"Nothing is," she points out, before her words are brought to silence by the gentle weight of a calloused thumb on her lip, barely there and yet enough to draw a dark flush to Rukia's cheeks in a matter of seconds. She stills at once, any movement surely too perceptible, too noticeable under the suddenly unyielding weight of Ichigo's gaze.

Even turning her own gaze down with little more than a fall of lashes causes a brush and a stuttered breath. Maybe it's the blood in her veins running too fast, nerves on rapid fire. Tentatively, she leans forward — the easier mistake to make, if either direction is a mistake at all.

"Are you going to do something, Ichigo, or is this your way of getting me to keep quiet?" Rukia asks, lips brushing against the pad of his thumb, pursing, the press soft.