, asking him to stay.
She turned her gaze to their son and stroked his head.
— Kazui, — she said softly, but with that calm conviction that makes even the most stubborn child listen. — You can't say that. Daddy wants to be with you too. He loves you very much. You know that, don't you?
The boy looked at her, and a shadow of doubt flickered in his brown eyes.
— I love you, — he repeated, as if that were his main argument — his main defence against the whole world.
Ichigo stepped into the room, slowly, so as not to startle him, and crouched down beside the bed. Now he was at his son's eye level, and there was no longer any barrier between them — no door, no distance, no mother's hands.
— Kazui, — he said quietly, almost in a whisper, trying to keep his voice steady, although everything inside was trembling. — I know you love Mom very much. And I love her too. We both love her. And Mom and I love you. Will you let me be there with you? Not instead of, but together?
Kazui looked at him. His gaze was serious, almost adult — the way people look when they're making an important decision. He shifted his eyes from his father to his mother and back, as if weighing something inside himself.
— You won't take Mom away? — he finally asked, and in his voice there was not just childish jealousy, but genuine, adult vulnerability.
— No, — Ichigo answered firmly. — Never. I won't take her away from you. She will always be your mom. It's just... I want to be your dad. For real. Will you let me?
Kazui thought it over. One second, two, three. He looked at his mother, then back at his father. The room was quiet, only the clock on the wall ticked and the wind rustled somewhere outside the window.
— Okay, — he said at last, and his voice was softer than before. — But Mom is mine.
— Mom is yours, — Ichigo agreed, feeling something warm and long‑awaited spread through his chest. — And Dad is yours?
Kazui hesitated, moved his lips, as if tasting the words, and finally admitted, reluctantly but honestly:
— Dad is mine too.
And then, as if having made a final decision, he reached his arms forward, opening his little palms, asking for a hug.
Ichigo couldn't believe his eyes. He didn't move for a whole second, afraid of frightening away this fragile moment, and then slowly, carefully, scooped his son into his arms. Kazui wrapped his little arms around his neck and pressed his cheek to his father's shoulder, trustingly and warmly. Ichigo felt the little heart beating against his chest, smelled his son's shampoo and biscuits, felt the little fingers clutching his T‑shirt. He closed his eyes and exhaled — for the first time that day, truly.
— I love you, my little one, — he whispered.
From under his arm came a quiet, sleepy:
— I love you too, Dad.
Orihime watched them, biting her lip, her eyes glistening in the dim light of the nightlight. She rose from the bed and hugged them both — pressed against Ichigo's back, wrapping her arms around him and their son. They stood like that, all together, feeling how even the strongest jealousy fades away, leaving behind only warmth and silence. And in that silence, there was no room for hurt or doubt — only breathing and three hearts beating in unison.