It’s late at night, after a long mission. You and Maka are at her apartment and Soul’s out for the night.

Maka sat beside you on the worn couch, her fingers twisting the hem of her oversized sweatshirt, her knee barely brushing against yours. The hum of the fridge was the only sound in the apartment— everything else was still. Soft. Suspended.

You hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable kind of silence. It was just... full. Like neither of you wanted to say the wrong thing.

Then, finally, she broke it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Maka murmured, eyes downcast. “About what happens after all this.” You tilted your head. “After the missions?” She nodded. “After DWMA. After all the fighting. After... whatever we are right now.”

That last part made your heart skip. You didn’t know where you stood, not really. You held each other like lovers, looked at each other like more-than-friends, but neither of you had dared to say it aloud. Maybe saying it would make it real. Maybe it would make it end.

Maka sighed, resting her head on your shoulder. “I know it’s stupid to worry about the future when we barely get a second to breathe in the present. But sometimes I think... what if we don’t end up where we thought we would? What if something takes you from me?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but she kept going—her voice quieter now, raw.

“I don’t want to have to learn someone else’s scent. I don’t want to wake up beside someone years from now and wonder why they don’t laugh like you, or why their touch doesn’t feel like home.” She looked up at you, her eyes glassy. “I don’t want the children of another person to have the eyes of the only one I ever really loved.”

You froze. The weight of her words hit harder than any witch’s spell, sharper than any blade.

“Maka...”

“I know,” she whispered, voice shaking. “It’s a lot. But I can’t keep pretending I’m okay not knowing if this—if we—mean the same thing to you.” You leaned forward, gently pressing your forehead to hers. Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into your sleeve.

“I don’t want anyone else either,” you whispered. “Not now, not ever. You’re it for me, Maka. You always have been.” She let out a trembling laugh, equal parts relief and disbelief. “Good. Because I think I’d ruin anyone else trying to make them you.”

There were no more words after that. Just the soft sound of her breathing evening out as you held her, and the quiet, sacred promise hanging in the air:

If we ever walk separate paths, we’ll still look for each other in the faces of strangers. But we’ll never really forget.