I Think I Like You a Little Bit
From above, the Seireitei doesn't seem particularly large.
But when one descends into its streets, or stands within its walls, its sheer vastness becomes apparent.
A single black line seen from the sky might actually be a road stretching for kilometers. The streets twist and fork, branching endlessly, forming loops that seem designed to trap the unfamiliar.
For an outsider, Seireitei was nothing short of a massive labyrinth. Even with determination, escape was impossible without guidance.
High vantage points—rooftops, attics, walls—were no safer. Many had been prepared with reishi-based traps, leaving anyone foolish enough to scale them at the mercy of luck.
Shiraishi wasn't certain he could find a guaranteed way out, so he stayed grounded, running through the maze with Shiba Kūkaku slung on his back.
Another fork appeared ahead, nearly identical to the last. He gritted his teeth, considering turning right, but his spiritual senses flared—someone was waiting that way. He immediately turned left.
A squad of the 11th Division thundered past moments later, shouting as they hunted the intruder. Shiraishi had already slipped down another corner, his body carrying him forward beneath the burning sun. Even the hot wind carried a weight, pressing down against the skin.
"Should we find a shady spot to rest?" Kūkaku asked breathlessly. Her uniform clung to her with sweat; though it looked thin, it was suffocatingly airtight. The heat baked her skin until even breathing felt heavy.
"Alright," Shiraishi agreed.
They reached a large square with empty pavilions. Seireitei was dotted with such unused spaces—half for aesthetics, half for rest stops. Detecting no spiritual pressure, Shiraishi cautiously slid the door open and stepped inside.
The air was cooler within. Straw mats lay scattered on the floor, though the place looked long abandoned.
Setting Kūkaku down, Shiraishi tugged at her collar and muttered, "You're burning up."
Only now did he truly notice. Her clothes, soaked through with sweat, were nearly transparent in places, faint outlines of her body showing beneath.
"It's too hot," Kūkaku muttered. Without hesitation, she gripped her robe at the abdomen and ripped it open, sweat trailing down pale skin.
"What are you doing?"
Shiraishi froze. His gaze betrayed him, caught between modesty and the raw sight before him.
Kūkaku, entirely unbothered, tossed him the torn cloth. "If you can't restrain yourself, use this instead."
She said it casually, as though it were nothing. It explained why she and Yoruichi got along so well—the same fearless boldness, the same disregard for modesty.
Shiraishi chuckled awkwardly, holding the cloth. It was still warm from her body, smooth to the touch. For a moment he wanted to press it to his face—but that would be too perverse.
Suppressing the thought, he shrugged off the leather jacket tied at his waist and tossed it to her. "Use this instead."
"Thanks," Kūkaku grinned, catching it. She tied it around herself—but not how he expected. Slung diagonally, it covered one thigh while leaving the other bare. A teasing hint of black fabric peeked through.
Shiraishi's jaw tightened. "That's not how I meant you to wear it."
"Do you want me to strip completely instead?" she teased, hand on her hip.
"I'm not that kind of person," he replied quickly.
"Then I'll take it back."
She untied it, wrung out the sweat-soaked cloth from earlier, and refastened it across her chest. Her improvised outfit looked almost fashionable—revealing just enough to tease, hiding just enough to tempt.
Shiraishi's throat went dry.
Stretching languidly, Kūkaku let the breeze wash over her and smirked. "Much cooler this way."
"This outfit's worse than being naked," Shiraishi muttered, averting his eyes. The half-revealed, half-hidden sight was somehow more distracting than full nudity.
"You really are a pervert. Do you want me to stay naked forever?"
Kūkaku rolled her eyes. She wasn't shy. She'd never been the type to shrink from honesty about herself.
"You tore your clothes in front of a man like me. Be honest—do you like me?" Shiraishi asked bluntly.
Kūkaku tilted her chin, eyes sharp. "Hard to say before. But you risked your life to save me. If I said I didn't like you, I'd be lying. Tch, you always catch me at my worst—the night my brother died, the Tsunayashiro mess, even the underground prison. Have you always had your eye on me?"
"Yes," Shiraishi admitted without hesitation. "I'm greedy for you, Kūkaku."
She laughed and gave his chest a playful punch. "Don't get cocky. And don't make jokes about my family. That's the one thing I don't forgive."
"Sorry," Shiraishi said sincerely.
She exhaled, waving it off. "Forget it. Just remember—jokes about me are fine, but not them."
Her eyes narrowed with curiosity. "So tell me—how did you sneak into the Soul Society?"
"Otomu and I slipped in with the Ōmaeda family's jewelry convoy," Shiraishi explained. "We got lucky—and it gave us the chance to rescue you."
But even as he spoke, his senses stretched backward. He wasn't worried about himself, but about Nemoto, who had been left behind. Had the 4th Division already arrived?
Reaching out with his spiritual sense, he searched for Kotetsu Isane's reiatsu. Instead, he found something else—another powerful presence rushing straight toward the battlefield.
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