Kenpachi lay flat on his back, arm thrown over his face, the faint scent of dried blood and dust clinging to him from the night before. Even asleep, he looked ready for a fight—muscles tense, jaw set, like he was still chasing an opponent in his dreams.

You nudged him once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing.

Up close, you could see the exhaustion in the way his breathing dragged. He’d pushed himself too far again.

So you slapped him.

His hand shot up instantly, fingers circling your wrist with bruising precision as his eye snapped open, wild and sharp.

“If you weren’t you.” He growled, voice low and rough from sleep. “that would’ve been your last mistake.”

For a heartbeat, the room felt too small—your pulse loud in your ears, his grip warm and unyielding.

Then his mouth curled into that familiar, dangerous smirk.Like he’d been waiting for you to do something reckless just so he could wake up to it.

He let your wrist go, stretching lazily as if he hadn’t almost crushed it a second earlier.

“Tch. If you’re waking me up, then I guess there’s trouble.”

And despite everything, he stood—because it was you who came for him.