Emerging from the convenience store, Orihime didn't head for the station. A vague hesitation held her steps captive. She began wandering aimlessly along the familiar streets, head bowed, occasionally kicking a small pebble on the roadside.
Deep down, hidden even from herself, was a tiny, scarcely acknowledged hope—perhaps she might run into him again? After all, he had saved her last time. At the very least... she ought to properly thank him once more.
Ms. Tanaka's warning wasn't the source of her hesitation. What tangled her thoughts was something else, more ambiguous and harder to define—a complex feeling caught between gratitude, curiosity, and an instinctual thrill in response to his dangerous aura.
Distracted, she followed the pebble, her attention completely absorbed by the chaotic whirl of her thoughts. Until—thump—her forehead made solid contact with an 'obstacle.'
The impact sent her stumbling backward. Just as she thought she would fall, a solid arm shot out, gripping her upper arm firmly and steadying her. The grip was strong, almost to the point of pain.
"Not watching where you're going? Got a death wish?"
A low, thoroughly impatient, and familiar voice dropped down on her from above. Orihime's heart nearly skipped a beat. She looked up, disbelief washing over her. There it was—the signature shock of blue hair, those icy blue eyes looking down at her with a mix of annoyance and a flicker of surprise.
Her mind went completely blank.
Recognition flashed in Grimmjow's eyes as he released her arm, but the irritation on his face seemed to deepen. "You again?" he scowled, his sharp gaze sweeping over her face. "Don't you go to school somewhere else? What are you doing back here?"
Before her flustered stammering could form a proper reply, a thought seemed to strike him. The corner of his mouth twisted into an indecipherable smirk, caught between mockery and understanding.
"Ha," he let out a short, derisive snort. "Looking for that big oaf?" He was referring to Sado.
"Mmm..." Orihime mumbled an ambiguous agreement, finding it far easier than admitting she'd been hoping to run into him.
Grimmjow's gaze finally left her face, dropping to the box that had fallen at their feet during her stumble. The lid had popped open slightly, revealing a messy, indistinct mass of pink and white.
Following his line of sight, Orihime looked down. "Ah! My cake!" she gasped, hurriedly crouching to retrieve it. But Grimmjow bent down as well, snatching the box up before she could.
"So this crap is for him?" He tossed the cardboard box lightly in his hand.
"Y-yes..." Orihime straightened up slowly, her voice small with dismay, her eyes still fixed on the damaged cake box.
"What's a guy like that need cake for?" His tone dripped with contempt. "Will it help him take a couple more punches?"
With that, he opened the cake box, his movements casual, as if handling his own property. He stared at the pink-and-white mixture, studded with fish roe, his eyes filled with pure skepticism.
Yet, in the next second, he did something that left Orihime utterly stunned—he simply reached out a finger, scooped up the largest chunk from the messy interior, and unhesitatingly put it in his mouth.
His chewing faltered for a split second; his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Then, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He offered no comment, but proceeded to scoop up another piece.
Orihime held her breath, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on his face, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Finally, as he started on a third piece, she gathered her courage and asked in a small voice, "Um... may I ask... what do you think... of the taste?"
Grimmjow glanced at her, chewing thoughtfully before answering in a muffled tone, "What's in this? The texture's weird."
Her voice grew even softer, replying cautiously, "It's... salmon, and fish roe..."
As soon as the words were out, she instinctively ducked her head, as if bracing for an immediate scolding. Yet, she couldn't help stealing a glance upward, trying to catch the subtlest shift in his expression—like a small animal awaiting judgment but still clinging to a sliver of hope.
Grimmjow's chewing came to an abrupt halt. He looked down at the half-eaten cake in his hand, then back at Orihime, his eyes blazing with a "Are you messing with me?" intensity.
"...Ha?" His brows knitted together fiercely. "Fish in cake? What the hell is wrong with your head?"
Incredulity was written all over his face, yet his hand, seemingly of its own accord, scooped up another piece and shoved it into his mouth. After a few seconds of internal battle between his honest taste buds and his thoroughly offended common sense, he finally confessed, as if giving up on himself entirely, "...Tastes alright, I guess. It's just the idea... what the actual hell."
"...Eh?" Orihime blinked in disbelief, then her eyes widened, shining with delight as a brilliant, relieved smile spread across her face.
"R-Really?!" she asked, her voice trembling with emotion as she clenched her fists. But Grimmjow didn't answer; he was busy scooping the last bit of cake from the box.
Her gaze fell to the lid in her hands, smeared with cream and fish roe from the fall. The sudden joy of his approval made her want to confirm that taste one more time. She carefully scraped a dollop of cream from the lid, about to bring it to her mouth. Just as her fingertips were about to touch her lips, her wrist was abruptly caught in a warm, rough grip.
Startled, she looked up to find his eyes glaring with clear annoyance, as if she'd just trespassed on his food without permission. His grip was firm and unyielding. He bent his head slightly and swiftly licked the cream from her fingertips—a motion as natural as if he were cleaning his own fingers.
Her mind went blank with a deafening buzz; all the blood in her body seemed to rush to her face, turning it—right up to the tips of her ears—scarlet and burning. She had felt it clearly—the soft, damp touch of his tongue. She yanked her hand back, retreating two quick steps like a frightened rabbit, her heart hammering wildly in her chest, her breath nearly catching in her throat.
The cause of this incident remained utterly unaware of what he had done. After shoveling the last crumbs and cream from the box into his mouth and licking his own fingers clean, he finally turned his attention back to Orihime.
Grimmjow frowned slightly at the sight of her, flushed from neck to hairline and seemingly holding her breath, his face a picture of bewilderment. Probably chalking it up to another of her foolish moments, he couldn't be bothered to dwell on her strange reaction.
"It's getting dark. Get moving."
With that, he turned, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked off as if nothing had happened, leaving behind a cool, domineering silhouette—and a girl with orange hair, stiff and rooted to the spot, red as a boiled shrimp.
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