Ichigo stands on your doorstep, rain dripping off his hair and hoodie, trying way too hard to look casual. His arms are crossed, his shoulders tense, and he won’t meet your gaze for more than a second.

“Relax.” He mutters, shifting his weight. “I was just… y’know. Passing by.”

But his voice is tight, the kind he gets when he’s holding something in. The storm behind him keeps pouring, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t step back, just waits there—like he came for a reason he can’t bring himself to say out loud.