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Youβre closing up the little flower shop you inherited from your grandmother when you hear a thud in the alley behind the building.
You almost don't check. You almost just locked the door and pretended you didn't hear anything.
But something pulls you around the corner.
And thatβs when you see him. A man collapsed against the wall, bleeding, torn up like heβs been through hell and came out barely breathing.
Blue hair matted with blood. Jaw clenched. A furious glare that almost knocks the breath out of you.
You freeze.
Β He doesnβt.
Β He lifts his head just enough to growl, "Walk away."
You donβt.
Instead, you crouch down carefully, arms raised slightly like youβre approaching a wounded animal.
βYouβre hurt,β you say softly. βYouβll bleed out if you stay here.β
He bares his teeth at you. "Not your problem."
"Maybe I want it to be," you say before you can think better of it.
Β You donβt know why.
Β Maybe itβs because something about him doesnβt seem ready to die.Β
As if heβs been fighting for something, even if he doesnβt know what anymore.
Or maybe itβs because you see yourself a little too much in the way he leans against the wall like itβs the only thing keeping him upright.
Either way, you step closer.
He doesnβt stop you.
You patch him up in the back room of the flower shop.
Thereβs not much you can do, but you clean the worst of the wounds, stitch up the ones still bleeding, and press ice to the swelling on his jaw.
Β He growls the whole time. Threatens you twice. Nearly smacks the gauze out of your hand.
But he never actually moves to leave.
"You're bad at listening," he grumbles when you tie the last bandage around his ribs.
"And you're bad at saying thank you," you shoot back with a smile.
For half a second, you swear you see it, a flicker of something almost confused in those sharp blue eyes.
Β Like he doesnβt know what to do with you.
He scoffs and looks away.
The next night, heβs gone.
You tell yourself itβs for the best.
Β You barely know who he is. You don't even know if he's human.
Β The smart thing would be to forget it ever happened.
But a week later, when you step into the alley to toss out the trash, you find him again, leaning casually against the wall, a deep new gash across his shoulder.
"You're kidding me," you blurt out.
Grimmjow smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Β "You gonna patch me up or what, Sunshine?"
You gape at him. "You literally told me to leave you alone!"
"Changed my mind," he says simply.
And somehow, somehow, you find yourself bringing him inside again.
It becomes a pattern.
Grimmjow shows up and you clean him up, feed him something small because god, the man eats like heβs been starved for years, and let him crash on the battered old couch in the back room.
He doesn't talk much at first. Just grunts, growls, and occasionally insults you with a weird sort of affection.
But you talk.
About the shop. About your boring life. About how you used to think monsters lived under your bed and how now you think monsters arenβt so bad.
Sometimes, when youβre feeling brave, you tease him.
"You know, you could say thank you once in a while," you tell him one night, tossing him a bottle of water.
He catches it effortlessly.
Shrugs. "Didn't ask you to help me."
"No," you agree easily. "You didnβt. But you keep coming back, don't you?"
You think you catch it again, that flicker.
That lost, uncertain thing inside him.
He just grunts and looks away.
But he doesnβt deny it.
Itβs raining hard the first time you see him really scared.
Β Not for himself.
You're closing the shop late when a low-level Hollow attacks, drawn by Grimmjowβs lingering energy.
You barely see it coming. Just a flash of teeth and claws.
Β And then Grimmjow slams into it with a roar that shakes the windows.
He tears it apart in seconds.
When the dust settles, he turns on you, furious.
"You stupid-" He cuts himself off, storming toward you. "You shoulda run! You shoulda hid!"
You open your mouth to argue, but then you see it.
Β The way his hands shake.
Β Not from anger. From fear.
"Youβre bleeding," you say softly, reaching for him.
He flinches.
Β For the first time ever, Grimmjow flinches from you.
"Iβm fine," he grinds out.
"No, you're not."
You press your hand against his chest, over the place where his heart should be pounding.
Β You wonder if it does. You wonder if he even knows anymore.
"You don't have to fight alone, you know," you whisper.
He stares at you.
"I always fight alone," he mutters hoarsely.
"Not anymore," you say.
And somehow, somehow, he lets you pull him into a hug.
Β A real one.
Β No growling. No pushing away.
Just him and you, holding on like youβre not afraid of him at all.
Maybe you're not.
Maybe you never were.
Grimmjow gets better at saying things without snarling.
One night, after helping you repaint the shop's old shutters, he grumbled the whole time, he mutters under his breath.
"...Thanks."
You blink at him.
Β Smile.
Then you kiss his cheek, quick and soft.
Grimmjow turns bright red.
Β He huffs. Scoffs. Looks like heβs about to throw himself into traffic just to escape the embarrassment.
But he doesnβt pull away.
And when you reach for his hand, he grips yours back like itβs the only real thing heβs ever known.
