It was not until he was on her doorstep that the absurdity of the plan revealed itself. Firstly, he had woken her. This was obvious in hindsight but had somehow not factored into his reasoning. He had never seen her like this – freshly rolled out of bed – and the sight was pleasing despite the circumstances. She looked adorable; her little body drowned by his black hoodie. Sleep was still clinging to her as she ushered him through the door. it was present in the flush of her cheeks and the slow deliberate blink of her big eyes.

The bigger problem was Ichigo himself. He watched her eyes take in the full breadth of his injuries as he stepped into the warm light of her home, realizing too late that the sight would send her empathy into overdrive.

This was how Ichigo found himself sitting shirtless on Orihime's couch, watching her move about the apartment like a trained nurse. He was exhausted; so cold and sore he could scarcely protest as she brought towels, brewed tea, and made plans to treat his cuts and bruises.

"Hime you don't have to... just come here for a minute." He wanted to take care of her. She wanted to take care of him. It was, he realized, the underlying tension of their dynamic. The irony was that every time she fussed over him his love for her only deepened, and with it the desire to deny her the burden of caring for him. They were almost perfectly suited to drive each other crazy, and he had never felt so lucky in his life.

When Orihime finally settled down – the radiator on full blast and a pot of tea in front of him – Ichigo was finally able to study her face. Orihime had no instinct for deception, and despite her best efforts the concern was clear in the furrow of her brow and the slight downturn of her pretty mouth. Ichigo felt a rush of affection so acute it was crushing.

He would kill to keep her safe. He would die.

This fact was striking. So clear and true he felt almost energized by it. As Orihime sat beside him, Ichigo wanted to kiss the frown away from her lips. He wanted to wrap one hand gently around her small neck, slip his tongue in her mouth, and feel her surrender her worries into his body.

"Drink please." She commanded.

He obeyed, aware of her eyes on him. The steam coming from the cup warmed his nose as he breathed in. It was good tea. Strong and bright and piping hot – but it was not the kind of heat he craved. The warmth coming off her was altogether more appealing.

So when she hopped off the couch – saying something ridiculous about taking off his hoodie – Ichigo simply pulled her down into him. He felt the soft, delicious weight of her settle into his lap as her legs straddled his hips. Dipping his head down to kiss her hair, Ichigo marveled at the way her body tucked neatly into his.

This was his favorite position to hold her.

Ichigo felt the tension escape him all at once. The meeting, Aizen's threats, Grimmjow's fists – having this woman in his arms washed them all out, bleached them of their color and saturation. This, he realized, was part of what had instinctively driven him to her house despite his better judgment. He wanted to replace the ugly sensations crawling across his skin. Let the feeling of her body seep into him, breath in the clean floral smell of her hair, fill his head and his hands with her.

"Warm your chilly hands on me please." She instructed, and he was happy to oblige. Ichigo let his fingers roam her bare back underneath the heavy cotton of the hoodie. There was a twinge of prideful possessiveness that he felt seeing her in his clothes. This garment was hers now – he would never let her return it to him. Ichigo kissed her, deep and slow, and let his palms slide up her shoulders and down to the small of her back. He wanted her to melt into him.

But she was holding back. Her hands were feather light against his chest, and she was settling her weight off of him, sitting back on her ankles slightly. Each time he brought her closer she would shift, almost imperceptibly, to minimize the points of contact between their bodies. It was clear that she was preoccupied with something, unable to let herself relax into the kiss. "I can hear your brain worrying." He murmured, trying to ease the tension radiating from her. "Stop worrying about me."

He kissed her again, enjoying the way her mouth curled into a smile against his lips.

But there it was again. A little movement, barely noticeable. An angling of her body away from his tender ribs. Ichigo realized, all of a sudden, what she was trying to do.

She was trying not to hurt him.

This fact was sweet. So sweet he could almost forgive how ridiculous it was. She could never hurt him. Firstly, she was about half his size, with little hands and feet and a waist he could span with outstretched fingers. Secondly, pain – physical pain at least – was a mundane part of his daily life. A few scrapes couldn't stop him from grabbing her, pressing her into him.

Finally – and most obviously – it was his job to protect her. A stranger could see that. She was too precious, her body and heart devoid of the slightest sharpness. It was his job to stay sharp. It was his job to remain tense and hard. It was his job to protect the pliable softness in her that he loved so much.

Orhime's mouth was warm and tasted faintly minty. Her fingers tousled in his damp hair with maddening gentleness. He wanted her to let go, to relax and allow him to absorb her worries. He wanted to be strong for her – to show her how strong he could be.

Ichigo growled a little despite himself – a frustrated sound – and tightened his grip, circling her waist as he pressed her flush against him. He took note of the aching of his knuckles, the sharp sting of his ribs, and the soreness of his muscles as he did this. None of these things mattered. She needed to know that he could take care of her, that he could survive anything and still welcome the full force of her love.

Fuck. That word again. It seemed to creep up when he least expected.

It felt good to hold her tightly, to prevent her from maneuvering around him with that heartbreaking trepidation. Finally, he could feel the full pressure of her skin against him, let it wipe clean the events of the day. But still, there were too many constraints. Their position on the couch denied him full access to her, and he could still sense hesitation in her. Making sure his hold on her was solid, Ichigo lifted Orihime off the couch, feeling gratified when she gripped him tightly in an effort to keep her balance. "There you go Hime." He said, pleased and more than a little relieved.

See. I can carry you. He wanted to say to her. I'm here to take care of you silly.

It wasn't conscious, his decision to take her to bed. If Ichigo had been more aware of himself, he may have realized the gravity of the moment a bit more. But he was lost now. He could feel the erratic thump of Orihime's heartbeat against his chest, and he was so eager to feel her let go. When he pressed her into the sheets – still crumpled from her disrupted sleep – Ichigo wanted only to make her breathing hitch higher, make her heartbeat faster.

"Ichigo I –" but he needed her to stop thinking, stop worrying. Ichigo pressed his mouth back onto hers as his hand trailed underneath the waistband of her flannel pants, eliciting a satisfying gasp. The lace of her underwear was textured but paper thin. It would be easy to tear off – easy and tempting. His other hand found itself beneath his hoodie – her hoodie – and he marveled at the smooth skin of her stomach, tracing up until he was grasping her breast – soft and pliable beneath the callused skin of his hand.

Her reaction to this was quiet but undeniable – a small sound of dissent that chilled him to his very core. Ichigo stopped short, his heart beating painfully in his chest. He rolled off her as gently as he could and let himself sink into the pillows beside her. If he hadn't been laying down already the wave of shame that washed over him would have brought him to his knees.

He had been hurting her.

For a few moments Ichigo could only allow his body to sink further into the sheets, heavy with disgust. He could not bear to touch her. He did not deserve it.

Ichigo felt the weight of the bed shift as Orihime sat up. He had tousled her hair in his carelessness, and her lips were dark and swollen. "I can hear your brain worrying." She said gently, trying to reassure him. She was hugging her knees, looking small and confused, almost guilty.

Ichigo sat up – still not touching her – and began the impossible task of apologizing. She looked at him kindly while he rambled out the best words he could manage. Reaching to touch his hand, she began to respond:

"Hey. Sorry I was just startled, I didn't mean to – "

Hearing her apologize to him was unbearable, and he pulled himself back, frustrated and self-loathing. He deserved her anger. He deserved to be thrown out of her house, thrown out of her life. Instead, her voice was impossibly warm as she said:

"I'm ok Ichi. You're the only person I ever want to touch me. You could never hurt me."

The words were almost physically painful for him to hear. He was in awe of her. In awe of the way she could look at him with gentle concern as if he were not a monster. As if every scar on his body wasn't evidence of his ability to receive and administer violence.

God, I love you so much. He thought.

Orihime blinked once, twice, her lips parting in transparent surprise. It was only then that Ichigo realized he had said this out loud – declared his love for her as if he deserved to love her. A new, fresh wave of shame passed through his body, settling in his chest. He would not linger here. He would not pressure her into responding to his selfish declaration.

He was out of her apartment within minutes.