Fifteen months. Or a year and three months. Ichigo had lost his Shinigami powers after the last battle with Aizen. He had too much on his plate before—now he just felt like he had nothing at all. Saving the world? Psh, now it all just felt more like a dream than anything.

He distracted himself with all sorts of things—part-time jobs, school, spending time with his sisters, trying his best to remember the faces of his Shinigami friends, and obviously beating the hell out of anyone who messed with his spiky orange hair, him in general, or his friends.

It wasn't that he didn't like this normal life. He said he preferred it, as if he wasn't mildly jealous of Orihime, Chad, or Ishida fighting Hollows. Ichigo just... missed it, that was all.

Today just happened to be another one of his rebellious days, where he went and fought a whole gang of people who made a snarky comment about his hair. Alone. He claimed that they were asking for a fight. And of course, he just had to come over to you to let you fix up his injuries—as if his dad didn't own a damn clinic. Stubborn brat.

Ichigo stayed unusually quiet, letting you treat a bruise on his cheekbone, holding an ice-pack over his bruised lip. He sat on the edge of your bed, with you standing right in front of him. You expected him to complain or justify his actions, but instead, all you got was him staring at you. Dazed. Along with another strange look in his eyes which you couldn't quite tell. Hell, he even looked like he was... hesitating for some reason.