Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach.

Summary: "I like your hair like that." And, in that moment, he's looking at her so tenderly it hurts. IchigoRukia, oneshot

Okay, so, I haven't written for Bleach in a while, but I've recently started re-watching the series on Hulu (thank god for them) and I've found myself newly obsessed with IchiRuki. I was originally lukewarm to them, but they've grown on me. I'm also one of those weird people who ships both IchiRuki and IchiHime. Because it's just so hard for me to choose. Anyway, this is just a silly little piece, opening up for some more Bleach writing later. Maybe more IchiRuki, maybe something else. Not sure. Please enjoy!

Hopeless, Hopeful

Before he realizes what he's doing, his fingers reach out of their own accord and wrap around a stray lock of her hair.

She stills, a breath caught in her throat, her fingers inches away from what she was intending to grasp - a teacup. Yes, that's right. She was making tea. When had her mind become blank? The motion, slight as it was, was enough to cause her entire being to cease its actions. Thus was his effect on her. Thus was her insanity.

"What..." her voice is barely a whisper.

There is a pause before he replies, as if he is either caught off guard or contemplating his words carefully. However, this is Kurosaki Ichigo, and he is not one to contemplate much.

But this...

"I..." he starts, voice almost reverent, hoarse as it is.

Rukia turns and looks at him, her eyes large in her face. His fingers slip from the strands of hair as he does so. For years, she had tried to hide such emotion, ever since Kaien was taken from them, from her - however, in all actuality, Kaien was never hers to lose. For years, she did not even want to fathom feeling such a thing for anyone ever again. For years, she was successful.

Until this man smashed his way through those carefully constructed walls.

"Did...did you need something?" she asks, trying to force her voice to sound stern. But there it is, the familiar trembling of the notes, all too familiar.

Stupid.

Ichigo looks at her, eyes far away, as if he is looking at something greater than himself.

"I like your hair like that."

Her heart stutters. It's such a silly thing to hear. She'd never thought much of her hair, never thought much of herself in regards to that. Those topics were reserved for the buxom Matsumoto or the feminine Hinamori, not for Rukia herself, who considered her appearance almost boyish in comparison - maybe even more so with the shorter hair.

Rukia crinkles her nose at the notion and turns away; she still feels Ichigo's eyes as they burn into her back. She has confidence in other areas, but not when it comes to him, not when what he is suggesting makes her chest feel tight.

"That...that's..."

"You never can seem to take compliments from me, huh?"

Her fingers start to tremble. She braces her hands on the counter and tries to appear normal when her insides are rioting.

"Do you want sugar in your coffee?" she says, her voice the ghost of a whisper.

She can hear Ichigo's inhalation of breath, amusement coats his tone when he replies. "Nah."

Rukia looks at him, cocking her head to the side, while Ichigo finishes with, "I've got something better in mind."

His fingers move upward, his large hand cupping her face. His eyes - those dark, dark brown eyes - are slightly nervous. However, those eyes are intent even in their hesitation.

Ichigo leans in and kisses her full on the mouth, the hard slant of his lips like an answered question she didn't know she was asking. She gives a slight gasp, her tiny form tensing, muscles taught beneath her skin. And then, that breath turns into a sigh - a girlish, embarrassing sigh that she feels echoing in her lungs for minutes afterward. Those sweet minutes where Ichigo pushes her against the counter and presses his hard, muscled body against hers. His other hand comes up to cup her cheek, and eventually both of his large, strong hands bury themselves in her hair. The shock wears off and her small hands grip the front of his shirt, itching to get at the bare flesh beneath.

The orange-haired shinigami hefts her up onto the counter, her thin legs wrapping around his waist, a moan building in her throat, heels hooking around him and pulling him close, so close but not close enough.

"Ichigo," she breathes, causing him to deepen the kiss.

The tea kettle screeches and neither of them notice.

End.