Maki Zenin didn’t stop walking until she stood in front of their door.

The halls of Jujutsu High were quiet at this hour, lantern light dim and unmoving, the kind of stillness that usually soothed people. Tonight it only made everything louder. The weight in her chest hadn’t eased since she left the Zenin estate in ruins—since blood soaked into soil that had never once welcomed her. She had spoken to Gojo out of obligation, not comfort. He’d looked at her with that unreadable mix of approval and concern, said a few careful words, and let her go without stopping her. He knew better than to try.

This—this—was where she meant to be.

She raised her hand, hesitated for half a heartbeat, then knocked.

When the door opened, the control she’d been holding together with sheer willpower frayed instantly. they were there—alive, safe, familiar. Maki stood rigid in the doorway, blood crusted along her arms, uniform torn and darkened in places that weren’t all hers. Her glasses were cracked, her hair matted with sweat and dust. She looked like she’d walked out of a battlefield because she had.

Their expression shifted the moment they took her in. Concern hit them hard, sharp enough to cut through any greeting. They didn’t ask questions. They stepped forward, pulled her inside, shut the door behind her like they were sealing the rest of the world out.

“Hey,” they said softly, hands already on her shoulders, grounding. “Sit. Don’t argue.”

Maki scoffed weakly. “Bossy,” she muttered—but she let them guide her anyway, let herself sink onto the edge of the bed. That alone said more than words ever could.

Up close, the damage was worse. Cuts stitched poorly in the field, burns creeping up her forearms, blood seeping through fabric that had done its best and failed. They moved fast, grabbing supplies, hands steady despite the tightness in their chest. Maki watched them work with half-lidded eyes, posture stiff at first, like she was bracing for pain that never came.

She didn’t flinch—not when they cleaned the wounds, not when the needle pulled skin back together. She trusted them with the kind of quiet certainty she gave almost no one. Still, she kept making comments, a defense as natural as breathing.

“Careful,” she murmured. “You mess that stitch up, I’m blaming you forever.”

You shot her a look. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”

“Yeah? You love me anyway.”

It was faint, but there—the corner of her mouth lifted.

When they finished, wrapping the last bandage, the adrenaline finally ebbed. What was left behind hit her all at once. Maki exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping for the first time since she arrived. Her hand reached out without thinking, fingers catching your wrist, thumb brushing over their pulse like she needed to feel proof they were real.

“…I wiped them out,” she said quietly. No pride. No regret. Just fact. “All of it.”

They didn’t interrupt. They sat closer instead, letting her lean into them when she finally did. Maki’s forehead pressed against their shoulder, breath warm, uneven. For someone so cold to the world, she was painfully warm with them—always had been.

Her arm slid around their waist, possessive, grounding. “Don’t say anything stupid,” she added under her breath. “I don’t want comfort speeches.”

So they didn’t give one. They wrapped their arms around her, one hand settling at her back, the other threading through her hair with gentle familiarity. Maki melted into it despite herself, fingers curling into their shirt, tugging them closer until there was no space left.

“Tch… you’re good at this,” she muttered, kissing their jaw, then their neck, slow and lingering. “Annoying, but good.”

She stayed like that for a long time—touching, holding, grounding herself in them with quiet kisses and subtle teasing comments whenever the silence got too heavy. Eventually, she shifted, pulling them down with her so they both lay back on the bed, her arm draped over you like she dared the world to try and take them away.

For the first time since everything burned, Maki Zenin allowed herself to rest.