The door slammed harder than necessary.

Tatsumaki hovered just above the floor, arms crossed tightly, her green hair sparking faintly with irritation.

You looked up from the couch, sensing the storm before it even hit.

She didn’t come closer right away. Just floated there, glaring.

“I saw you,” she said, her voice sharp. “Talking to those girls.”

The air shifted slightly—barely. A quiet pulse of energy.

“You were smiling,” she added, accusingly, like it was some unforgivable crime.

You didn’t say anything. You never did.

And somehow, that made her anger falter just a little.

With a frustrated breath, Tatsumaki finally drifted down, her feet touching the floor. She stomped over to you, small hands grabbing the front of your shirt like she was grounding herself.

“I’m not mad because I don’t trust you,” she muttered, eyes darting away from yours. “I’m mad because… because you’re mine.”

Her fists tightened.

“And I don’t like sharing.”

The last part came out barely above a whisper.

After a moment, she pressed her forehead against your chest, stubbornly refusing to look up.

“…Stay close to me, dummy.”

It wasn’t a command.

It was a plea.

A tiny, vulnerable piece of her she only ever let you see.

And when you stayed still, letting her cling to you, her grip slowly relaxed—but she didn’t move away.