Saturday Morning
Saturday morning smelled like chaos and maple syrup.
The kitchen looked like a war zone—tiny hands reaching, plates vanishing, syrup somehow in places it had no business being, but that wasn't new to me. The pancakes barely hit the plate before a kid snagged one and disappeared to whatever corner of the house they'd claimed as their breakfast domain. It wasn't so much breakfast as a feeding frenzy with extra steps.
I stood at the stove flipping another pancake, running on autopilot while my brain buzzed from the tension still lingering in the air. Kerstie had been quiet all morning. That heavy, brittle quiet that wasn't peace—it was cold distance. The kind that made every clink of a plate feel like a gunshot.
I preferred this to the usual neediness and yelling, but it didn't necessarily make the air any less heavy.
She'd said good morning, technically. Then she'd taken her coffee, muttered something about laundry she wanted me to do for her, and vanished into the bedroom. I knew what that meant. She was giving me space, but not the good kind. The kind where you stop trying because the trying hurts too much.
I sighed, flipping another pancake. "Alright, last one—someone come get it before I eat it myself!"
"Me!" shouted Freya, sprinting into the kitchen with her usual boundless energy, hair a dirty blonde tornado of tangles and sleep.
I smiled despite myself. "Morning, monkey."
She grinned up at me, a bite already halfway to her mouth. "You're going to the bookstore today, right?"
Her face was starting to accumulate the trademark acne of teenagehood, she was only 11 and making me feel old.
"Yeah," I said, wiping syrup off the counter with a dish towel that was already past saving. "Why?"
"Can you get me Death Note volume six? I wanna see what happens after—"
"Ah-ah," I interrupted, holding up the spatula like a sword. Half grappling her in what had become our casual ritual of mid conversation play fighting "No spoilers. And you're supposed to finish your chores before manga requests, remember?"
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. But you will, right? You always forget."
When did she get so strong? She puts up a lot more resistance than she used to.
I smirked. "We'll see."
Then came the knock. I let her go, her leg was already locked in at my knee to knock me over, but she disengaged as well.
Three soft raps on the front door—barely there, but somehow louder than everything else. My heart stuttered.
Freya perked up immediately. "I'll get it!"
"Wait—" I started, but she was already gone.
The moment stretched long enough for dread to find me before I heard her voice again.
"Dad! Someone's here for you!"
Oh no.
I wiped my hands on my jeans, trying to steady the sudden rush of panic. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was a delivery. Maybe—
Then I rounded the corner.
Rukia stood in the doorway.
And my brain short-circuited.
She looked… normal. Too normal. Converse, jean shorts, a violet tank top that made her eyes look like they were lit from within, and a loose, white, button-up shirt covered in tiny cats. But what froze me wasn't how she looked—it was what she was wearing.
Those were Freya's clothes.
Freya's favorite top. Her shorts. Her sneakers.
And standing there side by side—same height, same frame—my stomach twisted in on itself. I felt suddenly, nauseatingly aware of the lines I'd crossed, the spaces I'd blurred. My throat went dry.
"Hi!" Freya beamed, oblivious to the existential collapse happening inside her father. "Are you my dad's friend?"
Rukia smiled—polite, poised, her voice light and sweet. "Coworker, actually. We're both helping with a bookstore event today."
"Ohhh!" Freya leaned closer, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "You're so pretty. You look like someone from an anime!"
Rukia chuckled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's very kind of you. I used to get that a lot."
I just stood there, gripping the back of a chair like it might keep me upright.
Freya was still firing off questions. "Do you like manga? What's your favorite? Do you know Death Note? My dad says I can't have the black notebook because I'd 'probably use it.'"
"Smart man. Between you and me, I'm actually really into horror manga." Rukia said, smiling like an honor student in front of a principal.
I wanted to melt into the floor.
"Freya," I managed, forcing my voice to sound calm, normal, fatherly. "Why don't you go finish breakfast, huh? I'll be right there."
She groaned. "But—"
"Now, Freya."
She gave me a dramatic sigh worthy of an Oscar, but obeyed, scampering off with her pancake. All be it reluctantly.
As soon as she was gone, I turned to Rukia, whispering sharply. "What the hell are you wearing?"
She blinked, genuinely confused. "Clothes?"
"Freya's clothes?"
Her brow furrowed. "I just borrowed them from the laundry basket by the hall. They fit."
I pinched the bridge of my nose, muttering through clenched teeth. "Of course they do."
She tilted her head, the polite smile still plastered on. "You're upset."
I laughed, but it was a shaky, bitter sound. "I'm mortified, Rukia. My wife's locked herself in the bedroom, my daughter just invited my—" I stopped before finishing the sentence, lowering my voice to a whisper. "—you. Into my house. While you're dressed like her."
Rukia frowned, glancing down at herself. "It's not indecent."
"That's not the problem!" I hissed in shaky exasperation.
She gave a quiet sigh, then met my eyes again—expression soft, measured. "I didn't mean to make things complicated. I just… wanted to blend in."
I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. "Yeah, well. Mission accomplished."
From the kitchen, Freya's voice rang out. "Dad! Don't forget my manga!"
Rukia smiled faintly. "She's sweet."
"She's eleven," I muttered, trying to breathe through the tangle of guilt and absurdity. "And you—" I gestured vaguely at her outfit. "—are a cosmic test of my ability to not have a nervous breakdown."
Her eyes softened, and for a flicker of a second, she looked genuinely sorry. "Then maybe I should drive."
I huffed out a laugh despite myself. "You don't even have a license."
"Details," she said smoothly, the polite mask slipping just enough for a mischievous smirk to appear.
I shook my head, grabbing my keys. "Let's just… go before this morning gets any weirder."
"Agreed," she said, still smiling that perfect, innocent smile that made my stomach churn with guilt and something else I didn't want to name.
As I closed the door behind us, I caught a glimpse of Freya watching from the hallway—bright-eyed and curious.
And in that moment, all I could think was how terrifyingly easy it is to lose sight of who you are when you start crossing lines that blur too quietly to notice.
The car was already warm from the morning sun when we climbed in, but I still felt cold inside.
Not the kind of cold that comes from weather — the kind that comes from your brain deciding to tear you apart from the inside out.
Rukia adjusted the seatbelt like it was her first time using one, which, honestly, might not have been far from the truth, considering she had ridden with me only once before. She looked small in the passenger seat — too small — and my chest tightened again.
Same size. Same height.
That thought kept circling like a vulture.
Freya was eleven. Just barely starting to grow into herself, to learn how the world looked at her. Rukia wasn't a kid — not by any stretch — but sitting there, wearing those same clothes, the comparison wouldn't stop replaying in my head. And I hated it. Hated how it made me feel, like maybe something was wrong, like I didn't deserve the good things in my life.
I gripped the wheel a little tighter than necessary.
"You're awfully quiet," Rukia said, voice gentle, but teasing. "Did I commit some great sin wearing human clothes?"
I let out a breath that sounded more like a strained growl. "No. It's not that."
Her eyes flicked toward me, curious. "Then what?"
I hesitated, then finally said it. "It's… weird. Seeing you and Freya side by side like that. You're—" I stopped, searching for words that didn't make me sound insane. "You're the same size, same build. It threw me off. Made me feel like…"
"Like what?" she asked, softer now.
"Like some kind of creep," I muttered. "Like I'm crossing a line just by noticing."
She was quiet for a moment, and I expected judgment or confusion. Instead, I felt a hand rest lightly on my arm.
"You're not a predator, Orion," she said calmly. "You're a man who notices details. That's one of the reasons I—" She stopped herself, then smiled faintly. "Admire you."
The words sank in, disarming me.
I shook my head. "Still feels wrong."
"Then it's proof it isn't," she replied. "People who do wrong things don't stop to feel guilty about them."
I huffed out a humorless laugh. "You sound like a therapist."
She smirked. "You should hear me when I'm trying to comfort Ichigo."
The tension broke just enough for me to breathe again. I loosened my grip on the wheel and finally glanced over at her.
"Still," I said, "you look… good in those clothes. Really good, actually. I don't care that they're Freya's, or Kerstie's, or whoever's. It's not that. In fact you're welcome to them whenever."
She tilted her head, smiling faintly. "Then what is it?"
I sighed, turning down a familiar street. "I just wasn't prepared for how damn normal this morning feels. You, my kids, pancakes, errands… it's like two worlds are bleeding into each other, and I can't tell if it's supposed to make sense or not."
She didn't respond right away. Instead, she leaned over and brushed her lips against my cheek — light, quick, but enough to send a tremor down my spine.
When I looked over, she was smiling. Not her usual sharp or guarded expression — something softer, almost peaceful.
"You think too much," she said. "For once, just drive."
So I did.
Traffic wasn't bad for a Saturday, and my hands started to relax against the wheel as the world outside slipped into motion — sunlight glinting off car hoods, the smell of coffee from a drive-thru, some kid's balloon bouncing in the wind. Normal stuff. The kind of morning I didn't realize I'd been craving.
Rukia reached out and began fiddling with the radio, curiosity flickering across her face as static jumped between stations.
"Does this one play soul music?" she asked, genuine confusion coloring her tone.
I couldn't help but laugh. "Not that kind of soul, Rukia."
"Oh." She frowned, twisting the knob again. "Strange. Humans have too many meanings for one word."
"Yeah," I said, watching her in the corner of my eye. "And most of us barely understand half of them."
She finally landed on a classic rock station — something old, warm, familiar. The kind of song that played on long road trips with the windows down. She leaned back in her seat, letting the music fill the silence.
And for the first time that morning, I felt the tightness in my chest start to ease.
Maybe this didn't have to make sense.
Maybe it just had to be.
Rukia had just settled back, eyes half-lidded, when the radio cut to a commercial.
Some overly chipper voice started rambling about miracle stain removers, and I groaned, reaching out to twist the knob. "Nope. Not today, capitalism."
Static, a click, then —
You are… my fire…
"Oh no," I muttered.
The one… desire…
I should've changed it again, but I didn't. The nostalgia hit before I could stop it — that warm, brainless comfort from a time when music videos had frosted tips and sincerity came prepackaged with bad choreography.
Before long, I was drumming my fingers on the wheel, humming under my breath. Then humming turned into quiet harmony. And harmony… turned into actual singing. It was the kind of song I could sing ironically and unironically at the same time.
Believe… when I say… I want it that way…
It just came out. Muscle memory of every middle school dance and long drive with the windows down. I wasn't even trying — just falling into the sound. My voice naturally slid into harmony, rounding out the melody with a low hum that actually didn't sound half bad.
When I risked a glance, Rukia was staring at me.
Not the polite, patient look she gave when I rambled. Not the teasing smirk she used when she wanted to fluster me. Just… wide-eyed wonder.
"You're… singing," she said softly.
"Yeah," I said, still half-laughing through the line. "Sorry. Guess I got carried away."
"It's… in English," she murmured, almost like she wasn't sure she should understand it.
I blinked, surprised. "You know English?"
"Some," she said. "I learned a bit from the 1960s. It's not uncommon for soul reapers to be multi-lingual, it's essential in some areas."
I chuckled. "Well, that makes sense and explains why you didn't recognize the Backstreet Boys."
"The what boys?"
I laughed harder, shaking my head. "Never mind. Ancient human pop group. Global phenomenon. Probably responsible for at least three awkward high school pregnancies."
She blinked, clearly confused, but there was something about the way her mouth curved — part amusement, part fascination.
I went back to singing without really thinking about it, my voice finding its place again. The harmonies came naturally, quiet but full.
Rukia watched me the whole time — like she was studying something rare. The corners of her eyes softened, her usual poise melting into something more human than I'd ever seen from her.
When the chorus hit, I even threw in the hand motions — just a flicker of mock boy-band flair.
That's when she laughed. Really laughed. Not the sharp little bursts I was used to — this was full, unguarded, beautiful.
"Are you performing?" she asked between giggles.
"Hey, I commit to the bit," I said, grinning despite my ears burning red.
"I've never seen you like this," she said, still smiling. "You're usually so… restrained. I mean you're out there, but not like this."
"Yeah, well," I said, glancing at her before looking back to the road. "Guess I'm full of surprises."
She leaned her chin on her hand, still studying me with that quiet, curious warmth. "I see that."
The song rolled on — windows down, sunlight flooding the dashboard, my voice still trailing along with the music. For once, I didn't feel the weight of guilt or confusion pressing against my ribs.
Just… air.
And a strange, unshakable feeling that maybe, just maybe, the universe didn't mind giving me one small, stupid, human moment of happiness.
Ichigo
The crosswalk signal blinked red, and Ichigo Kurosaki waited at the curb, paper grocery bag tucked under one arm. His sisters flanked him — Yuzu on the right, humming softly, and Karin on the left, hands shoved in her dark hoodie pockets.
He wasn't really paying attention — just running through mental lists. Milk, miso, laundry detergent—
Then a beat up black car rolled to a stop at the light beside them, windows down, music blasting.
"Tell me whyyyyy—"
Ichigo's eye twitched. "Oh great," he muttered. "Some idiot reliving the 90's."
Karin snorted. "You know the lyrics, old man?"
He didn't seem to hear her.
The car's bass thumped against the sidewalk, and the guy driving was really into it — full-on singing, head bobbing, drumming the steering wheel like it owed him money. He wore a faded green t-shirt and had unkept shoulder length dark brown hair.
Then Ichigo froze.
In the passenger seat, a familiar profile caught the light — medium black hair, delicate chin, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips as she watched the driver sing.
"...Rukia?" Ichigo said aloud before his brain could process the sentence.
Yuzu followed his gaze. "Huh? Who's that?"
Karin tilted her head. "That looks like the Soul Reaper lady. Isn't she supposed to be… y'know, in Soul Society?"
"I— yeah," Ichigo said slowly. "She is."
The light flipped green. The car started forward, and for one surreal second, Rukia turned her head. Their eyes met.
Her expression didn't change — but there was a flicker of surprise, maybe even guilt, before she looked away.
Ichigo blinked, too stunned to even raise his voice as the car pulled off, the driver still singing "I want it that way" like he was headlining a concert for one.
Yuzu giggled. "She looked kinda happy!"
Karin smirked. "Yeah, maybe she's on vacation. Or dating a Backstreet Boys fan."
Ichigo just stood there a moment longer, staring after the car like he'd hallucinated the whole thing.
"…No way," he muttered finally, rubbing his temples. "There's no way that was her."
Yuzu tugged on his sleeve. "Ichigo?"
"Nothing," he said, forcing himself to start walking again. "I just… I need more coffee."
Karin grinned. "You sure you don't need to go chase down her karaoke boyfriend?"
He glared at her. "Don't start."
But even as they crossed the street, he couldn't shake the image — Rukia, smiling in the passenger seat, sunlight in her hair, looking more alive than he'd seen her in years.
And the guy singing next to her — whoever the hell he was — made his chest tighten in a way Ichigo didn't want to think about.
Rukia
I never would have guessed he could sing.
When the advertisement ended and he changed the station, I thought little of it. But then that song came on — light, melodic, full of that peculiar human sentimentality. English lyrics, sung with sincerity. Tell me why—
At first, I thought he was humming. Then his voice rose with the chorus, rich and easy, harmonizing in ways I hadn't expected from someone so… reserved. His hands drummed on the wheel; his eyes softened as if the world outside the windshield ceased to exist.
I didn't know whether to laugh or hide. I'd never heard him sing, or even be this unguarded. He wasn't bad, or even good — not at all. There was something strangely nostalgic about it, even though I'd never heard the song before. It reminded me of those fleeting human moments that seem meaningless until they're gone — youth, warmth, belonging.
And then, the absurd happened.
We stopped at a red light, windows down. The wind carried his voice right into the street — and there, standing at the crosswalk, was Ichigo.
His expression was priceless. Half anger, half disbelief. I could feel his confusion, his mortification on my behalf, as Orion sang "I want it that way" like it was an anthem to the gods.
Our eyes met for a second. I froze.
Before I could even form an excuse, the light turned green. Orion didn't notice, still caught up in the music, and by the time he did, Ichigo was left behind with that stunned, speechless face. I sank into my seat as we drove off, pretending to adjust my hair.
I didn't realize until we pulled into the bookstore parking lot that I'd been holding my breath.
He turned off the engine, still humming the melody under his breath — soft now, almost absentminded. I stared at him for a long moment before saying, "I did not expect you to… sing."
He looked at me with that easy smile. "Yeah, well… I didn't expect to have an audience."
"You sing in English?" I asked.
"Well, it is my native language." He said in perfect fluent english.
"It sounds different from how I was taught."
He chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "Guess we'll have to update your playlist sometime."
I wanted to scoff, to deflect the warmth in his tone — but instead, I smiled. Just slightly. "Perhaps. Though I must admit…"
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
"You were… not terrible."
His grin widened, playful. "Not terrible? I'll take it."
I opened the door, hiding the faint smile tugging at my lips as the cool air brushed against my face.
Humans are ridiculous — their songs, their emotions, their insistence on turning pain into melody. But somehow, sitting beside him, listening to that strange, heartfelt nonsense, I understood a little more of what it means to live among them.