The summons came at dusk, when the barracks were quiet—too quiet for comfort. I had just finished sorting the last of the mission reports when a hell butterfly landed on my shoulder, its wings whispering "Captain Ukitake requests your presence".
I didn't hesitate. You didn't keep Captain Ukitake waiting.
When I entered his office, the light filtering through the paper screens caught in the silver of his hair. He looked up from a stack of documents with that familiar gentle smile—the kind that could make even a reprimand feel like a cup of warm tea.
"Rukia," he said softly, gesturing toward the cushion across from him. "Please, close the door."
That single phrase sent a ripple of unease down my spine. I obeyed, the sliding door closing with a quiet thunk. The silence that followed was too deliberate, too careful.
"Is something wrong, Captain?" I asked, taking a seat. "If this is about my reports, I assure you—"
He raised a hand, and I stopped mid-sentence.
"This isn't about paperwork," he said, his voice calm, but carrying that unmistakable weight of concern. "It's about you."
I blinked. "Me?"
He nodded, setting his pen down and folding his hands. "You've been making a lot of trips to the World of the Living lately. More than your current assignment technically requires. I've noticed the pattern."
I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I could feel the faintest tightening in my chest. "My duties involve monitoring spiritual fluctuations in that sector. I've been—"
"—thorough," he finished for me, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. "Yes, I know, but you've always been thorough, Rukia. This is something else."
I looked down, fingers curling around the fabric of my uniform. "Permission to speak freely, Captain?"
"Always."
"I thought... after everything that happened with Ichigo and the others, maintaining oversight in that region was important. The balance between worlds is fragile. Someone needs to keep an eye on it."
He regarded me quietly for a long moment. Then, in that impossibly patient tone that made him so infuriatingly perceptive, he said, "You mean someone specific needs to keep an eye on it."
The air caught in my throat.
I looked away, pretending to study the faint grain of the tatami floor. "I don't know what you mean."
He gave a soft sigh, the kind that carried more empathy than accusation. "Rukia, you don't have to hide things from me. I've seen you pour yourself into duty before—it's one of your greatest strengths. But lately…" He hesitated, as if weighing each word carefully. "You've seemed… distracted. Restless. Even a bit happier at times, which is a rare thing for a Soul Reaper to be during fieldwork."
There was warmth in his smile, but behind it, a quiet worry.
I swallowed. The truth pressed against the back of my teeth, dangerous and glowing. Orion's face flashed unbidden in my mind—the way his energy pulsed, wild and untamed, those light hearted green eyes, his laughter even when things went wrong, that strange, human warmth that lingered long after I left his world.
Ukitake continued, "Whatever—or whoever—is drawing your focus, I trust you have good reason. But understand, Rukia, even good reasons can lead us astray if we don't stop to look at where we're going."
For a moment, all I could do was breathe. Slowly. Carefully. "Captain," I said finally, my voice quiet, "I won't let my personal feelings interfere with my duties."
"I know you believe that," he said kindly. "And that's exactly why I'm worried."
His words lingered in the air long after he fell silent.
Ukitake's gaze lingered on me a little longer than I could bear.
He wasn't scolding, wasn't prying—just seeing. That was the unbearable part. He always saw too much.
"At first," he began gently, "I thought perhaps you were visiting Kurosaki Ichigo again. You've always carried a certain fondness for him, and I wouldn't have faulted you for wanting to ensure he's all right. But this…" He tilted his head slightly, studying me as if he were watching the faint tremor of a candle flame. "This feels different."
My pulse quickened. "Different how?"
"You've been requesting these missions quietly," he said. "Not through the usual channels, not even through me at times. And when you return, you seem both lighter and heavier." His expression softened. "Like someone carrying a secret that brings both comfort and pain."
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Captain, I—"
He raised a hand again, his voice calm. "Rukia, I'm not here to reprimand you. I've known you too long to mistake this for negligence. But I can tell something is weighing on you. If there's a burden you can't set down, you can at least share it here."
He meant it. Of course he did. Captain Ukitake never offered empty kindness.
I stared down at my hands in my lap, fingers twisting the edge of my sleeve. My stomach knotted tighter with every passing heartbeat. How could I possibly tell him? That I'd broken not just a law of the Soul Society, but one of its unspoken moral pillars? That I, Kuchiki Rukia—member of the noble Kuchiki clan—had found herself tangled in something far too human, far too messy?
I managed a small, trembling breath. "It isn't… what you think," I said, forcing the words out. "There's… someone. In the World of the Living."
"Someone?" he repeated softly, not as a question, but as an opening.
"He's…" I hesitated, grasping for language that didn't exist. "He's different. His spiritual energy—it's unstable, unique. I thought at first it was just… curiosity. I wanted to understand what made it that way."
Ukitake nodded, saying nothing, inviting me to continue.
"But somewhere along the way…" I stopped, unable to meet his eyes. My heart pounded painfully in my chest. "It became more complicated." Complicated was an understatement, but I couldn't bring myself to explain more.
Silence. Just the quiet rustle of wind through the paper walls.
"I see," he said finally. His voice was neither surprised nor disappointed—only patient. Thoughtful. "You care for him."
My breath hitched. I didn't answer, but the silence spoke loudly enough.
He leaned back, exhaling a slow sigh. "Rukia, it's not a crime to care. Even for a human. But it is dangerous to forget which world you belong to."
The words stung more than I expected.
"I haven't forgotten," I said softly. "But sometimes… when I'm there, it's easier to breathe. Easier to be."
He smiled faintly, but there was sadness in it. "You've always had one foot in both worlds. It's part of what makes you remarkable… and what makes your path so difficult."
I looked up at him then, my chest tight with guilt and confusion. He wasn't angry. He wasn't even disappointed. Somehow, that made it worse.
He reached for his teacup, pausing halfway to add, "Whatever it is you're doing out there, Rukia… please be certain it's not something that will one day hurt you… or him."
The words struck deeper than he could have known. I nodded quietly, unable to trust my voice.
As I rose to leave, his voice followed softly behind me. "Rukia… remember that I'm always willing to listen. Even to the things that are difficult to say."
I paused with my hand on the door. For a moment, I almost told him everything—about Orion, about the strange resonance between us, about how wrong it all felt and how right it somehow was. How I'd fallen for a married man.
But instead, I bowed my head and said, "Thank you, Captain."
Then I stepped back into the corridor, closing the door on the one person I knew would forgive me—because I wasn't ready to forgive myself.
The cool night air bit at my cheeks as I stepped out into the courtyard, the shoji door sliding closed behind me with a soft click that felt far too final.
The moon hung low over Seireitei, pale and watchful, casting silver ribbons across the empty walkway. I walked without thinking, my sandals whispering against the stone. The conversation replayed in my head—Ukitake's voice, gentle but inescapable, the way he said "be certain it's not something that will one day hurt you."
It already was. And yet
I stopped beside the koi pond that bordered the barracks, the water still as polished glass. My reflection wavered there — pale, tight-mouthed, violet eyes sharp but shadowed with doubt.
A Soul Reaper.
A Kuchiki.
Someone who had faced death more times than she cared to count… yet somehow this felt heavier than the edge of any blade.
Duty I could carry.
Danger I could embrace.
But this — the quiet vulnerability of connection — it left my chest tight.
What did he even see when he looked at me?
Not a noble. Not strength or power.
Not beauty — there were countless women more radiant, more effortless, more alive than I had ever been.
I was small.
I was disciplined to a fault.
I was a weapon sharpened by rules and regret.
And still… he had looked at me like I was something rare. Something worth choosing. Worth fighting circumstances and fate and consequence for.
I traced my reflection with my eyes — wondering, absurdly, if he saw something I could not. Wondering if I deserved it. Wondering why the thought of losing that strange, precious connection twisted more fiercely in me than any battlefield fear ever had.
A Kuchiki should not tremble over affection.
A lieutenant should not dread truth more than steel.
And yet the water rippled, and all I could see staring back at me was a woman who suddenly felt unworthy of the future she was dangerously beginning to want.
The truth I hadn't said to my captain weighed heavy on my tongue.
That every time I crossed into the World of the Living, I told myself it was for research. That Orion's strange energy signature could have consequences for both worlds, and someone had to keep watch.
But that wasn't it. Not anymore. I don't think it ever was.
I went because he saw me—not the Kuchiki heir, not the Soul Reaper, not the soldier bound by rules and honor. Just… me.
And that was dangerous.
I crouched near the pond, tracing a finger across the surface, watching the reflection ripple and distort.
"I'm making a mess of things again, aren't I?" I muttered under my breath.
A soft breeze rustled the paper lanterns strung above, as if the world itself exhaled in amusement.
When I thought of Orion, my chest ached in a way I couldn't categorize. He was brash, unrefined, infuriatingly reckless, but there was a light in him, a stubborn spark that refused to dim even when life crushed him under its heel. I'd seen men with power beyond comprehension lose themselves to despair, and yet this human… this man… carried on with jokes and half-broken smiles like the world wasn't trying to devour him whole. The kind of man who leans into the fall in hopes of bouncing back.
And I—who had lived a century and a half—had the audacity to envy that.
Maybe that's what drew me in.
Or maybe it was the way his spiritual pressure sang when it brushed against mine, wild and untamed, like something that shouldn't exist, but somehow did.
Our resonance wasn't just rare—it was wrong. Beautifully, impossibly wrong.
I sighed, closing my eyes. "You're trouble, Orion Hunter. Pure trouble."
When I opened them again, the ripples had faded, and my reflection stared back at me with quiet accusation.
The secret would catch up with me eventually— secrets always do. Secrets have a way of curdling in the dark until they consume everything they touched.
Still, I couldn't bring myself to stop.
Tomorrow, I'd return to the World of the Living. I'd tell myself it was to continue his training, to ensure no one else noticed the growing waves of his energy. But the truth was simpler and far more selfish:
I just wanted to see him again.
Even if every step toward him dragged me further from the world I swore to protect.
The grocery cart rattled as one of the wheels protested its existence, squeaking with every turn. Times like this made me wish I carried W-D 40 with me, but I was also too lazy to get a different cart. My three-year-old rode in the front seat, swinging her legs and holding a half-eaten granola bar like it was treasure.
"Daddy," she said, puffing her cheeks out the way she did when she wanted to sound serious. "Call me Rosie."
I sighed, amused, but also a little defeated. "Your name is Aloy Rose Hunter. Aloy is beautiful."
She shook her head, blonde curls bouncing. "Nana says Rosie is prettier."
Of course she did. Leaving the kids with my mother-in-law for a week while Kerstie and I took a trip was supposed to be a break. Instead, I got back to find my daughter suddenly rebranded like she'd joined witness protection.
"Alright, Rosie," I said finally, because arguing with a three-year-old was a fool's errand. "But when you start writing your name, you're going to run out of space on the page."
She giggled, pleased with her victory, and I pushed the cart toward the checkout. My phone buzzed with a reminder about bills, a recording session later this week, and a note I'd written to myself at two in the morning: "Ask Rukia about Hollow residuals." Right. Because that wasn't cryptic at all.
I really make no sense when I'm half asleep.
As we were leaving, May started pointing at the community bulletin board by the exit, smudging fingerprints on the glass. "Look! Paper rainbows!"
I followed her gaze. Among the clutter of yard-sale ads and tutoring offers, one flyer stood out—a neatly printed sheet with faintly drawn concentric circles and the headline:
"Spiritual Awareness Group — Open Discussion Every Saturday, Haven Bookstore."
It looked… oddly professional. Clean layout, university font. At the bottom, small text read: "Hosted by the Karakura College Metaphysics Society."
A student group? For spiritual awareness? That was new.
I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture. "What do you think, kiddo? Real ghost hunters or people who like to hum at crystals?"
Aloy grinned. Ghost hunters!!"
I chuckled, but the thought lingered. Most of these things were harmless—people chasing validation, trying to feel special. But the precision in the wording, the way the flyer avoided the word "ghost" entirely… it had the same careful phrasing Soul Society used, mentioning key words like 'Reiatsu' and 'Reishi'.
I folded the cart back into its line and lifted Aloy into my arms. "Come on, partner in crime. Let's go home before Nana finds another name she likes better for you."
She rested her head on my shoulder, humming a little tune as I carried her to the car. I tried to shake the thought of the flyer, but curiosity itched behind my eyes.
I'd ask Rukia about it tonight. Maybe it was nothing.
But deep down, I already knew better. The more I learned, the more I came to understand that Karakura was some kind of magnet for the supernatural, and here I was without an ounce of silver or holy water.
Not that they would have helped.
By the time we got home, the sun had already started dipping low enough to paint everything in that tired orange that makes the world feel older than it is. The bags hit the counter, the fridge door opened and closed, and the sound of chaos filled the air before I even had a chance to breathe.
"Orion," Kerstie called from the living room, her voice sharp in that way that meant I'd already done something wrong.
I took a breath. "Yeah?"
"You forgot the paper towels again."
I glanced at the counter. I'd remembered milk, eggs, even her favorite cereal that was always out of stock. But somehow, paper towels were the breaking point.
Before I could answer, she kept going, "And since you're going back out, we're out of candles too. Oh— and get that creamer I like, the oat one. And apples. The red ones, not the weird green ones you always grab."
Behind her, the kids were waging a war over a tablet, the three-year-old—Aloy now, apparently—screaming in high-pitched triumph while her older brother declared something about unfair turns and tyrants. His entitled attitude had me convinced he was royalty in a past life.
I rubbed the back of my neck. "You sure you don't want me to just bring home the whole store?"
Kerstie shot me a look that could have frozen fire. "Don't be smart. Just go before they break something. I still need you to settle them into bed so I can rest and rub my back when you get home."
So I went.
The door shut behind me with that heavy finality that only comes from a house that doesn't really rest. I exhaled, running a hand through my hair as I headed down the steps, the grocery list already growing longer in my mind.
I began muttering to myself absently.
And that's when I heard it—her voice.
"Rough night, huh?"
Rukia was sitting on the edge of the roof, knees pulled up, her shihakushō catching the last light of dusk in flashes of white and shadow. Her presence hung faintly in the air, that crisp tingle I'd learned to recognize without even looking.
I stopped at the base of the porch, shaking my head. "You always pick the creepiest times to show up, you know that?"
She hopped down lightly, landing a few feet from me with her usual effortless grace. "You're the one muttering to yourself in the dark. I thought you might be losing it."
There was a teasing edge to her voice, but I caught something else too—something sharper, quieter. Her gaze flicked back toward the house, where Kerstie's silhouette moved past the window.
"She's… energetic," Rukia said finally.
"That's one word for it."
"Does she always talk to you like that?"
The question caught me off guard. I shrugged, half-laughing. "We've been married a while. This is just… the rhythm of things."
Her expression softened just a little, but her eyes still lingered on the door. "It sounds more like a storm than a rhythm."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I didn't. I just sighed and adjusted my keys, ready to head back to the car.
She fell into step beside me. "Where are you going?"
"Store run. Again."
"For paper towels," she said, and there was a tiny, amused smirk that broke through her quiet irritation.
"Among other things."
She didn't answer right away.
The air between us thickened for a moment. The usual pull, the static hum of our connection—it was there again, flickering under my skin like a pulse that wasn't entirely my own.
"Wanna come with me?" I said, trying to sound casual, but even I could hear the weight in it.
She looked up at me, eyes glinting in the half-light. "Maybe I will."
And for a brief second, the exhaustion, the noise from the house, the endless errands—none of it mattered.
It happened before I even realized what I was doing.
One second, Rukia was standing there with that faint scowl of disapproval that somehow made her look more human, more alive than usual. The next, I leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn't long—barely a heartbeat, but it was enough to short-circuit my entire brain.
The warmth of her lips, the static spark that shot between us—it was like the air itself exhaled around us.
Then reality hit like a slap.
The porch light flicked on, spilling a pale yellow glow across the yard.
Through the window, I saw the faint outline of movement—Kerstie walking past with a towel thrown over her shoulder, one of the kids chasing another in the background.
I stumbled a step back. "Shit—"
Rukia blinked, eyes wide for half a second before that trained Soul Reaper composure snapped back into place. "You… you shouldn't have done that."
"I know," I said, voice low. "Believe me, I know."
We didn't look back toward the house. She was already walking beside me before I'd even processed the decision to move, her pace quick and quiet as we made our way to my car and drove off toward town.
The silence stretched for a while. Just the rumble of tires on asphalt and the distant pitch of cicadas somewhere in the trees. My heart was still pounding from more than just embarrassment.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. "You're really not going to say anything?"
Rukia sighed, the sound heavier than usual. "What do you expect me to say, Orion? That I'm not angry? That I didn't feel that? That you're infuriatingly reckless?"
Her words cut through the dark like a blade.
"I… look, I didn't plan to. It just—"
"—happened," she finished for me, with a sharp little nod. "Yes. That's how these things start. Accidents with consequences."
I wanted to argue, to explain that it wasn't about temptation or rebellion or whatever she thought. But the truth was, I didn't even know what it was about myself.
We reached the parking lot, and I leaned against the car while she crossed her arms, staring out at the row of dimly lit storefronts. The neon "OPEN" sign at the corner flickered like it couldn't make up its mind.
"What's really bothering you?" I finally asked. "Because this… this isn't about a kiss."
Her jaw tightened, and for a moment, she didn't answer. Then she said quietly, "Your marriage."
I blinked. "What about it?"
She turned to face me, her eyes sharp but not cruel. "You love her, I know that. But every time I see you two, it feels like watching someone walk around in a life that doesn't fit anymore. You're smaller when she's around. Duller."
"That's not fair."
"No," she said, "but it's true."
I didn't know how to respond. I wanted to defend Kerstie, to defend myself, to make this about something other than what it was, but Rukia had always been able to cut through my excuses.
Her voice softened, almost breaking around the edges. "And I hate that it bothers me. I hate that I notice the way she talks to you, or how you keep pretending that it doesn't matter. Like your feelings don't matter."
She took a step closer, her gaze steady even as her voice trembled just a bit. "I know I shouldn't care. I shouldn't even be here. But I am. And I don't know what to do with that."
I stared at her, the hum of electricity under my skin returning, sharper now. "Rukia…"
"Don't," she said quickly, shaking her head. "Not here. Not again."
We both looked toward the store lights, the moment thick and impossible to undo. Somewhere between us, the air still buzzed with that unstable mix of guilt, longing, and something that felt too much like fate for either of us to admit.
"Let's just… get your damn paper towels," she muttered finally, half under her breath.
There was something cute in the concerned way she was carrying herself.
I managed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, let's get this out of the way."
And we walked on, side by side, pretending that nothing had just changed—while knowing everything had.
I shouldn't have come with him.
That was the thought circling my mind as we walked under the too-bright fluorescent lights of the store, the smell of plastic wrap and processed food heavy in the air. Orion pushed the cart with his usual unhurried gait, that easy, casual rhythm that somehow managed to carry the weight of the world without showing it. But there was a dullness to him now—a quiet, mechanical politeness that felt alien.
He greeted the cashier with a tired half-smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. His voice, which usually carried that sharp humor and reckless spark that could pull me out of any mood, sounded flat. Trained. Rehearsed.
It was strange, watching him like this.
When we were alone—when it was him and me—he was lightning incarnate. Quick, impulsive, alive. He made jokes even when he was nervous, smirked in the face of danger, turned battle into theater. He burned bright, even when he was scared.
But here, under these flickering lights, surrounded by shopping carts and barcodes… he was small. The difference between the man beside me and the one who faced down a Hollow was so stark it almost hurt to look at.
Around her—around Kerstie—he became something quieter.
Less a warrior, more a man worn down by life.
A coward, maybe—not out of malice, but exhaustion. The kind of cowardice born from compromise, routine and complacency.
It made me wonder which version was real. The lightning or the silence. The fighter or the father.
I told myself that my frustration was logical, tactical even—born from watching potential wasted, power stifled. But it wasn't that simple. Not anymore. I was too close, too involved, too aware of him.
He stopped in front of the checkout, unloading the items one by one. Paper towels. A box of cereal. A bag of something bright and sugary for the children and a few other things. All mundane items that should've been meaningless to me—and yet, I found myself memorizing the way his hands moved. How carefully he arranged everything. How unintentionally deliberate he became when the world wasn't trying to kill him.
It wasn't fair.
Not to him, not to me, not to the woman waiting at home.
And still, I couldn't look away.
As the cashier started scanning, the words slipped out before I could stop them. "Orion… are you happy?"
He froze, the question hanging between us like a sword suspended by a single thread. His fingers hovered over his wallet, as if the leather would bite back. There was a faint buzz of his spiritual pressure flickering under his skin like static.
The cashier said something about the total, but neither of us heard it.
He handed over the money, his eyes avoiding mine, that lightning now buried under layers of quiet restraint.
When we stepped out into the cool night air, he finally exhaled—slow, heavy. His voice came out rough around the edges.
"That's a dangerous question, Rukia," he said, not looking at me.
I watched him for a moment, the reflection of the parking lot lights dancing in his tired green eyes. "Maybe," I said softly. "But, I think it's the one you keep avoiding."
He didn't answer. He just stood there, staring out at the horizon like it might hold something worth saying. The silence stretched, thin and trembling, like the edge of a blade.
For once, I didn't try to fill it.
Rukia didn't say anything. She just waited — arms crossed, posture steady, gaze cutting right through me. She had that unnerving Soul Reaper patience, the kind that made you feel like running wouldn't change anything.
Finally, I sighed. "It's complicated, everything is, really."
She tilted her head slightly, the way she does when she already knows I'm about to dodge the real answer.
So I gave it to her anyway.
"I haven't really been happy in a long time," I said. The words came out heavier than I expected, like they'd been waiting their turn for years. "Don't get me wrong — I love my kids. They're… chaos incarnate, but they're my chaos. And I've got friends — good ones, even though they live impossibly far away for the most part. We play games on the weekends, Dungeons & Dragons, sometimes video games when we can all manage to be awake at the same time."
I gave a soft, humorless laugh. "On paper, that's supposed to mean you've made it, right? The dream. Family, friends, a roof, something to fill the time. Hell, I got the obligatory noisy dog — the simple dream life starter pack."
Rukia's expression softened just enough to hurt.
"In some ways, I guess I am happy," I went on. "But overall? I don't know. I just feel… empty, sometimes. Like I'm stuck playing a character in a story that used to be mine, but someone else took over writing it halfway through. Like a failed CW show after the third season"
I stared down at my hands, gripping the bags like they might keep me from unraveling. "I've felt alone for a long time. Even when the house is full of noise, even when people are around. It's like—" I stopped, trying to find the right word. "Like I've been standing in a crowded room for years, waving, and nobody ever looks up."
The words hung there between us, heavier than I meant them to be.
I met her eyes then — violet, sharp, and impossibly alive. "And then… I met you."
Her lips parted slightly, but she didn't speak. Maybe she couldn't.
I shrugged, forcing a weak grin to soften the weight of what I'd just said. "You didn't fix anything," I admitted. "You just… saw me. The real me. The part that got buried under work, bills and bedtime stories. The part that still wanted to fight for something. I feel like a fraud in my own skin, but then you look at me and somehow I feel like you aren't looking at the mask…"
I realize I'm starting to ramble
For a moment, the world felt still. The whisper of the mid may breeze faded, the sound of a distant car engine blurred into background noise. All I could feel was the pull between us — that strange, undeniable resonance that made the air feel as electric as that power that now flows through my veins.
Rukia finally spoke, her voice quieter than I'd ever heard it. "You shouldn't say things like that, Orion."
"Yeah," I said, with a tired half-smile. "But I meant it."
Her eyes flickered — a brief, unguarded flash of emotion before she turned away, her hair brushing against her cheek like a curtain falling between us.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was fragile. Honest.
We started walking again,
The night air had that kind of stillness that makes you aware of every sound — the faint rush of passing cars, the soft crinkle of grocery bags as I tossed them into the back seat of my beat-up black Nissan. The silence between us lingered, heavy, but not cold — just full. The kind of quiet that follows when too much truth has been spoken.
Rukia stood there, arms crossed, pretending to study the asphalt like it held answers. The faint neon glow from the store signs painted her hair in streaks of violet-blue, and she looked… distant. Beautifully distant.
I hated seeing her like that — that look of quiet guilt and thought she got when she thought I wasn't watching.
So I decided to ruin the mood.
"Alright," I said, popping open one of the plastic bags, "enough brooding. I have something way more important."
Her brow lifted, suspicion instantly replacing melancholy. "If this is another one of your terrible analogies, I swear—"
"It's better," I interrupted with a grin. I reached in, pulling out the small, colorful packet I'd grabbed on impulse at the checkout.
Rukia blinked. "Candy?"
"Not just candy. Experience." I waggled it dramatically. "Pop Rocks. Ever had them?"
She looked unimpressed. "Can't say that I have. Why would I want rocks that—"
"Shh." I pointed at her like a teacher about to deliver sacred wisdom. "Close your eyes. Open your mouth."
She gave me that look — the one that could freeze a lesser man's blood. "You realize how that sounds, right?"
I bit back a laugh. "Yeah, but trust me. It's worth it."
"Trust you," she repeated, crossing her arms tighter. "Last time you said that, chappy ended up pretending to be 'horny orion' with your wife."
"Hey, that was a solid plan."
"It was not a solid plan."
"Still worked."
Her lips twitched — just barely, but it was there. The ghost of a smile.
I stepped closer, holding the little packet like a magician about to reveal a trick. "Come on, Rukia. Just this once. I promise it's not gross, it doesn't bite, and it's not going to explode."
She hesitated — a mix of suspicion and curiosity flickering in her eyes. Then she sighed, soft and reluctant. "Fine. But if this is some kind of weird human prank…"
I smirked. "You'll never let me live it down, I know."
She closed her eyes. Her arms relaxed slightly at her sides, her chin tilted up just a little, and for a second, the world narrowed down to that small, unguarded expression on her face.
It hit me then — the trust there. Fragile, reluctant, but real.
"Alright," I murmured, tearing open the packet. "Ready?"
"Just do it before I change my mind."
I tilted the packet over her open mouth, the tiny crystals tumbling onto her tongue with a faint crackle.
Her eyes flew open immediately.
The pop and fizz echoed softly in the air, echoing in her mouth, and she jerked slightly, eyes wide in surprise as the candy crackled to life. The shock melted into wonder — and then laughter, quiet and bright and completely her.
Her lips parted, a spark of delight in her expression that I wanted to memorize forever.
"It's— it's popping!" she exclaimed, touching her lips as if to confirm it. The sound filled the space between us — the delicate, sporadic snapping of the candy fizzing on her tongue.
Watching her like that — violet eyes shimmering in the dim light, laughter spilling out like a melody.
I couldn't help it, my heart stumbled.
There was something so achingly human about her right then — not a Soul Reaper, not a noble, not my teacher — just Rukia. Experiencing something strange and sweet for the first time. Just her being unbearably adorable.
And as the crackling slowly faded, replaced by her quiet giggles and the faint flush in her cheeks, I realized again how dangerous this had all become.
Because right there, in the simplest, silliest moment — I wasn't thinking about rules, obligations, or the worlds between us.
I was just thinking about how beautiful she looked when she forgot to guard herself.
The laughter between us still lingered in the air, soft and bubbling like the last fizz of the Pop Rocks melting away. Rukia was half doubled over, trying to compose herself as the occasional snap echoed in her mouth.
"I told you it was fun," I said, grinning from ear to ear.
She tried to glare, but it was ruined by the sound of another tiny crackle escaping her lips. "You— you should have warned me," she protested between giggles, "I thought something exploded!"
"That's the point! It's chaos you can eat."
She rolled her eyes, still smiling. "You humans are absolutely insane."
"Probably," I admitted, leaning closer with a mischievous look. "But tell me, Rukia Kuchiki— ever been kissed by chaos?"
Her eyes widened as she caught on to what I was about to do. "Don't you dare—"
Too late. I tilted my head forward, mouth still snapping and popping with candy, and she jerked back with a startled laugh, one hand pressed against my face to hold me at bay.
"Orion!" she scolded, though she was smiling so brightly it completely ruined the seriousness of her tone. "Absolutely not!"
"C'mon! Just a little pop!"
"No!"
We both broke into laughter then — the kind that left no room for the weight of what we'd said earlier. For a few minutes, it was easy to forget about soul reapers, hollows, duty, or guilt. It was just… fun.
When things finally settled, I hopped up onto the trunk of my car, the metal creaking softly beneath me. The parking lot lights painted long golden lines across the pavement, and Rukia leaned against the bumper beside me, still catching her breath, her arms folded loosely.
For the first time all evening, I felt light.
Then I remembered the flyer.
"Oh— hey, check this out," I said, fishing my phone from my pocket. I swiped through the pictures until I found the one I'd taken earlier — the paper tacked to the bulletin board at the store. "Saw this today."
Rukia leaned in, curiosity pulling her closer. Her shoulder brushed against my leg as she looked at the screen.
It was a neatly printed flyer — "Spiritual Awareness Group — Open Discussion Every Saturday, Haven Bookstore."— hosted by Professor Tanaka, sponsored by Karakura Community College."
She tilted her head. "Humans hold spiritualist meetings all the time," she said dismissively at first.
"Yeah, sure, but…" I pointed at a line of text. "'Learn to sense your reiatsu and harmonize with spiritual frequencies.'"
That made her blink. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she reread it, lips parting just a little. "…'Reiatsu'? Humans don't use that word."
"Exactly."
I leaned back against the car, feeling the cool metal press through my jacket as Rukia studied the flyer on my phone. The neon lights from the store cast their cold glow overhead, flickering just enough to make the moment feel more fragile than it was.
She squinted at the image, mumbling something under her breath about the Soul Society terminology printed on it — reiryoku, reiatsu, spiritual harmonics. It wasn't normal human language, and even she almost missed it until I pointed it out.
But before I could say anything else, she swiped the screen.
Her expression shifted from thoughtful to stunned in a heartbeat. "...What—what is this?"
I froze, brain lagging behind my own panic.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
"Hey—wait, that's not—uh, give that back!" I reached for the phone, but she turned away just enough that I couldn't grab it without looking like a complete degenerate.
"These are… explicit." Her voice was half scolding, half scandalized., with a hint of something else. "Is this what you humans call… hentai?"
I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck, fighting the urge to just crawl under the car. "Technically, yeah. I mean—it's not all bad, some of it's… really well drawn?"
She gave me this look like she couldn't decide whether to slap me or exorcise me. "You're defending this?"
"I'm defending the artistry," I muttered. "Big difference. Besides, I'm classy and have some elegant stuff in there."
Rukia flicked through a few more images, her face growing redder by the second. "All these women… they're tall. And curvy. And busty." Her tone softened, though her brow stayed furrowed. "They don't look anything like me."
Her words hung heavier than I expected. For a second, I didn't know what to say.
"Yeah, well…" I shrugged. "It's not like I went out looking for a Rukia Kuchiki category, alright?"
She gasped. "There shouldn't be one!"
"Exactly!" I grinned despite myself. "You're one of a kind. And well, you're different from what I usually go for… You're special, beautiful in ways I didn't expect to love so much." I said shyly.
Her cheeks flushed a shade darker, and she shoved the phone against my chest with more force than necessary. "I've seen enough… just keep your smut in check, you're worse than a teenager, I should know I lived in a teenagers closet."
Rukia crossed her arms, chin tilting up defiantly. "Don't look at me like that. It's not as weird as it sounds. It was practical. I was… new to the world of the living and didn't want to impose too much."
I raised a brow, smirking. "Practical? Living in some teenager's closet?"
"Yes!" she snapped, cheeks still red. "It was… convenient. Hidden. Private."
"Oh sure," I said, leaning against the workbench. "Totally normal to crash in a hormonal boy's closet. Did you like, get your own coat hanger section or—?"
She glared daggers. "You're impossible."
I grinned wider. "No, seriously, I gotta know — did you ever, you know, walk in at the wrong time? He was a teenage boy."
Her face turned scarlet. "I am not answering that!"
"Ahh, so that's a yes."
"Orion!"
I raised my hands in surrender, laughing. "Okay, okay, I'm done. Mostly. It's just— come on, that poor guy probably had no idea what to do with himself. Cute girl secretly living in his closet? That's like every guy's fever dream."
She muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like, "He was insufferable enough without that," but there was the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
I leaned back, still chuckling. "You know, I can't really judge. My first apartment had this walk-in closet— barely fit a mattress, but it was the coziest damn thing. Slept in there for almost a year."
Her eyes widened slightly. "You… chose to live in a closet?"
"Yeah," I said with a shrug. "Rent was cheap, sound was deadened, and honestly, it felt like my own little den. I get it, closets are underrated."
She gave a small laugh, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet somehow, you lived in one too," I teased.
"Under protest," she huffed, trying not to smile.
I smirked, lowering my voice. "Bet that kid had no idea how lucky he was. I mean, if I'd known a Soul Reaper was setting up camp in my closet, I'd have at least cleaned up the evidence first."
Her brow furrowed in confusion, then realization hit. "Evidence? You're disgusting!"
I laughed so hard my ribs hurt. "What? You think Ichigo never— come on!"
She whacked me on the arm, but her laughter finally broke through her indignation. "You're impossible, Orion."
"Maybe," I said, slipping the phone into my pocket. "But at least you're smiling again."
She rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.
The night air felt easier after that—lighter. The tension that had been twisting between us since the parking lot melted into something that almost felt normal.
I hopped off the trunk, stretching out a little. "You know," I said after a moment, "that flyer might be something worth checking out."
She tilted her head, still recovering from the mortification of my phone's contents and her closet living. "You really think it's connected to Soul Society?"
"Could be." I pulled the phone back out—carefully staying on the flyer this time. "Look, humans don't usually toss around words like reiatsu or spiritual harmonics. That's not just new-age talk. Somebody knows something."
Rukia leaned closer, her tone turning serious again. "It could be a Soul Aware. Or a Visored. Maybe even one of the Fullbringers—they've been surfacing more often lately."
"Exactly," I said. "So… we check it out. Together. Call it a field test."
"For your stealth training?" she asked, a small smirk tugging at her lips.
"Yeah. I figure if I can tail Hiro without him noticing, I might actually survive being your partner."
She crossed her arms, pretending to think about it. "You're confident for someone who can't even keep his phone clean."
"Hey, progress takes time," I said, grinning. "Besides, I learn best with hands-on experience."
She snorted at that, shaking her head. "You really don't know when to quit."
"I like to think I'm smart, but the reality is I'm too stupid to quit."
Her laughter came soft and genuine this time, the kind that felt like a reward. I found myself watching her longer than I meant to—the way the light caught her hair, the faint curve of a smile that was equal parts fond and defiant.
And for a fleeting moment, standing in that half-lit parking lot with the night breeze brushing past us, I forgot how complicated everything was.
It was just her and me, the chaos waiting quietly beyond the glow of the streetlights.
I smirked. "So what, we sneak into a book club?"
"If it's harmless, it's harmless," she replied. "But if it's not…"
She let the implication hang there, her violet eyes gleaming in the dim light.
I leaned back against my car, watching her as the cool night breeze tugged at her hair. "Guess it's a date then."
She gave me that half-exasperated, half-flustered look that I'd grown addicted to. "It's training," she corrected.
"Sure," I said, grinning. "Training."
She shook her head, muttering something about humans and their arrogance — but she was smiling again, soft and subtle, as she pushed off the car.
And as she walked ahead of me, that quiet confidence returning to her stride, I couldn't help thinking that whatever this "meetup" turned out to be, I'd follow her straight into it.
Even if it was hell disguised as a bookstore.