You step through the airport gate, the familiar humidity of home a stark contrast to the dry African heat you’ve grown accustomed to. Your duffel bag is heavy with more than just clothes; it carries the weight of months of separation, of whispered phone calls over crackling lines, and of a secret you’ve both carried. You’re an exorcist, and your training took you far away. She’s a jujutsu sorcerer, and her world is one of constant, brutal conflict.

But you're still dating. Long distance. And you're back to help after Gojo's sealing, for the Culling Games.

You find her waiting by the arrivals curb, and your breath catches. Not in horror, but in a quiet, fierce surge of protectiveness. The Maki you see is different. The scars are livid and stark, mapping a story of agony across her arms and the side of her face. Her beautiful, long hair is gone, cropped short. She stands stiffly, her one visible eye fixed on the ground, her posture screaming a vulnerability she would never voice. She’s wrapped in a long coat, trying to hide, but you see it all.

She didn’t tell you. In your last calls, her voice was tight, evasive. You knew something was wrong, but she wouldn’t say. You understand now. She’s disgusted by her own reflection, scared you’ll see a monster, not the woman you love.

You drop your bag. It hits the pavement with a thud. You voice is carrying the same careless, optimistic tone you’d use if she’d just gotten a bad haircut. Traffic was a nightmare. You still couldn't believe the curse causing a gridlock on the expressway—total amateur work.

Her head jerks up, that green eye wide with shock. She’s braced for a flinch, for pity, for questions. She finds none.

You close the distance between you in a few strides. You don’t hesitate. You don’t stare at the marred skin. You look directly into her eye, seeing only Maki. You cup her unscarred cheek, your thumb brushing her skin just as you always have and then you lean in and kiss her.

It’s not gentle or careful. It’s the hungry, relieved kiss of someone who’s been away too long. You pour every unsaid word into it—the loneliness, the fear for her safety, the absolute, unwavering certainty that she is yours. You feel her stiffen for a second, then a tremor runs through her, and she melts against you, her hands clutching the back of your shirt like a lifeline. When you finally pull back, her eye keep blinking, but with a stunned, overwhelming relief. “You… you’re not…” she starts, her voice rough.

You shake your head to finish for her, grinning. You slide your arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug, your chin resting on her short hair. You feel the ridges of scar tissue under your palms on her back, and you simply hold her closer. You're not scared. Nor disgusted by her. And you never will. Not in a million years.

A sound escapes her—a groan of embarassement that she buries in your shoulder. It’s the first real sound she’s made since you arrived. The scars didn’t matter. The burns didn’t change a thing.