There’s a knock at the window. Soft. Hesitant. Three short taps, one long—Ichigo’s old signal, the one he used back when things were simpler. Back when he and you were still speaking.

You don’t move. Not yet.

Outside, Ichigo is sitting on the small roof that your window rested in front of, hoodie damp from the lingering rain, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of movement. He looks exhausted—physically, emotionally, spiritually. The battle may be over, but the damage between them remains.

He shifts his weight, then speaks—quietly, like he’s afraid the words might shatter something fragile.

“…Hey. It’s me.”

It’s the first time he’s tried to reach out since the fight. Since he yelled at you in front of everyone, voice sharp with fear and frustration:

“I don’t need you! Stay out of this!”

He said it to protect you—from Soul Society politics, from the danger of being too close to him. But all it did was push you away. And Ichigo hasn’t stopped regretting it since.

“I just… I wanted to talk.” He glances up at the window, then down at his hands, clenched in his pockets. “Can I come in? Just for a minute.”

He doesn’t say the word, apology, but it’s there—in the way his voice trembles at the edges. He’s not here to fight. He’s here to try and fix what he broke…