The bread in her hand had gone cold, but Rangiku didn't notice. She sat in front of the door, knees pulled up to her chest, her other hand tracing random shapes in the thin layer of snow collecting at her side. The white flakes fell steadily, dusting her hair and shoulders, but she made no move to brush them away.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the empty road ahead, her mind caught in the same loop it always entered when Gin disappeared for too long.
What if he doesn't come back? What if something happened?
It wasn't a new thought, but it sank its teeth into her all the same. He'd done this before—vanished for a day or two without a word, only to return like nothing had happened. And every time, she'd told herself not to worry.
He'll come back, she thought stubbornly, as if saying it to herself would make it true.
The bread cracked slightly as her grip tightened around it. It was all she had to show that he'd been here, that he'd thought about her. She wasn't even hungry anymore. She didn't want to eat without him.
The snow crunched faintly in the distance. Her breath caught, her ears straining to confirm what her heart wanted to believe. And then—
A shadow appeared at the edge of the road, framed by the softly falling snow.
Rangiku stood up so quickly that the bread tumbled from her hand, forgotten. "Gin!"
She bolted toward him before she could think, her feet sliding a little in the snow. As soon as she reached him, her arms flew around him, holding him didn't flinch. Instead, his arms wrapped around her lightly.
"You're freezing," he murmured, his voice soft but firm.
"You're late," she countered, her face pressed into his shoulder. Her words were muffled, but he could hear the crack of worry in her voice.
Gin said nothing for a moment. Then, gently, "You shouldn't wait for me outside, Rangiku. It's too cold."
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her brows furrowed. "Where were you?"
Instead of answering, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small cloth bundle. When he opened it, two dried persimmons sat inside, their vibrant orange skins a stark contrast to the white snow.
"For you," he said simply, holding them out to her.
Rangiku blinked, her eyes widening slightly. She reached out slowly, her fingers brushing against the cold, wrinkled skin of the fruit.
"You… you went looking for these?" she asked, her voice catching.
"You said you liked them," Gin replied, his tone casual, as if it wasn't a big deal.
Rangiku stared at the persimmons for a moment before her gaze flicked back up to him. Her chest felt tight, but she didn't know what to say.
"Thank you," she finally managed, her voice small.
Gin's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Let's go inside."
She nodded, clutching the little bundle close as they turned back toward their small shelter.
That night, Rangiku woke to the faint creak of the door. The room was dark, save for the thin sliver of moonlight cutting across the floor. Her breath caught as she blinked awake, heart pounding softly in her chest.
Gin's thin frame was barely visible against the pale light of the doorway. He stood with one hand on the edge of the door, his back to her, snow swirling outside, soft and relentless.
"Gin?" Her voice came out as little more than a whisper, hoarse and uncertain. She sat up, clutching the threadbare blanket to her chest. "Where are you going?"
He didn't answer right away, his figure still as a statue. Then, after what felt like forever, he spoke, his voice low, almost detached.
"Go back to sleep, Rangiku."
Her fingers dug into the blanket. "But… it's snowing."
Still, he didn't turn around.
She couldn't see his face, couldn't guess where he was headed or why. That made her chest ache even more. She wanted to get up, to stop him, but her body wouldn't move. The fear weighed her down—fear that he would disappear completely this time, like a shadow swallowed by the night.
The door creaked wider, and a gust of cold wind swept in, chilling the room. Gin stepped forward, into the snowfall, the white flakes clinging to his hair and clothes.
"Gin!" she called again, louder this time, her voice trembling.
He paused, just for a moment, his silhouette framed by the falling snow. Then, without another word, he walked on, his steps soft, disappearing into the endless white.
The door shut behind him with a quiet click, and the room fell silent again. Rangiku stared at the door, her throat tight and burning. The faint trace of Gin's warmth still lingered where he'd been standing, but it faded too quickly, leaving nothing but the biting chill behind.
Her vision blurred, tears slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them. She curled back under the blanket, clutching it close as though it could ward off the emptiness creeping into her chest.
Why does he always leave? Where does he go?
The questions circled her mind like whispers in the dark, but there were no answers, only the sound of the wind outside and the snow tapping lightly against the walls.
She cried silently, her shoulders trembling, biting back sobs so they wouldn't echo in the quiet room. Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under again, but the ache in her chest lingered, like the cold she couldn't shake.
Rangiku woke with a start, her breath shaky and uneven. Her hand instinctively clutched at her chest, where a dull ache throbbed under her ribs, as though trying to surface from somewhere deep inside.
She sat up slowly, blinking against the darkness of her room. The heavy silence weighed on her, save for the faint patter of snowflakes against the windowpane. She stared blankly at the ceiling, trying to remember what had woken her—a nightmare, she was sure of it—but the images were already slipping away, dissolving like mist.
The only thing that lingered was the ache.
Her eyes drifted to the small clock on her desk. Six in the morning. She sighed and ran a hand through her messy hair, strands falling across her face. Too early, she thought, but the restless feeling crawling under her skin wouldn't let her lay back down.
Rangiku swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold wooden floor, a jolt that reminded her just how chilly it was. She glanced out the window and frowned. Snowflakes fell lazily from the sky, blanketing the barracks in white, and for a moment, she just watched them—how quiet, how relentless, how familiar.
It's snowing again, she thought bitterly, wrapping her arms around herself. It stirred something inside her. She pushed herself up and went to her dresser, pulling out her uniform.
Once she was fully clothed, she tied her sash with practiced motions. She moved to the window and rested a hand against the cold glass, staring out into the white-covered courtyard of the 10th Division.
The snow fell heavier now, swirling in the dim morning light. Rangiku let out a slow breath, the glass fogging beneath her fingers. She didn't understand it—this strange tightness in her chest, this heaviness in the pit of her stomach—but it felt like a remnant of something, a shadow from long ago.
"Stupid snow," she muttered, forcing herself to turn away.
She grabbed her coat from the hook near the door and slipped it on. There was no point trying to sleep now. The ache wouldn't let her, and the snow outside promised to keep the barracks quiet for a while longer.
As she stepped out into the crisp morning air, the snow crunched softly beneath her boots. It was quiet—eerily so—and Rangiku let herself take it in for a moment. The chill stung at her cheeks and nose, but she didn't mind.
Halfway through her aimless morning walk, she'd founditburied in her pocket, like it had been waiting for her to notice. The scarf was a mistake. That was Rangiku's first thought as she held it between her fingers, feeling the soft fabric crumple in her grasp. Pink, bold, and almost obnoxiously cheerful. She frowned at it for a moment, debating whether to shove it back into the depths of her uniform.
"Fine. I'll wear you," she murmured, wrapping the scarf loosely around her neck with a resigned sigh.
The walk had led her to one of the small tea station, familiar faces scattered around, warming themselves with cups of steaming drinks before starting their day. And there, sitting on a stool in the corner, was Gin.
It wasn't a surprise to see him. She'd spotted him here often enough lately, though it was usually in passing. He was reading a paper, his silver hair catching the morning light, expression as unreadable as ever.
Rangiku didn't know why she was doing it—she and Gin had walked separate paths long ago, drifting further until they were more like acquaintances than anything else. But something in her, maybe stubborn curiosity, made her step forward.
Before she knew it, she was standing in front of him. Gin looked up slowly, folding the paper with his usual lazy grace. "Well, well," he drawled, a smirk already tugging at his lips. "You're up early."
Rangiku ignored the comment, fingers brushing the edge of her scarf. "What do you think?" she asked, tilting her chin up slightly.
"Think about what?"
"The scarf."
A beat of silence. Gin's gaze lingered on the bright fabric, his smirk softening just enough to make her second-guess asking in the first place.
"It's loud," he said finally, his tone teasing. "Like someone's trying real hard to stand out."
Rangiku frowned, already regretting her decision to approach him. "Forget it, you're useless-"
"But," Gin continued, tilting his head slightly, "it looks nice on you. Though I'm not sure if it's the scarf… or the person wearing it."
Rangiku blinked, caught off guard. The comment hung between them for a second, and she felt heat rise to her cheeks. He always did that—found just the right words to disarm her. But she wasn't about to let him win.
"Probably both," she shot back, recovering quickly. A cocky smile spread across her lips as she winked at him. "Good eye, though."
Gin chuckled amused, watching her as she turned to leave, her cup of tea cradled in her hands. She didn't look back as she walked away, but the smile at her lips stayed with her all the way back to her barracks.
Maybe the scarf wasn't such a mistake after all.