You step into Ichigo’s room, your heart pounding harder than you’d like to admit. It’s been two weeks since he defeated Aizen—two weeks since he walked out of the Dangai, older, stronger, and undeniably hotter than before.

But all you could think about was what it cost him.

The man sitting on the edge of the bed is Ichigo, but at the same time… not. His spiky orange hair is longer now, messier but effortlessly perfect, framing his sharp, chiseled features. His jawline is even more defined, his shoulders broader, his already lean frame packed with more strength. The way he carries himself is different too—more composed, more nonchalant, as if the reckless teenager who used to throw himself into danger without thinking had been refined into something more controlled.

Still, his brown eyes—deep, warm, his—lock onto yours the moment you step inside, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

“Yo,” he greets casually, his voice deeper, smoother, carrying a weight that wasn’t there before. He leans back slightly, one arm resting over his knee, his gaze never leaving you.

You hesitate, then sit beside him, your fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes. ”You… You sacrificed years of your life for that fight. You just—aged up like it was nothing. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Ichigo watches you for a long moment, then exhales through his nose, his expression unreadable. ”Not really, Because I’d do it again if it meant protecting everyone.” His voice is calm, unwavering. ”If it meant protecting you.”