I wake up to the alarm blaring and sunlight stabbing through the blinds like it's out for revenge. My face feels sticky, my cheeks damp. It takes a second to realize why, then it hits me like a punch to the chest. It took me a while to get back to sleep after what happened last night, the lack of sleep was doing me no favors.
Tears. Again.
For a brief, fleeting moment before opening my eyes, I expected to see her. Rukia.
That same quiet intensity in her violet eyes, the way her spiritual pressure seemed to hum in rhythm with my heartbeat. But instead… I get the sound of my phone buzzing to the tune of the song from Steins;Gate. The unmistakable chaos of my real life brewing downstairs.
My world, the one with walls, dishes, and alarm clocks, feels paper-thin this morning.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my face, trying to shake the lingering haze. My head feels like it's full of static, the faintest crackle of electricity still crawling across my fingertips. That alone makes me hesitate. It shouldn't still be there.
Then, from downstairs—
"Orion! Did you move the lunches I packed?!"
Kerstie's voice. Sharp. Tired. The tone of someone juggling six things at once and assuming I'm the seventh.
I swing my legs out of bed and start pulling on a shirt. "No, babe, I didn't touch them!" I call back, voice rough.
A beat of silence. Then—
"Well, they're not where I left them! Can you please check before the kids are late again?"
I sigh. Same dance, different day.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, the morning hurricane is in full effect. Freya's sitting at the table dramatically lamenting the state of her cereal.
"It's soggy now, Dad! Soggy!" she announces like it's a national tragedy with too much enthusiasm.
Kai, on the other hand, is slumped over with his hood up, half-asleep over his toast. "Don't care," he mutters, which is about as enthusiastic as he gets before 10 A.M.
Kerstie's pacing between the counter and the door, coffee in one hand, her shoulder tense in that familiar way that means she's hurting again. The stiffness in her movements is subtle but unmistakable. She tries to mask it with activity, tidying, rechecking bags, fussing over details, but I've known her long enough to see through it.
"There's no milk left," she says, glancing at me without stopping her motion. "And the dishwasher's full again. You were going to—"
"I'll do it after I get the kids to the bus," I say gently, grabbing the forgotten lunchboxes from the counter.
"After the bus means you'll forget," she fires back automatically, though there's no real malice behind it. Just fatigue, sharpened by pain.
I want to reach out. To comfort her. But I don't know how this morning. Not when my own chest feels hollow. Not when I keep catching myself looking at her and thinking about someone else.
I force a small smile instead. "I won't forget. Promise."
Her eyes soften just a little. "Okay," she murmurs, brushing a stray hair behind her ear before turning toward the stove. "Just… thank you."
It's not much, but it's enough to keep me moving.
I help Freya with her shoes, coax Kai into putting on his backpack, and herd everyone toward the door. The whole time, the world feels surreal—too bright, too noisy, too normal.
As the kids pile into the car and Kerstie gives last-minute reminders about homework and lunches, I catch my reflection in the window. My eyes look older. Tired. Haunted.
Rukia's voice echoes faintly in my head.
"Your love for them only makes me love you more."
My throat tightens. I glance at my wife, then at my children. For a moment, I feel suspended between two worlds, one of duty, the other of connection that defied logic.
As Kerstie gathers her things by the door, she pauses for a moment and leans toward me, eyes weary but trying to be tender.
It's one of those small gestures—habitual, practiced, but I freeze for just a fraction too long. I force myself to meet her halfway, our lips brushing in a brief, clumsy exchange. The rhythm is off, too quick, too stiff. There's no spark, no harmony of breath or heartbeat, just motion.
"Is my wife really that bad of a kisser?" I think to myself.
She pulls back with a faint, puzzled look, unaware of the storm behind my eyes. And I hate myself for thinking it, but all I can feel is how wrong it is, how far it is from Rukia's touch, from the pull that felt like soul meeting soul.
Kerstie gets in the car and exhales, rubbing her temples. "You okay?" she asks absently, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Yeah," I lie. "Just… tired."
She nods, already scrolling through something on her phone, and I watch her profile as she talks quietly about lesson plans and the substitute she's training. I listen. I respond when I can. But part of me is still somewhere else entirely.
When I finally watch them drive off, the silence that follows feels like a vacuum.
I lean against the porch rail, staring at the sky.
"I miss her already," I whisper to no one.
A breeze moves through the trees, brushing my skin like static. The faintest pulse of reiryoku stirs in my chest.
For just an instant, I swear I hear her voice, soft, familiar, and impossibly close.
"You're not alone, Orion."
My heart skips a beat. The feeling fades as quickly as it came, leaving me standing there in disbelief, clutching the railing.
"I don't know what's real anymore," I admit quietly. "But I hope I'm not crazy enough to have imagined you."
I hear the faint shuffle of tiny feet on the hardwood floor, followed by the soft, sleepy whimper of my youngest. Aloy. Her name alone pulls me back from the edge of my thoughts. I turn from the door, wiping the last traces of conflicted emotion from my face as I head inside.
She's standing in the hallway, her hair a wild halo of morning tangles, clutching her worn-out stuffed bunny by the ear. Her eyes—big, trusting, and impossibly bright—meet mine, and the world feels gentler for a moment.
"Daddy," she mumbles, rubbing her eyes, "I had a dream you were flying." She says in that familiar slurred way that toddlers speak.
I smile faintly and scoop her up, her warmth against my chest grounding me in the here and now. "Maybe I was," I say softly, pressing my forehead to hers. "But I came back, didn't I?"
She nods drowsily, already halfway back to sleep in my arms as I carry her toward the kitchen. Her small hand claws my short rough beard as her way of self soothing, right over the spot where I still swear I can feel Rukia's lingering touch.
In the quiet stillness of the Squad 13 barracks in the Soul Society.
The dawn light spills through paper windows, painting long, pale lines across polished wood. Rukia sits alone at her desk, still in uniform, her zanpakutō resting across her knees. She hasn't slept. Her violet eyes stare absently into the distance, haunted by the echo of Orion's confession and the warmth of a love she wishes she could forget.
Rukia sat rigidly at her desk, the morning light sharp and intrusive. Her ink brush trembled only once before she steadied her hand. She didn't have the luxury of breaking down, not here, not now. Just as she reached for another report, the door to her office slid open with a crash.
"Third Seat Kiyone Kotetsu reporting—!"
"Third Seat Sentarō Kotsubaki reporting first!"
The door to Rukia's office slammed open as the pair stumbled in, practically elbowing each other out of the way, each clutching one end of the same stack of papers. Rukia blinked once, very slowly, as if mentally preparing herself for the headache that was about to follow.
"It's for the Captain's authorization!" Sentarō declared, tugging at the papers.
"Liar! I was the one who took the request from the courier—you just swooped in to steal the credit again!" Kiyone snapped, yanking them back.
"Credit belongs to whoever delivers it first!" Sentarō retorted, puffing his chest out.
Rukia inhaled deeply through her nose, the kind of slow, measured breath that carried the weight of a thousand suppressed sighs. "Enough."
Both third seats froze mid-tug-of-war.
"Place the documents on my desk," Rukia continued, voice even and deceptively calm, though her eyes flashed with a chill authority that could freeze a Hollow mid-roar. "I will sign them both. Whichever of you files them fastest afterward can claim the glory. Now—go."
The two exchanged sharp glares before scrambling to obey, muttering competitive vows about who would reach the records hall first as they dashed back out the door.
When the room finally fell silent, Rukia's shoulders slumped ever so slightly. She dipped her brush back into the ink and exhaled through the tension.
Duty before self.
It was easier to keep her hands busy than let her heart wander.
Hours blurred together as she walked the white corridors of the Seireitei, handling reports, relaying messages, and assisting with logistics for other squads. Every familiar hallway became a distraction, every order a means of escape from the ache in her chest.
Until she turned a corner, and froze.
"Rukia?"
The voice was gentle, tinged with surprise. Standing in the sunlight near the entrance to the Women's Association hall were Uryu Ishida and Orihime Inoue. Uryu, as crisp and composed as ever, adjusted his glasses while Orihime beamed beside him, arms full of fabric samples and measuring tape.
"Ah! Rukia!" Orihime chirped, nearly tripping over her own enthusiasm. "It's been forever! You look… um, busy! We're just here for a little consultation. The Women's Association wanted Uryu's expertise on some dresses!"
"I wasn't exactly eager to accept," Uryu muttered, straightening his jacket. "But certain people can be… persuasive."
Orihime giggled, giving him a playful nudge.
Rukia forced a small smile, trying to ignore how heavy her body felt. "I see. The Captain and Lieutenant of Squad Four must have been pleased with your last work, then." Uryu nodded.
Uryu adjusted his glasses, giving a modest sigh. "It was supposed to be a simple consultation. Somehow it turned into a full commission," he said dryly. eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. There was a faint tension in her voice, too clipped, too polite. "You're pale," he remarked quietly. "Are you feeling alright, Kuchiki?"
Her eyes flicked up sharply. "I'm fine," she said too quickly.
Orihime, oblivious to the sharpness of the moment, stepped closer with that bright, empathetic energy that seemed to fill every room she entered. "Maybe you've been overworking again! You should take a break, Uryu says stress wrinkles fabric, but I think it wrinkles hearts!"
That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from Rukia, one she didn't quite realize she'd made.
Uryu adjusted his glasses again, feigning nonchalance though his gaze softened. "If you're going to lie about being fine, at least be more convincing next time," he murmured.
Rukia's composure faltered for half a heartbeat, but she regained it with a small, practiced bow. "Noted, Ishida."
And with that, she stepped past them, her footsteps steady even as her heart felt hollow.
Uryu watched her go, lips pressed in a thin line. Orihime tilted her head, her expression full of quiet understanding.
"Do you think she's okay?" she asked softly.
"No," Uryu replied, gaze following Rukia's retreating form. "But she's trying to be."
"Uryu, you saw her face just now, Rukia looked so sad!" she said, hands clasped in concern as she watched the retreating figure of the normally composed lieutenant. "We should go talk to her, she's our friend, after all!"
Uryu adjusted his glasses, his expression cool as ever, though his gaze lingered on the corner where Rukia had disappeared. "Rukia Kuchiki is perfectly capable of managing herself," he replied, tone clipped but quieter than usual. "Besides, it's not our place to pry into a lieutenant's personal affairs."
Orihime puffed her cheeks, undeterred. "That's just an excuse! You always say that, but then you end up helping anyway. You care, Uryu, you just don't like to admit it."
He sighed, eyes closing briefly behind the glint of his glasses. "It's not about caring, it's about boundaries," he muttered. Yet even as he said it, an uncomfortable tightness tugged at his chest. He knew too well what isolation did, how easy it was to drown in one's own thoughts when the world around you kept moving forward.
"Fine," he relented finally, turning his head to hide the faint softness creeping into his voice. "But we're not prying. We're… checking in. Briefly."
Orihime smiled knowingly, already skipping a few steps ahead. "That's what I said!" she chimed.
Uryu sighed again, following after her despite himself. Some things never change, he thought. And maybe that's a good thing.
Orihime's voice called out across the courtyard, gentle but full of concern. "Rukia! Wait up!"
Rukia stopped mid-step, her hand tightening around the folder she carried. She turned slowly, eyes widening just a bit as she saw Orihime and Uryu approaching. Her composure flickered for a moment before she slipped the practiced calm of a lieutenant back into place.
"Orihime, Uryu… Did you need something?" she asked, her tone even, too even.
His sharp blue eyes softened slightly as he studied her. "You look… exhausted, Rukia."
Rukia blinked at him, caught off guard by his bluntness. "I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just… a busy day."
Orihime tilted her head, her voice dropping to a more tender note. "You don't have to say that to us, Rukia. We're your friends. If something's wrong, you can talk to us."
That warmth, so sincere and unguarded, hit something deep inside Rukia. Her throat tightened, and for the first time all day, she couldn't quite force the mask back on. The weight of her composure faltered as she whispered, "It's… nothing you can help with."
Orihime exchanged a look with Uryu, then gently reached out to take Rukia's hand. "Come on," she said softly. "Let's find somewhere quiet to sit. Just for a few minutes."
Uryu nodded, his tone careful but steady. "She's right. Sometimes… talking helps," he admitted, awkwardly clearing his throat afterward. "Not that I'm particularly good at it."
A faint, broken laugh escaped Rukia despite herself. She gave a small nod, allowing them to lead her away to a shaded garden tucked between two barracks—a place where petals drifted lazily in the air and the noise of the Seireitei faded to a distant hum.
As they sat, Rukia's composure finally cracked. She drew in a shaky breath, her voice trembling as she spoke. "I thought I had everything under control. My duties, my emotions, my… attachments. But last night…"
Her words trailed off as her gaze dropped to her lap, fingers tightening around the fabric of her uniform. Orihime's hand found hers again, warm and grounding.
Uryu stayed quiet, but his eyes softened as he adjusted his glasses once more, his way of hiding how deeply he was listening.
"Then maybe," he said quietly, "it's time to stop trying to control everything, and just… let yourself be human for once."
The silence that followed was heavy, but healing—three souls connected by shared understanding, sitting in the quiet heart of the Soul Society.
Rukia sat between them, her gaze fixed on the koi pond just beyond the garden stones. The water rippled softly with the breeze, mirroring the turmoil beneath her calm expression.
"It started last night," she said finally, her voice low and steady at first. "I was investigating a strange surge of spiritual pressure near an abandoned shrine outside Karakura Town. It didn't belong to any Hollow or known spiritual entity—it was… something else."
Orihime leaned in slightly, eyes wide with concern. "Something else? Like what?"
Rukia hesitated, searching for the right words. "He called himself Orion," she said at last. "At first, I thought he was just a wandering spirit, his body still in the living world, but his soul somehow detached. But he wasn't like any Plus I've ever met. His reiatsu was… unstable, like lightning bottled up inside a human form. It didn't match a Soul Reaper, or a Quincy, or even a Fullbringer."
Uryu adjusted his glasses, frowning. "A detached soul with spiritual control? That shouldn't be possible without a link or external device."
Rukia nodded faintly. "I thought so too. But he… he wasn't afraid. He was funny, even in the middle of that chaos. Casual, curious. He had this—" she paused, smiling faintly despite herself, "—this dorky confidence about him. The kind that makes you forget where you are for a moment."
Orihime's expression softened. "He sounds sweet."
Rukia's voice wavered. "He was. There was something about him that felt… familiar. Like our souls had crossed paths before. When our spiritual pressures touched, it was like—" she took a breath, her cheeks coloring, "—like they resonated. As if we were meant to understand each other."
Uryu stayed silent, arms folded, but the faint furrow in his brow betrayed his interest.
"I started training him," Rukia continued. "Teaching him to shape that lightning into something controllable. He learned faster than anyone I've ever seen. In a single night, he went from raw, chaotic energy to channeling a technique that took me weeks to master."
Orihime smiled encouragingly. "That sounds incredible, Rukia! He must have really trusted you."
Rukia's lips parted, but no words came out. Her gaze dropped to her lap. "He did," she whispered. "And I trusted him."
The air hung heavy for a long moment until Orihime, gentle as ever, asked softly, "Rukia… what happened after that?"
Rukia's hands clenched slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not proud of it. I've never been that kind of person. I don't lose control—ever. But that resonance between us… it wasn't just spiritual. It was emotional, physical. Everything about it felt right. And before I could think about what I was doing—"
Her words faltered. Orihime's expression turned to one of quiet understanding, while Uryu looked away, face stiff but not judgmental.
"We… were together," Rukia said finally. "More than once. It wasn't planned, it wasn't rational. It just… happened."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Orihime reached over, placing a gentle hand on Rukia's trembling shoulder. "Rukia… it's okay. You don't have to be ashamed for feeling something real."
Rukia shook her head, eyes glistening. "You don't understand, Orihime. After everything, after the way he looked at me, the things he said, he told me the truth right before returning to his home in the living world."
Rukia's voice trembled as she spoke the words aloud, like shards of glass cutting through the fragile calm they'd managed to build.
"He's married," she said, her throat tightening. "He has four children."
The words hung there, echoing in the quiet garden courtyard. For a long moment, no one moved. Even the soft rustle of the wind seemed to stop.
Orihime blinked, her usual warmth faltering. "He's… what?" Her tone wasn't harsh, but filled with shock and disbelief. She pressed a hand to her chest as if the truth had hit her physically. "Married? But, Rukia… you—" she stopped herself, torn between empathy and moral reflex.
Rukia couldn't meet her gaze. "I didn't know," she whispered. "Not until the end. When he told me, I could feel how much it hurt him to say it, but it still doesn't change what happened."
Orihime's lips parted, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of it. "That's… that's so unfair," she said softly. "To you, to his wife—" she caught herself, guilt flickering across her face. "I mean… he must have been so lost. Maybe he didn't even understand what was happening between you two."
Her words came tumbling out in a confused rush, her hands fidgeting in her lap. "People say things are different between the living and the dead, but this, this crosses both worlds. How are you supposed to process something like that?"
Rukia gave a faint, hollow laugh. "I don't know. I've been asking myself that since I woke up this morning."
Uryu, who had been silent until now, adjusted his glasses with a sharp motion, his expression cool but not unkind. "Regardless of circumstance, deception is deception," he said firmly. "Married or not, he should have told you the truth from the start. That was his responsibility."
Orihime frowned, glancing at him. "Uryu, that's not fair! He might not have meant to hurt her. You don't know what he was feeling."
"I don't," Uryu replied evenly, "But intent doesn't erase consequences. Rukia was left to carry the emotional fallout alone. That's not something you can justify with confusion or good intentions."
His tone softened slightly as he looked at Rukia, his gaze steady. "You're not at fault here. You were deceived, and even if he's lost or confused, that doesn't excuse the pain he caused."
Rukia's shoulders sagged, the composure she'd been clinging to finally starting to slip. "I want to hate him," she murmured, her voice shaking. "But I can't. Every time I close my eyes, I still see his face… hear his voice. I can still feel him."
Orihime's expression wavered between sympathy and uncertainty. "Maybe part of him didn't mean for it to happen," she said softly. "But… you deserve someone who chooses you freely, not someone who's torn between two worlds."
Uryu's reply was quiet but resolute. "Agreed. Attachment born of chaos rarely ends well."
Rukia looked between them, her two friends, the angel and the realist, and let out a slow, shuddering breath. "You're both right. I know you are. I just wish my heart would listen to my head."
Orihime scooted closer and wrapped her arms around Rukia, resting her chin on her shoulder. "Then we'll help you remember who you are," she said softly. "Not as someone's love, but as Rukia Kuchiki, the woman strong enough to survive anything."
Uryu remained standing, looking away toward the distant towers of the Seireitei. "And if this man crosses our world again," he said, voice low and sharp, "I'll be the first to remind him what it means to take responsibility for his choices."
Orihime shot him a small, half-exasperated glance but didn't argue. Rukia only managed a tired smile.
"Thank you," she whispered, tears welling again. "For being here. For not judging me."
Orihime held her tighter. "Always."
And even Uryu, ever the stoic, gave a small nod, his usual composure masking something that looked an awful lot like quiet understanding.
Rukia lifted her head, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. Her violet eyes, still shimmering with tears, now held a flicker of that familiar steel, the resolve that had carried her through countless battles.
"I… I need to see him," she said quietly, her voice firmer this time, cutting through the weight of grief and confusion that had clung to her all day. "I can't… not know. Not after everything. Even if it hurts, even if it's complicated, I need answers. Closure. Something."
Orihime's arms tightened around her in support, her warmth steady and grounding. "Rukia…" she began softly, but Rukia held up a hand, cutting her off.
"Please," Rukia whispered, her gaze unwavering. "I need to do this for myself. Not for him, not for anyone else… for me."
Uryu, standing nearby, adjusted his glasses and studied her carefully. "If you're certain," he said, his tone measured, "then you should. Just… be prepared for whatever you find. And take care of yourself. Don't let your emotions cloud your judgment."
Rukia nodded, a small, determined breath escaping her lips. "I'll be careful. But I won't ignore this. Not anymore."
For the first time that day, she felt the familiar weight of purpose settle over her shoulders, mingled now with a dangerous, intoxicating hope. She needed to see him—to confront the truth, whatever it might bring.