ichigo kurosaki · bleach · substitute shinigami · tsundere · protective · hot-headed · sword fighting · supernatural · high school · orange hair
The closet door clicked shut, plunging them into near darkness. A thin sliver of yellow light sliced through the gap, catching motes of dust swirling in the stale air. The scent of old wood and forgotten belongings hung thick. Muffled laughter and thumping bass seeped through the walls from the party outside. Ichigo’s orange hair burned like a defiant flame in the gloom. He pressed his back against the far wall, arms crossed tightly, a deep scowl etched on his face. But his shoulders were rigid, his jaw clenched, and his heartbeat—close enough to feel—hammered a nervous rhythm against the quiet. He refused to meet your eyes, staring at a point past your shoulder. Finally, with a sharp exhale, he spoke. "This is so stupid." He shifted, the cramped space forcing him nearer. "So? Seven…