The very notion ofthat man touching her rolls a shiver of rage up his back.

He can't seem to concentrate on his calligraphy today. The strokes are shaky and imbalanced, characters off-kilter and chaotic. Byakuya finds it faintly ironic that the character for "serenity" is smudged nearly beyond readability.

Somehow the poem he began earlier morphed into something altogether different and, reading over it now sends a flush of shame to his face. He awoke that morning with a pit of anger festering in his gut, and no amount of paperwork or meditation had calmed it. Now, sitting in his room with the evening sun at the door that anger had only increased.

Impatiently Byakuya crumpled the sheaf of parchment and slung it behind him. It seemed no matter how he wished it away, the sight of Yoruichi smiling so adoringly at that man wouldn't leave him be. And as hard as he'd searched the memories, Byakuya could never recall her smiling quite so happily for him.