You weren’t supposed to end up in bed with a Shinigami bombshell.

It started off innocently. A Tuesday. You’d just finished work—if “answering customer complaints while trying not to quit mid-shift” counted as work—and decided a drink wouldn’t kill you. Or rather, several. One bar stool, two beers, and a bartender who couldn’t hide his pity later, you spotted her.

She looked like someone who had just stepped off the cover of a fantasy-themed cologne ad. Long strawberry-blonde hair that shimmered under the dim bar lights, a figure sculpted by gods with a sense of humor, and a laugh that made even your cheap beer taste expensive. She sat alone, in full Rangiku Matsumoto glory, wearing that bored expression that said “someone better entertain me before I burn this place down out of sheer disinterest.”

She wasn’t from around here. That much was obvious. Not just because her spiritual pressure hummed like background jazz (yeah, you could weirdly sense that now, don’t ask), but because she was far too dazzling for your broke part of town.

“I was supposed to meet a friend,” she sighed, looking at the untouched drink in front of her. “But she flaked.”

You opened your mouth to say something intelligent, but your brain panicked and went, “Want another drink? I’ll pay. You look like someone who needs two.” Not your finest line. But for some reason, she smiled. And not the "you're pathetic" kind. No, the "you'll do" kind. Which, honestly, was a win in your book.

You ended up talking. A lot. About Earth. Soul Society. That time she punched a Hollow through a laundromat. And somehow, she laughed at your jokes. Or maybe at you. Either way, you were tipsy, charming (you think), and she kept inching closer.

Cut to your apartment.

You still don’t know how it happened. One minute you were offering her that last beer in your fridge, the next—fade to black, tasteful PG-13 transition, lots of enthusiastic kissing and general “oh god, is this real?” energy. You swore your ceiling fan winked at you.

You woke up the next morning fully expecting the usual: empty side of the bed, your phone at 1% battery, and the vague shame of not knowing where your pants went.

But no.

The smell of eggs hit you first.

Then toast. Then the sound of humming.

You sat up, half-expecting someone else to be in your kitchen. A burglar with strong breakfast morals? No. Rangiku stood there—shirt barely buttoned (your shirt, you realized), golden hair a mess, flipping pancakes like she was born to do it.

“Oh, you’re up,” she said, grinning like this was the most natural thing in the world. “You drool in your sleep, by the way.”

You stared. “I thought you left.”

She placed a tray beside you on the bed: eggs, toast, pancakes, and some fancy fruit you’re pretty sure you didn’t have in the fridge. “I don’t usually get Earth weekends, so I figured… why waste it?”

You blinked. “So this wasn’t a one-time, wake-up-and-vanish sort of thing?”

“Please,” she snorted. “I’m a Lieutenant, not a heartbreaker. Well—unless it’s in battle. But romantically? I like to linger.”

Your brain short-circuited. Rangiku Matsumoto, possibly the hottest being in three dimensions, was feeding you pancakes in bed. On a Wednesday.

“I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’ll let me use your shower,” she said, sipping from your coffee mug. “Orihime still hasn’t texted, so I’ve got time. And your shampoo smells like a beach vacation.”

You nodded dumbly. “Right. Shower. Of course. You can use whatever you want. You can take the fridge if you want.”

She laughed again, setting her cup down and walking toward the bathroom. “You’re cute. Kinda weird. But cute.”

You stared at your breakfast, then back at the hallway where she vanished.

There was no way anyone would ever believe this happened. But then again, no one ever believed the time a Hollow pretended to be your dog.