Steam still clung to the air, curling in soft ribbons from the open bathroom door. Morning light spilled through the half-closed blinds, cutting the room into lines of gold and shadow. Rukia sat at the edge of the couch, towel draped around her shoulders as she slowly worked through her damp hair.
I leaned against the doorway, ribs still sore but healing. The bruises had started to fade—though the memory of the Hollow's jaws still lingered like a phantom ache.
Rukia glanced at me through the mirror's reflection, her tone measured but thoughtful.
"You should start training again soon," she said, drying the ends of her hair. "Your reiryoku is unusual, and your techniques… they don't follow any of the forms I've seen before."
"Guess I'm just built different," I said, forcing a grin. "A freak of nature and proud of it."
Her lips twitched, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. "You're impossible."
"I like to think of it as charmingly unorthodox."
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. "If you're serious, I could teach you more—basic forms, maybe some control work. You're raw power right now. Dangerous, even to yourself."
"Story of my life," I said softly. "But… yeah. I want to learn. If I'm going to keep getting attacked by nightmares with bones for faces, I'd rather not get flattened again."
For a moment, it was easy. Domestic. Comfortable in a way that felt wrong to enjoy this much. She was here—real, alive, hair still damp, spirit pressure faintly humming through the air like static before a storm.
Then her shoulders stiffened slightly, the warmth fading from her voice.
"I can't stay much longer," she said. "I've already been gone too long. If I don't report back, someone will start asking questions."
I swallowed that dull ache that always came when she said things like that. "How long?"
"...A week," she answered after a pause. "I can return for that long before my absence raises suspicion."
A week. It sounded like forever and nothing at all.
She rose from the couch, now dressed in her gigai's usual casual attire, and crossed the room toward me. The towel slid from her shoulders, forgotten. I met her halfway.
"I'll be waiting," I said quietly.
Her violet eyes searched mine, shimmering with something fragile and fierce all at once. "You always say that like it's easy."
"It's not," I admitted. "But I'll still do it."
Rukia hesitated for only a heartbeat before closing the distance, her lips meeting mine in a kiss that was softer than last night's heat but somehow heavier—with meaning, with consequence.
When she finally pulled away, she lingered just long enough for her forehead to rest against mine. "Don't get yourself killed before I come back," she whispered.
"No promises," I said with a crooked grin. "But I'll try."
She rolled her eyes at the attempt at humor, yet the small smile she gave me was worth every ounce of ache in my ribs.
By the time I walked her to the door, the weight of reality had settled between us again—quiet, but not unbearable.
"I really should stay," she said one last time, her voice almost breaking on the words.
"Then stay," I said, knowing she couldn't.
She didn't answer, just gave me one last look before stepping out into the cool morning air. The door clicked softly behind her, leaving only silence and the faint scent of rain on her towel.
I exhaled and muttered to the empty room, "Guess I'll see you in a week, Rukia."
The tea had gone cold on the counter, but I didn't care. For once, the quiet didn't feel empty—it felt like waiting.
When the world settled back into its rhythm, I realized something strange—
Every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel her presence lingering in the air, faint but alive. It wasn't loneliness. It was the echo of connection. The kind that tethered two souls across distance and duty.
I wasn't sure what I was becoming, but I knew one thing for certain: the moment she stepped out that door, something inside me had started to change again. Not like when I first touched that Hollow's mask—this was deeper. Controlled. Awake.
The soft chime of the doorbell rang as Rukia stepped inside Urahara Shop, the familiar mix of sugar, incense, and faint spirit energy greeting her. Moonlight streamed through the dusty front windows, scattering light over jars of bright candy and oddly humming devices.
Behind the counter with only a few dim lights from the hallway, Kisuke Urahara stood fanning himself lazily, his striped bucket hat tilted just enough to cast a mischievous shadow across his sharp green eyes. His haori hung open over his dark yukata, sandals tapping lightly against the floor as he looked up.
"Well, well…" he said, tone dripping with mock surprise. "Kuchiki Rukia graces my humble shop again. And here I thought I'd have to send an invitation."
Rukia's brow twitched. "Don't start."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in playful scrutiny. "My, my. Someone's testy today. But—" he leaned forward slightly, gaze flicking up and down her aura with visible amusement—"you're practically glowing. Someone's been busy."
Her face went crimson in an instant. "E–Excuse me?"
Kisuke chuckled behind his fan, the sound entirely too knowing. "Your reiryoku feels… different. Warmer. Brighter. It's almost as if you've been—oh, what do the kids say—hooking up with someone?"
"Y-you're imagining things!" Rukia snapped, her hand twitching dangerously to where her zanpakutō would be if she wasn't in her gigai. "And stop saying things like that!"
"Relax, relax," he said with a placating wave, grin never fading. "It's not a bad look on you. Just... unexpected. You usually have such a sharp, frosty edge. But now—" he made a vague circling motion in the air, "—you're like spring after the thaw."
Rukia glared daggers at him. "Say another word and I'll freeze your stupid hat to your head."
"Now, now, no need to get violent," Kisuke said, laughing as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm just making an observation. A happy Shinigami is a rare sight."
Before she could retaliate, Tessai Tsukabishi appeared from the back room, towering and composed, carrying a crate of tea. "Mr. Urahara," he said in his deep voice, clearly disapproving, "perhaps you might refrain from harassing our guest."
"Harassing?" Kisuke gasped dramatically, clutching his fan to his chest. "Tessai, you wound me! I was complimenting her spiritual glow."
Rukia groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're insufferable."
Tessai's glasses caught the light as he gave a respectful bow. "Good evening, Miss Kuchiki. It's been some time."
"Likewise," Rukia said curtly before returning her attention to Kisuke.
Kisuke chuckled again but let the topic drop, his tone shifting—still light, but edged with genuine curiosity.
"So then, to what do I owe the pleasure? Surely you didn't come all this way to indulge in my dazzling company."
Her composure returned as she crossed her arms. "I came to ask about the Hollow incident last night."
Kisuke's fan flicked open, half-hiding his face. "Oh? Quite the mess, wasn't it? You handled it admirably."
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't play dumb. You were there. And you saved someone."
The room's atmosphere shifted, just slightly, but enough that even the hanging candies seemed to stop swaying.
Kisuke's grin didn't falter, though his voice softened. "And if I did?"
Rukia crossed her arms. "You have a reputation for taking interest in people you shouldn't. I want to know why you interfered. Why you were watching him."
Kisuke let out a small sigh, folding his fan closed. "You make me sound like some scheming villain. I merely happened to be nearby."
"Liar," Rukia said coldly. "You don't 'happen to be nearby.' You're always watching something."
For a long moment, Kisuke said nothing. Then his gaze shifted, sharp and calculating behind the brim of his hat.
Kisuke's voice came quieter now, all the teasing gone. "You know me, Rukia. I take interest when something… unusual happens. And Orion Hunter, well—" he tapped the edge of his fan against his shoulder, "—he's very unusual."
Rukia's jaw tightened, both in irritation at kisuke and realization that she didn't even know Orion's last name until now. "You stay away from him."
He raised a brow, feigning innocence. "Protective, are we? My, my. The glow makes sense now."
"Kisuke." Her voice dropped, dangerous.
He chuckled under his breath, waving his fan as though shooing away smoke. "I kid, I kid. You know I wouldn't hurt anyone you care about."
She held his gaze for several seconds, eyes hard and unwavering. "You'd better not. Because I'll know if you do."
Something flickered behind his smile, amusement, respect, maybe even a touch of melancholy.
"I'd expect nothing less from a Kuchiki," he said softly.
Rukia turned to leave, stopping at the door. "For what it's worth…" she said without facing him, "thank you. For saving him."
The bell jingled as she stepped out into the moonlight, the door sliding closed behind her.
Rukia's footsteps faded down the street outside, the faint echo of the door chime lingering like the ghost of her reiatsu. The air in the shop grew still again.
Kisuke stood behind the counter, fan lowered, his hat shadowing a pensive expression. The lazy amusement drained away, replaced by something far sharper—an awareness he rarely showed even to his closest allies.
Tessai began sweeping behind the counter but paused when he heard Kisuke murmur to himself.
"She's changing," Kisuke said quietly, his voice almost reverent. "He's changing her."
Tessai looked up, brow furrowed. "You suspected as much."
"Suspected, yes," Kisuke said, finally snapping the fan shut with a soft clack. "But seeing it firsthand… it's fascinating. Their resonance is deeper than I expected, it's like two songs finding harmony they weren't written for."
Tessai's frown deepened. "You speak as though this is your doing."
A faint smirk tugged at Kisuke's lips. "Well, not directly. I simply… opened a few doors years ago. Doors that perhaps should've stayed closed."
He turned, gazing absently toward the few stars of the light polluted sky visible through the dusty window. "The boy's energy shouldn't exist. It's not just spiritual fusion—it's integration. Shinigami, Quincy, and something far older, purer. Raw, primordial lightning."
Tessai's grip on the broom tightened. "Then you knew what he was when you intervened."
"I knew enough," Kisuke replied, tone low but steady. "Enough to recognize the spark. Enough to realize that if he'd died that night, we'd lose a chance to understand something that defies every law we know."
He smiled again, faint and tired, though his eyes gleamed with that unmistakable curiosity that bordered on danger.
"Resonance like that shouldn't be possible… and yet, it's alive. Walking, breathing, feeling. It's already changing him—and her."
He tucked his fan into his sleeve, his voice softening almost to a whisper.
"Let's hope it changes them for the better this time."
Tessai said nothing, but the weight of Kisuke's words filled the small shop like gathering storm air.
He turned toward the back room, voice low.
"…then the line between worlds is about to get very, very thin."
I Spent the following days developing my abilities—not with the big attacks but with finer, more indoors friendly training, I even started working out again. I had long abandoned my highschool physique when I got married. Though I don't look overweight, I could stand to drop 50 lbs from this dad bod.
Lightning danced at my fingertips again, snapping into little shapes on instinct. Knives, spoons, even a crooked little bird that tried to flap before it popped out of existence with a faint crack. The ozone smell clung to everything lately, like guilt.
I wasn't trying to get stronger. I was just trying to control it.
Control was all that kept me from falling apart. Late nights when the family was asleep, those brief hours when the kids were at school before I go to work. In the car when I drove, every waking moment was an opportunity when I was unobserved.
By the fourth day, I could make the lightning float—tiny blades orbiting my hand like stars. Even replicating techniques I had seen in anime because I'm that kind of nerd. Dumb little tricks that didn't mean anything. But it was something to focus on that wasn't… her.
I hadn't been avoiding Kerstie on purpose. It just kind of happened. She'd walk into the room, and I'd find a reason to look at something else. She'd touch me, and I'd freeze like my own body wasn't mine. The air between us had changed, and I didn't know how to fix it. I didn't care to try.
She did.
She cornered me in the kitchen that night.
Barefoot, wearing one of my old shirts that barely fit her anymore. Five feet of pure stubborn energy, arms crossed, messy bun half undone, eyes sharp beneath her soft angled glasses and wet at the same time. She was self-conscious about her weight—always had been—but she carried it with this fierce kind of pride in public, like daring the world to say something. I'd always admired that about her.
Now, she just looked angry.
"You're avoiding me," she said, voice flat and trembling.
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "I'm not avoiding you, Kerstie. I've just had a lot on my mind. You know I'm easily distracted"
"That's what you said two days ago." She stepped closer. "You barely touch me anymore, you don't look at me, you don't even try to talk. I'm not stupid, Orion. Something's wrong."
"It's not you," I said quickly. "I swear, it's not."
"Then what is it?" Her tone sharpened. "You're working out again, you're distracted, you don't even see me anymore. If you've got someone else—"
I cut her off before she could finish. "There's no one else… I'm just doing this self improvement thing."
She folded her arms tighter, like she didn't believe it. "Prove it."
I frowned. "What do you mean, 'prove it'?"
"Let me go through your phone," she said.
That one hit hard. Not because I had anything to hide—but because I knew she wanted to find something. Something to justify the storm she was feeling—a smoking gun, something.
I held out my phone anyway. "Here. Go ahead."
That threw her off. She hesitated. Her lips parted, eyes darting from the phone to my face. "You think this is funny?"
"No," I said, calm as I could manage. Realizing that my old nervous tick of smirking under pressure wasn't helping. "I think you're hurt. And I don't want to lie to you."
"Then tell me the truth!" she snapped. "Tell me why you don't love me anymore!"
The words hit harder than lightning ever could. My throat tightened. "That's not true."
"Really?" she bit back. "Because it feels like you're just here out of habit. Like you're waiting for something better. Like you've already left, you're just too scared to admit it. You're acting like you did before, during that time."
I swallowed the knot forming in my chest. Painful memories resurface of the Renee incident. "Kerstie, I'm still here. I'm trying."
"Trying?" she laughed bitterly. "Trying doesn't feel like love. I need you, all of you, not just this!"
The manipulative edge crept into her tone—soft, guilt-laced, the kind that twisted the knife while pretending to bandage the wound. She'd always been good with words. Better than me. I knew exactly what she was doing, but that didn't make it easier to handle.
She stepped closer until I could feel her warmth. "You used to need me, I do everything for you. I make your appointments and keep your diabetes in check." she whispered. "Now I feel like I'm in the way. Like I'm holding you back from all of those skinny girls you want."
"You're not," I said, voice barely holding steady.
"Then act like it!" Her voice cracked, and she looked away, trembling. "I can't keep feeling like this, Orion. Like I'm the only one still fighting for us. You think I don't know that you don't find me attractive anymore?!"
I wanted to reach for her. To hold her, tell her everything—that I was unraveling, that I didn't even know who I was half the time anymore. But the words wouldn't come.
The silence stretched too long, and she took it as an answer.
"Right," she said finally, wiping her eyes and forcing a bitter smile. "Guess that says it all."
She walked past me, bumping into my shoulder and knocking a bunch of books from a nearby shelf, her scent trailing like smoke. I could feel the air still buzzing faintly from my hands.
When the door shut behind her, I let the lightning out. It cracked against the counter, arcing harmlessly into the air before fading into nothing.
I stared at the scorch mark. I wiped it away with a wash cloth from the sink.
I stood in the doorway to our bedroom and looked at the trembling outline of my wife beneath the blankets. Words felt like landmines—one wrong step and everything would explode.
An apology would demand a confession, and a confession would burn this fragile life to the ground.
But touch… touch could still be a bridge.
A lie, maybe—but a bridge all the same.
I moved closer, my hand hovering over her back. I wanted to remind her she was loved, even if the love between us had become something fractured and uncertain. Maybe if I could just reach her, even a little, we could hold together what was left.
I rested my hand on her hip, thumb tracing a slow, familiar circle. My other hand followed—a practiced sensual dance of my fingers on her body.
She went rigid.
"Don't… " she whispered, her voice thick and raw. "Don't you dare."
I froze. "Kerstie, I just want to—"
"What?" She rolled over, her face blotchy and wet, eyes blazing through the tears her glasses had fallen on the bed somewhere. "You think that's all it takes? You ignore me for days, walk around like a ghost in your own home, and now you think a quick fuck is going to make the crying stop!?"
The accusation landed clean. It was exactly what I was doing—reaching for comfort instead of truth, trying to mend a wound I didn't have the courage to name.
"No, that's not it," I murmured, voice small in the charged quiet. "Let me just… rub your back. You're all tense, maybe I could get your feet too."
She hesitated, her shoulders trembling with the war inside her. For a moment, she fought my touch, then sighed—defeated—and turned over. Her skin was warm and familiar, but under my hands it felt foreign, like touching a memory instead of a person.
I kneaded the tension from her shoulders, trying to pour care into the gesture—trying to make her feel something that maybe I'd already lost.
"Where were you the other night, Orion?" she asked, voice muffled by the pillow.
"I just needed some air, just walked around the block but didn't do much." I lied. The words scraped out of me, dry and bitter.
She gave a short, broken laugh. "You're always 'getting air' lately. Feels like you've already left—you're just too scared to admit it."
Her words were a bullseye. She didn't know the truth, but she could feel its shadow pressing between us.
"That's not true," I said, but even to me, the lie sounded hollow.
She twisted away, wrapping the sheet around herself like armor. "Then what is true?" she snapped, her voice cracking. "Because all I feel is you disappearing! I feel you slipping away, and you won't even tell me why! Whatever happened to my Orion?"
I had no answer—nothing that wouldn't shatter her completely.
The silence said everything.
"Get out," she choked, pointing toward the door. "Just… get out. I can't look at you right now."
I stood there for a heartbeat too long before obeying. The door clicked shut behind me like a final judgment.
The house felt enormous and empty all at once. I sank onto the couch, elbows on my knees, and let the stillness swallow me whole.
For a fleeting moment, I thought I could feel Rukia's reiatsu—warm, faint, impossible—like a ghost pressing against my skin.
I laughed once, quietly, without any humor at all.
"Happy wife, happy life…" I muttered to the dark.
The phrase had never sounded more like a lie.
The rest of the week blurred together—long, gray stretches of silence punctuated by short, sharp arguments and the dull ache of distance. I went through the motions of life like a man halfway detached from gravity.
Training filled the empty spaces Kerstie left behind. Lightning crackled between my fingers, small and controlled, shaping into knives, coins, little sculptures that flickered and vanished when my focus broke. The work was good,mechanical, meditative,but it wasn't enough to drown out the noise of my thoughts.
Video games gathered dust. I stopped joining the group calls, stopped answering the "where the hell are you?" messages from Sam and the others. The controller sat beside the couch for days, its battery dead, just like the conversations I didn't have the energy to start again.
Every night felt the same. Kerstie and I danced around each other like strangers forced to share the same orbit. She'd check my phone when she thought I wasn't looking—sometimes she was right. I'd find her later, sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through messages that didn't exist, trying to find proof of something her gut already told her.
When the fights came, they weren't explosive anymore. Just bitter little flares of exhaustion and paranoia. Sometimes she'd tell me to sleep on the couch; sometimes I did without being told.
And yet… somewhere in all that strain, I started to feel something dangerous. A sliver of relief.
It wasn't happiness. It wasn't peace. It was the quiet, guilty feeling of being unchained. Like for the first time in years, the air I breathed was my own.
I hated myself for feeling it—but I couldn't deny it either.
By the end of the week, the tension had settled into something almost predictable. We barely spoke, barely touched. I'd stopped expecting warmth and she'd stopped pretending not to check my phone.
But tonight was different.
The house was still, the kids asleep, the faint hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. My phone lay on the coffee table, untouched, the blue glow of the screen clock ticking away the seconds.
Tonight was the night Rukia said she'd return.
And for the first time in days, I felt my chest tighten with something that wasn't dread. It was anticipation. Longing. Maybe even hope.
I caught myself glancing at the window every few minutes, half-expecting a knock, a flicker of reiatsu, a familiar voice cutting through the quiet.
The kind of hope that could ruin a man if he let it grow too much.