After breakfast, the girls dragged Nel out for a shopping spree. They dressed her in some of Ichigo's mother's old clothes—still elegant, but far more modest than her original attire. The house felt noticeably quieter with all of them gone.
Ichigo slouched deeper into the couch, the sound of football highlights filling the room. The roar of the crowd and commentary buzzed in the background as he stared at the screen, not really watching.
'So... everyone just left yesterday. No celebrations, no pat on the back. Kinda lame. But whatever—I didn't do it for praise,' he thought, arms behind his head. A faint sigh escaped his lips. 'Still… would a little "thank you" have hurt?'
His eyes drifted up toward the ceiling. The battles were over—for now. But his mind kept spinning.
'I should probably visit the girls in the Soul Society sometime. And Hueco Mundo too… check in with Harribel and the others. But not today. Today, I relax.'
He sank deeper into the cushions.
The Fullbringer arc was supposed to come next—at least, in the original flow of things. But that was assuming he lost his powers.
'I never understood that part. Why'd I lose my powers after using Mugetsu? Isn't it just my Bankai's ultimate technique? It's not like I tossed away my soul or something. I mean… I'm still me, right?'
A flicker of spiritual pressure pulsed beside him. Ichigo sat up slightly, and to his right, Zangetsu materialized on the couch—relaxed, calm, looking exactly like him as usual. He leaned back, mimicking Ichigo's posture with an amused grin.
"You're not wrong," Zangetsu said casually. "You can master Mugetsu. Especially now that you're in total sync with all your powers. Well… except the Quincy side, but we'll get to that eventually."
Ichigo turned to face him. "Oh? So how do I go about mastering it?"
Zangetsu smirked. "Simple. Just ask Tensa Zangetsu. He'll walk you through it."
Ichigo raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you and him basically the same guy?"
Zangetsu shrugged. "Kinda. But not really. We're... pieces of a whole. I represent your inner instincts and your raw power—your Hollow side and your Shinigami foundation. Tensa is the refinement, the blade, the edge of your will. Same origin. Different aspects."
Ichigo chuckled lightly. "Always some cryptic stuff with you, huh."
Zangetsu didn't answer immediately. His expression turned more serious.
"You ever wonder why I look like you?" he asked, voice quieter now.
Ichigo frowned. "Yeah, actually. Most people's Zanpakutō spirits look like someone else. Mine's literally me in a trench coat."
"That's because I am you," Zangetsu said, eyes narrowing. "And you are me. Unlike most Shinigami, your powers weren't given—they were chosen. Before you were even born."
Ichigo blinked. "Chosen…? By who?"
Zangetsu's smirk returned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "That's a conversation for another time, partner. For now, just enjoy the calm."
Ichigo leaned back with a low sigh. "Yeah. I guess that makes sense… kinda."
He gave Zangetsu a casual wave. "See you later, bro."
"Peace, mate," Zangetsu replied with a grin before his form faded into spirit particles, leaving behind only a faint hum of residual reiatsu.
Ichigo glanced back at the TV, but the game highlights barely registered. His mind was already racing with possibilities—Mugetsu mastery, Tensa's guidance, the truth behind his powers.
But for now... he relaxed.
Suddenly, a knock broke the stillness of the moment.
Ichigo groaned softly as he got up from the couch, stretching a bit before walking over. As he opened the door, he didn't even have time to greet the person before a familiar warmth crashed into him.
"Wha—"
Yoruichi launched herself into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist as their lips met in a heated, desperate kiss. Her arms snaked around his neck, fingers tangling into his hair as their mouths moved like two flames dancing in the same fire. Ichigo didn't hold back either, one hand supporting her back while the other gripped the side of her thigh firmly.
He stepped inside and pushed the door closed with his foot, pinning her against the wall. The soft thud echoed in the empty house, but neither of them cared. Her fingers clawed gently along his back, feeling the sculpted strength in his body. His chest pressed against hers, and she could feel his heart racing—just like hers.
Their kiss slowed slightly, lips brushing, then pulling apart.
Yoruichi's golden eyes gleamed with playful hunger as she stared into his. Her voice came out in a low purr, sultry and intimate.
"I really missed you," she whispered, a smirk tugging at her lips.
Ichigo's gaze softened, but the fire remained. He gently brushed his thumb across her cheek.
"Same here," he said. "I missed you too."
Then his expression shifted into something more mischievous, more daring.
"Wanna take this upstairs?" he asked, a teasing grin playing on his face.
Her smirk widened, and she unwrapped her legs from him with catlike grace, dropping to her feet while still holding his hand.
"Why, of course," she said, voice dripping with anticipation as she tugged him toward the stairs.
"Lead the way, Kurosaki."
As they climbed the stairs, the air between them shimmered with tension. Yoruichi's hand remained locked in Ichigo's, but there was a faint glint in her eyes now—mischief stirred with something darker, more primal.
Just before they reached the door to his room, she paused.
With a small smirk, she lifted her free hand, index and middle fingers extended, then snapped them together sharply. A faint pulse of energy rippled through the hallway, like the echo of a breeze slipping through a temple.
Ichigo blinked. "Sound barrier?"
"Yep a sound seal," she murmured, leaning in close, her breath warm against his ear. "No one hears a thing unless I want them to. Not even your dad."
Her voice was velvet-wrapped sin, and her smirk was all fang and promise.
"Nice," Ichigo muttered, heart pounding faster.
Yoruichi tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "I know," she purred, then slipped through the door like smoke—fluid, sensual, untouchable—her fingers giving his a small tug.
Ichigo followed, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
Inside, the silence felt deeper. Intimate. The kind of quiet that swallowed everything except the rustle of fabric and the soft hitch in breath.
"Now," she said, backing toward the bed, hands sliding down to the hem of her top, "where were we?"
TO BE CONTINUED