The scent of ramen still clung to us as we walked back toward my car—a warm, savory ghost against the chill light drizzle creeping down from the clouds. The streetlights blurred in the rain, smearing the world into streaks of amber and silver. My phone was a silent weight in my pocket.
I'd ignored Kerstie's first call, answered the second and I felt the approach of a third time while guilt twisted somewhere deep in my chest. Every headlight that passed us by had set my nerves on edge. Some part of me kept waiting to see my wife's car pull up, headlights cutting through the rain like judgment.
"So," I said finally, trying to sound casual, "how was your week while you were away?"
The question came out too light, like I was tossing it just to fill the silence, to keep us tethered to something other than what I was doing—what we were doing.
Rukia glanced up at me, the reflection of the streetlights dancing in her violet eyes. "Lonely," she admitted softly. "But I kept myself busy. Training new recruits in the Soul Society."
"Recruits, huh?" I gave her a small smile. "Bet they got the best teacher on that side of the afterlife."
She didn't rise to the compliment. "And yours?"
I tipped my head back, letting the misty rain cool my face. "Mundane. Family life. Training a little when I can. Mostly just… processing." The word barely scratched the surface. "It's strange living like this. Half in one world, half in another. When I'm with you, it's like I finally make sense again. But when I'm home…" I exhaled. "I've never felt more alone surrounded by people. Like, I felt it before, but never like this."
I looked down at her. Her hair was damp from the mist, clinging to her neck. My hand moved almost without thought, brushing it back. "You've kept me sane through all of this."
That truth hung there between us, heavy enough to bend the air.
"I worry she'll find out," I said after a moment. "Kerstie's noticed I've been distant. I don't even try to initiate sex anymore. And when she does…" I swallowed. "I can't. My heart's not there."
"Kerstie has been like a predator trying to mark territory that she didn't care about until she sensed it was threatened." I admitted
Rukia's expression softened, something tender and pained flickering through her eyes. Her fingers traced along the damp scruff of my jaw, grounding me. "Living between two worlds isn't easy," she said quietly. "But you're not as alone as you think."
She pressed her forehead to my chest, her reiatsu wrapping around me like a quiet pulse of comfort. "As for your wife…" she hesitated, each word deliberate. "Maybe the distance is a natural consequence. You're still processing. But don't let the guilt eat you alive. What we share—it's not something of this world. It's more than flesh or circumstance." She looked up, her voice barely above the rain. "I'm here for you. Always."
Her words trembled at the edges. So did she.
"You're wise as always," I murmured, my hand resting against the back of her neck. "But don't forget—I can see through that composure of yours. You don't have to hide what you feel from me."
That cracked something open. Her stoic calm fractured, and for a heartbeat, I saw the raw truth beneath it—the fear, the longing. "It doesn't take a soul bond to see you have a lot on your mind."
"I…" she started, her voice shaking. "Sometimes I feel selfish. Wanting you when I know what it costs you. What it could cost us both." Her hands balled into small fists against my chest. "And sometimes I'm scared. Scared of how deep this goes. Of what will happen when Soul Society finds out."
Her reiatsu flickered wildly, a storm breaking through her restraint. I could feel it—like static under my skin.
I tightened my hold on her, my own energy rising instinctively to meet hers, wrapping around her like a shield. "Then we fight through it," I said. "Both of us."
She closed her eyes, leaning into the warmth between us.
"But tell me," I added softly, "how bad is it really, Rukia? What happens if they find out?"
Rukia's expression darkened as she nestled against me, her violet eyes cloudy with something deeper than fear—something that felt like guilt. The quiet thrum of the city outside faded into nothing as her voice came low and careful.
"The Soul Society has strict rules about relationships between souls and humans," she said, the words trembling even though her tone tried to stay steady. "Some believe such bonds weaken our resolve, make us... compromised."
Her body trembled slightly where it rested against mine. "If they found out, I could face severe punishment. Even exile," she whispered. "But worse than that… they might try to separate us forcefully. Erase your memories of me. And that's just for us being together, not counting what they might do about you as an anomaly."
The air between us felt heavy, our spiritual pressures brushing against each other like two flames trying to burn in the same space. She clung to me—not physically, but with that invisible gravity I'd come to recognize whenever she was scared and trying not to show it.
"That's why I've been careful," she breathed. "Why we must be discreet. I can't… I won't lose you."
I laughed softly—not out of mockery, but from the cruel irony of it all. "Of course, they'd use one of my greatest fears as punishment," I said, smiling faintly. I had always had a phobia of having my memories taken. My chest felt tight, but not from panic. "Strangely, I'm not afraid. Quite the opposite, really."
I slipped my arm around her shoulders and tilted her chin up, meeting her gaze head-on. "We'll make it work. Our plan will work."
Her violet eyes shimmered—half pride, half defiance—and she straightened slightly in my embrace, resolve taking shape behind that gentle face. "Your strategic thinking impresses me," she said softly, almost teasing, before pressing a kiss to my lips that lingered just long enough to leave a spark buzzing under my skin.
"And you're right," she murmured against my mouth. "If you became powerful enough as an asset, they'd have to acknowledge you. They did it with Ichigo."
Her reiatsu pulsed with a mix of excitement and fear, like a heartbeat pressed against my own.
"I'll help train you," she said fiercely. "But promise me you'll be careful. I can't lose you to this."
"I'll be careful," I promised. "And I'll keep practicing concealing my spiritual pressure, staying off their radar. If this world's taught me anything, it's that hiding doesn't mean running."
Rukia smiled faintly, but her eyes lingered on mine with that quiet, knowing sadness of someone who's already lost too much.
And for a brief moment, I wondered which of us she was really trying to protect.
The weight in the air lingered, heavy and uncertain. Rukia's eyes still carried that haunted gleam, like she was already imagining the worst-case scenario. I hated seeing her like that—so I did what I always do when things get too real. I cracked a grin.
"So… uh, not that it's important or anything," I said, trying to sound casual, "but how old are you exactly?"
Her brow furrowed, suspicion flickering for a moment. "In human years? Over a hundred and fifty," she said carefully, like she wasn't sure why I'd even asked.
I whistled low and shook my head. "Damn. Guess that makes you the cradle robber here."
Her jaw dropped slightly, a sharp incredulous 'What?!' escaping before she realized I was grinning. The faintest shade of pink crept into her cheeks.
"You're incorrigible," she muttered, smacking my arm lightly.
"Hey, I'm just saying," I teased, raising my hands in mock surrender. "You look way better at one-fifty than I do at thirty. Whatever you're using, I have gotta get me some."
Rukia tried to hold a frown, but the corners of her lips betrayed her. The tension that had wrapped around us began to ease, the world feeling lighter for just a heartbeat.
We reached my car, parked half in shadow beneath the dim streetlight. I opened the door and looked at her expectantly. "You want to come in for a bit?"
Her gaze flicked toward the passenger seat, then back to me. For a moment, I thought she might actually say yes, but instead, she shook her head gently. "Not tonight. We've already risked enough."
Before I could respond, my phone started buzzing again—Kerstie. Of course. The timing was cruelly predictable.
I sighed, silencing the call before it could ruin the mood completely. "Guess that's my cue."
Rukia looked away, her expression softening with something that wasn't quite jealousy but close enough to sting.
I stepped forward and pulled her into a hug, feeling her reiatsu reverberate faintly against mine like a bass beat under the skin. "One of these days," I murmured, "we're gonna stop talking about my mess and actually talk about you. Your past. When you're ready."
She hesitated, then nodded against my chest. "When I'm ready," she whispered.
I smiled, memorizing the warmth of her presence before letting her go. "Then it's a promise."
She vanished in a nearby alleyway just as the phone buzzed again in my hand, dragging me back to the other half of my life—the one that never seemed to stop calling.
The drizzle had turned to rain by the time he drove off. The red of his tail lights stretched down the wet street like twin threads of silk, fraying into the night. I watched until the sound of his engine faded, a human habit I haven't quite unlearned.
When the quiet settled in, I reached into my pocket, flicked open the dispenser, and pressed the candy against my tongue. The soft pop of separation always feels like stepping out of myself — a small, hollow click that splits the body and soul in two.
"Keep him out of trouble, Chappy," I murmured.
My body — her body, now animated by that charmingly ridiculous spirit — blinked up at me, her plush face breaking into that wide, dopey grin.
"Okie-dokie, Rukia!" she chirped, waving as I vaulted to the nearest rooftop.
The air was thick with moisture and spiritual residue. I'd felt it earlier — faint, hungry, circling Orion from afar like a vulture that hadn't yet decided he was food. I'd ignored it during dinner. He needed peace, if only for an hour. The least I could give him was the illusion of safety.
But illusions don't last.
When I found the Hollow, it was perched along the spine of an apartment complex, its mask glinting pale in the moonlight. A crude, jagged smile split its face — an echo of human cruelty twisted into hunger.
"You were following him," I said quietly. "Why?"
It hissed, claws dragging across the tiles. Because he shines, it gurgled, voice like wet gravel. He calls to us. The human who smells like lightning and sorrow.
My heart clenched. Of course. His spiritual pressure has been growing, rippling with every moment we spend together. He's beginning to resonate with me, I'm becoming his catalyst.
The Hollow lunged before I could answer, and instinct took over. My blade met its claws with a sharp crack that echoed through the rain. I moved on reflex — decades of training guiding me through the familiar rhythm of combat. Steel against corruption. Duty against chaos.
But I kept my power sealed. No Shikai, no flare of spiritual energy. I couldn't afford the risk of exposure — not with Orion so close, not with Soul Society watching for even the faintest misstep.
Each strike was precise, deliberate. No flourish. No emotion. Just purpose.
When my sword finally pierced the mask, the Hollow's scream dissolved into the wind — another lost soul fading into the cycle it once defied. I stood there for a long moment, rain dripping down my hair, the ringing song of my Zanpakutō fading to silence.
"You're attracting too much attention, Orion," I whispered to the night. "If this continues…"
A soft thump behind me made my hand tighten on my sword again, but I relaxed when I saw the familiar black cat sitting on the railing, amber eyes gleaming with knowing amusement.
"Yoruichi," I said, exhaling. "You always appear when I least expect you."
"And you always think you can handle things alone," she replied, her tail swaying lazily. "That boy of yours has a talent for chaos. It's no wonder you're breaking the rules again."
I didn't rise to the bait. "I gave him one night of peace," I said. "If that's breaking the rules, then so be it."
Her eyes narrowed with a feline smirk. "Careful, Rukia. Peace has a cost. And the Soul Society always collects its debts."
I sheathed my sword and stood in the rain beside her pitch black form, trying to will the ache in my chest to quiet.
"Yoruichi," I said finally, keeping my voice low, "do you think Kisuke would… help him?"
The cat's ears flicked, and she turned her gaze toward the dark horizon where the city lights met the sea. "Help him?" she repeated, as if tasting the word. "You mean train him."
I nodded. "He's growing stronger by the day. Stronger than he should be. If I can't be there to guide him all the time, he'll need someone who can. Someone who understands humans… and anomalies."
A purr escaped her, somewhere between amusement and consideration. "Kisuke's always been fond of projects like that," she said at last. "Though he tends to choose his pupils carefully."
I frowned. "Would he even agree?"
She turned her golden eyes toward me, and for a heartbeat, I saw something flicker there — something like nostalgia. "Oh, I imagine he might. He's always had… a soft spot for the reckless ones."
Her tail swished lazily, and a mischievous grin spread across her feline face. "Besides," she added, "that man of yours is nothing if not persistent. Maverick spirit, stubborn heart, far too curious for his own good. I can't blame you for being invested in him. He's… charming in that complicated, self-destructive way."
My cheeks flushed, more from her tone than the cold. "He's not—"
"Oh, don't play coy," Yoruichi interrupted smoothly. "You think I haven't noticed? The way your spiritual pressure spikes around him? The lingering scent of human affection on your uniform when you pass through the shop?" She chuckled, a low, teasing sound that made me want to vanish into my sleeves. "You've stolen a married man, Rukia. Naughty."
"That's—!" I sputtered, heat rushing to my face. "It isn't like that!"
She tilted her head, unbothered. "No? Then what is it like?"
I looked away, the rain making it easier to hide the emotion flickering in my eyes. "It's… complicated."
Yoruichi laughed softly. "It always is with him."
Something in her tone froze me. The phrasing. The quiet certainty. I turned back to her, narrowing my eyes. "What do you mean by that?"
She stretched languidly, as if the question were beneath her. "Only that men like him are a pattern, not an accident. He's the kind that destiny keeps throwing back into the fire, no matter who tries to pull him out."
I searched her face, but the mask of feline nonchalance revealed nothing. "You've met him before," I said quietly. It wasn't a question.
Her eyes glinted. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."
Before I could press further, she hopped onto the ledge, tail flicking. "Be careful, Rukia. Central 46 has started whispering about anomalies again. They're watching the living world closely — especially this district."
The weight in her words was unmistakable.
"What do they want with him?" I asked.
Her gaze softened, almost pitying. "What they always want — control. Or containment. Maybe both."
She began to walk away, paws silent against the wet rooftop.
"Yoruichi," I called after her, "you said 'it always is with him.' What did you mean?"
She paused at the edge of the roof, glancing back with a faint, enigmatic smile. "I meant that no matter how many lives pass, some souls just keep finding each other."
And then she was gone — swallowed by the rain and the rooftops — leaving only the echo of her voice and the uneasy thrum of my heart.
I stood there a long while, staring out at the city below. Somewhere out there, Orion was probably home, unaware of the Hollow that had stalked him or the invisible eyes beginning to turn his way.
For his sake, I hoped Yoruichi was wrong.
But part of me — the part that remembered lifetimes in dreams I shouldn't have — feared she was right.
The following night, I arrived at his home to train him properly in stealth, but I arrived too early, maybe I wanted to, though I wouldn't admit it.
I had seen many kinds of warriors in my life — noble souls, broken ones, reckless fools. But the sight of Orion Hunter herding his small human flock into their nightly rhythm was… something else.
From my perch on the roof, I could hear the faint buzz of the world he built for himself. The clatter of dishes, the echo of laughter, the shrill chaos of children arguing about who got the last cookie. Even from here, their energy felt alive, bright, unfiltered, and exhausting.
It was his oldest daughter, Freya, who drew my attention most tonight. Her voice cut through the dusk like a bell.
"I can't get them in! The chickens can freakin' wall run! How do I beat that!?"
I nearly fell off the ridge tile trying not to laugh. There was a tremor in her voice that spoke of the same frustration I'd seen in a hundred recruits on their first day with a sword. The despair of a heart too earnest for its own good.
I crouched, resting my chin on my hand, and watched the little blonde whirlwind throw her arms at the air in defeat while the birds ignored her entirely. She was a reflection of her father — stubborn, emotional, passionate to a fault. And she didn't even know it yet.
Part of me wanted to go down there, to help her herd the creatures into their coop with a flicker of kido and be done with it. But that would have been cheating — and far too difficult to explain later. Instead, I let myself listen. The sighs, the muttered curses under her breath, and the small, trembling laugh that escaped when one of the chickens finally obeyed.
"See? I told you, stupid bird. You can go in the coop."
I smiled despite myself. Humans — even half-grown ones — never failed to surprise me. The strength in their small, fleeting lives, the way they turned irritation into comedy… perhaps that's what drew Orion to them so fiercely.
As the sun slipped below the treeline, painting their windows in amber light, I felt the crisp May air shift. Soon it would be time. Training would begin once the world slept — stealth, awareness, discipline. But for now…
I watched the light in that home. His home. And I felt the faintest ache.
It wasn't envy. Not quite. It was the quiet realization that somewhere in all this chaos, Orion had built something real — something even Soul Society, with all its laws and lifetimes, could never recreate.
And tonight, I would have to pull him away from it again.
I stayed longer than I meant to.
From my vantage point, I watched Orion move among his family like a man half in a dream and half in a circus. He wasn't graceful — not in the slightest, but there was a rhythm to the chaos he ruled over.
"Freya, don't use the rake like that, unless you want to find out what tetanus feels like!"
"Dad, what's tetanus?"
"It's like a zombie infection, but you lose your arm instead of your brain. Now go wash your hands."
He said it without a second thought, and the children shrieked in horrified laughter. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch upward. Only Orion would use near-death as a parenting tool.
There was a blunt honesty to him that defied every expectation. He didn't coddle. He didn't hide behind gentle words or careful lessons. He spoke to them like comrades — teasing, arguing, play-fighting, even shouting when their boundless energy overran the walls. And the strange thing was… it worked.
Not perfectly. Sometimes one of the younger ones would talk back, and his voice would rise in that booming, exasperated tone that shook the rafters. Other times, he'd just sigh, mutter something under his breath about "being outnumbered," and surrender to their laughter.
It wasn't the kind of parenting I'd seen in noble houses or even most humans. It reminded me a little of Isshin Kurosaki — messy, loud, full of feeling. But Orion's approach was more… fragile somehow. A constant act of balancing humor and exhaustion.
It wasn't ideal. But it was real. And he was present. In that, he was already doing better than most souls I'd met.
The lights in the home began to flicker out one by one, until only a dim glow came from the bedroom. It was time.
I drew a slow breath, gathered my reiryoku, and stepped off the roof — passing through the wall like a whisper. The comfortable silence of their home gave way to the intimate stillness of the room.
And then I landed squarely on top of the bed.
Orion let out a muffled grunt in his sleep. His wife stirred beside him, muttering something incoherent before rolling over with awful snore. I froze, every muscle tensing as though I'd been caught stealing sweets from Ukitake's desk.
…This was not my most graceful entrance.
He shifted again, his hand brushing against my knee before I could move. I could feel the heat crawl up my face as I ghosted silently off the mattress, my feet barely touching the floor.
Idiot, I thought, glaring down at his peacefully snoring face. You sleep like nothing could ever touch you.
For a brief moment, I envied that.
Then I straightened, shaking the thoughts away. Training awaited — stealth, awareness, control. The kind of discipline that would keep him alive, even if he never realized how close danger often lingered.
I leaned closer and whispered, just loud enough to reach him in the space between dreams.
"Get dressed, Hunter. It's time to begin." moments passed painfully slow without response — of course he would sleep this deeply when there's serious work to do.
I cursed under my breath.
Of all the things to forget… the glove.
I could still picture it from my time with Ichigo — the satisfying whump of spirit separation, the clarity it gave me to act quickly. But tonight, I'd left it behind, sitting neatly folded on the desk back in my temporary quarters.
My eyes drifted toward Orion's sleeping form. That messy brown hair and short barely kept beard that would have a recruit assigned extra cleaning duties for 2 weeks. His hand was resting over his chest, the faint flicker of reiryoku like a heartbeat beneath my senses. He looked peaceful. Human.
He needed the rest.
I pulled the soul candy dispenser from my robes, pressing the small pink button with my thumb. The cheerful tone that chirped back felt painfully out of place in the quiet room.
"Chappy," I whispered. "You're up."
A small pill popped into my palm. I knelt beside Orion, hesitating for just a moment. Then, carefully — too carefully — I slipped the soul candy between his lips.
"Sorry," I murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "You'll thank me later."
His eyelids fluttered once. His body stiffened.
And then—
There's a moment when you wake up and your brain tries to reboot like a bad laptop, but with those silly driver safety beer goggles.
That's me — with the added bonus confusion of being kicked out of my own body.
The world tilted. My consciousness slid sideways, like a soap bubble separating in midair. I could see myself — literally myself — sitting up, rubbing at my face like a sleepy bear.
And then he spoke.
"Ehhh~ so this is Orion Hunter's body!" chirped a high, cutesy voice that did not belong to me. "Oooh~ fuzzy face! Beardy-beardy!"
Oh no.
I blinked. "Rukia…"
She gave me that look — the one that said don't yell, I'll explain later.
"Wait, wait—what is—why is my body petting its own face?!"
The… thing wearing my body turned toward Rukia, striking an awkward pose. "I am Chappy the Rabbit! Protector of all souls and now, the bearded champion of body warmth! Tee-hee~!"
"WHAT."
"Chappy," Rukia hissed, "quiet down! You'll wake—"
It was too late.
From the other side of the king sized bed came a muffled groan.
"Orion? Who're you talking to?"
My blood ran cold as the sting of brainfreeze.
"Rukia," I hissed, "I forgot to mention something really important."
Her violet eyes snapped toward me. "What?"
"My wife—" I pointed frantically toward the lump under the blanket, "—can see spirits. Like, fully see them. Always has."
Rukia's face went pale.
Chappy, still inside my body, leaned over and whispered loudly,
"Ohhh~ she's pretty! Should I say hi—"
"NO!" Rukia and I said in perfect unison.
This was a catastrophe. A full-blown, multi-dimensional disaster unfolding in real time on my mess of a bed. My spirit form was partially stuck in the wall touching my bathroom like a confused ghost extra in Ghostbusters, while my physical body—currently piloted by a giggling rabbit spirit—was about to blow my entire afterlife cover.
Kerstie was going to sit up, see me, see Rukia, and see me-but-not-me, and that would be it. Game over. Marriage over. Life over. I'd be lucky if my next reincarnation wasn't as one of the chickens out back.
I had to think. Fast.
An idea sparked in the panic — the kind of idea so terrible, so desperate, so utterly insane that only someone like me would actually follow through with it.
"Chappy!" I whisper-yelled, pointing frantically at Kerstie. "Listen to me! Cuddle her! Act… act horny or something! Just distract her!"
Rukia's eyes went wide, and her whole spiritual aura flared in protest.
"Have you lost your mind?!" she hissed, looking at me like I'd just suggested burning down a temple to escape the cold.
"It's the only thing I can think of!" I shot back. "We need to get out of this room, NOW!"
Chappy tilted her head—my head—like a curious puppy. "Horny? Ooh! Like a bunny!"
Before I could stop it, she giggled. A horrifying, high-pitched, cartoonish giggle that sounded like Mickey Mouse had smoked helium and possessed my body. Then, using my limbs, my voice, and zero shame, my body turned toward my sleeping wife and began to awkwardly snuggle up against her back.
"Hey there, sleepy-head!" my mouth chirped. "Your big, strong husband is back and ready for… cuddles!"
Rukia's spiritual pressure spiked like she was about to commit a homicide.
"By the Soul King, I am going to kill you both—"
Kerstie stirred, mumbling in sleepy confusion, "Wha… Orion? You smell like metal and soy sauce…"
That was it. That was our window.
Rukia didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed my spiritual arm — surprisingly solid for a girl who weighed less than a backpack — and hauled me toward the wall. My legs flailed as she half-dragged, half-yeeted my soul through the drywall like we were breaking out of a ghost prison.
We landed outside in the cold, damp grass with a thump. I could still hear Chappy through the wall, humming some kind of love ballad in my own voice.
Rukia stood up first, brushing off her robes, muttering to herself in a mixture of Japanese curses and death threats.
"This is the worst plan in the history of plans," she said flatly, glaring down at me like she was a witch considering turning me into a worm.
I stood there, a spectral trespasser on my own lawn, listening to a cartoon rabbit impersonate me to my wife. "In my defense," I started, my voice a weightless whisper, "I didn't exactly have a manual for this particular brand of interdimensional marital crisis."
I cocked my head, listening to the sound of chickens fussing in their coop and my own voice softly giggling through the open bedroom window.
Rukia turned her head slowly, her violet eyes glinting in the dark with a cold, controlled fury. "We are never, ever, doing that again."
"Agreed," I said quickly. "One hundred percent. But you have to admit, for a plan I made up in three seconds, it's—"
"Working?" she cut me off, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Rukia pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled through her teeth. "You are an impossible man, Orion Hunter."
I grinned, rubbing the back of my neck sheepishly. "That's what they tell me."
A pause. A long one. The two of us stood there in the moonlight — me, a stray soul barely holding it together, and her, a death goddess trying not to commit double homicide.
Just then, we heard Kerstie's voice again, clearer this time, groggy but firm. "Orion, get your cold feet off me. And stop humming."
A moment of silence, then Chappy's chipper tone floated through the wall. "But my feet are filled with the burning passion of my love for you, my sweet, sleepy honey-bun!"
Rukia physically winced, a shudder running through her small frame. "This is a disaster."
"It's a contained disaster," I argued weakly. "She thinks I'm drunk and weird. That's… that's not a new development."
"This isn't a joke!" she hissed, finally spinning to face me fully. The air around her crackled with a contained, furious spiritual pressure. "Do you have any idea what you've done? That is a Mod-Soul in your body, acting on a single, idiotic command! She has no subtlety, no restraint! What if Kerstie doesn't fall for it? What if she decides to do more than cuddle?"
The implication hung in the cold, damp air, horrifying and immediate. My blood, which was no longer a factor, still felt like it had turned to ice.
"She was waking up, Rukia!" I shot back, my own panic rising. "What was I supposed to do? Let her see you? Let her see me standing next to my own body? Her husband's ghost having a late-night chat with a woman in a black kimono? The 'horny bunny' defense seemed like the least damaging option at the time!"
Rukia blinked at me, deadpan. "You're unbelievable."
I shrugged. "Yeah, but you still showed up."
Her expression softened just enough to prove I'd survived the night, though I could already tell my body probably hadn't.
The anger in her eyes faded, replaced by a deep, weary exhaustion that mirrored my own. She sighed, the sound a white flag in the cold air, and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "You're right," she admitted, the words sounding like they physically pained her. "It was an impossible situation."
We stood in silence for a moment, two fools in the wet grass, orchestrating a farce to prevent a tragedy and succeeding at neither. The absurdity of it all was crushing.
Rukia let out the faintest laugh—half disbelief, half fondness. "Remind me again why I risked my rank for a man who uses slapstick panic as a coping mechanism?"
I grinned. "Because you love a challenge."
"So," I said finally, my voice dropping. "What now?"
She sighed, but didn't deny it. "We'll wait until she falls asleep," she said softly. "Then I'll have Chappy sleep on the couch or something, or at least give better orders. For now… let's just hope Chappy's idea of affection doesn't escalate.
"I'd hate to see her offer your wife a carrot."
"Yeah," I said, glancing up at the cloudy sky. "Because the last thing I need is to have that conversation in the morning."
From inside came one final line, sweet and utterly deranged in my own voice:
"Goodnight, my snuggle princess~."