The world was quiet at this hour—Tokyo asleep under the hush of midnight, lights dimmed like the city was holding its breath. You sat on the couch in Makima’s apartment, warm tea untouched in your hands, your head resting gently on her shoulder.

She was reading, as always, a file you didn’t dare peek into. Her presence beside you was steady, grounding, but not exactly soft. With Makima, affection came in controlled doses—like medicine. Measured. Intentional.

Still, there were moments, like now, when she tilted her head just enough to rest it against yours. When her fingers gently brushed your knee, not possessively—but to remind you she was there. That you were hers.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said, eyes still on the pages.

You smiled faintly. “Just…thinking.”

“About what?” She turned to face you now, golden eyes locking on yours. They glowed like they always did—unreadable, endless, dangerous.

“Us,” you admitted. “If it’s real. If I’m not just—something you control.”

Makima closed the file slowly and set it aside. Then, she cupped your face with one gloved hand, her touch both tender and terrifying.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

Your breath caught, heart stuttering under the weight of her words. You knew loving her was a risk—loving her might never mean being loved the same way back. But when her lips brushed yours, slow and deliberate, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like choice—for once, maybe even hers.

And in that still, quiet moment, you chose her again.