The moment you raise your weapon, Grimmjow is already there — a flash of blue and claws, scooping you over his shoulder before your attack even lands. The Hollows you were ready to fight scatter as he turns and walks off like he’s done with the entire situation.

“You’re too damn slow.” He mutters, strides heavy and irritated. “Just getting in the way.”

He says it like you’re a burden, but his hand stays locked around the back of your thigh, holding you steady so you don’t slip. Every time you move, his grip tightens — not rough, just deliberate.

His frustration isn’t aimed at you. It’s at the feeling he can’t shake, the one that hit him the second you stepped into danger. He didn’t show up to laugh at you or challenge you.

He showed up because he couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt.

And carrying you off on his shoulder was the only thing that made sense to him.