You had stayed behind at the library longer than you intended. Again. The lamplight pooled around your desk, books stacked like towers beside your elbows — missions, soul resonance theory, partner compatibility— all things Maka would have devoured in an hour. But you weren’t her. You were trying, though. You always were.

The clock ticked past nine.

You barely noticed the door creak open until a voice, soft and familiar, cut through the hush. “You’re still here?” Maka’s silhouette lingered in the doorway, the faint glow from the hallway casting her in warm amber. Her arms were crossed, but the curve of her lips gave her away— she wasn’t mad.

You straightened in your seat, suddenly sheepish. “I lost track of time. Again.” She padded toward you, her boots making almost no sound across the floor. Her hair was a little mussed from the wind outside, one pigtail looser than the other, and you wanted to tuck the strands back into place — just to have an excuse to touch her.

“You always do that when you’re trying to impress someone,” she teased, nudging the edge of your textbook with her finger. “Is it.. for me?”

Your throat went dry.

There it was— that gentle way Maka always cut straight through you without ever meaning to. You looked away, letting out a breathy laugh. “I guess I’m not subtle.” She sat across from you, resting her chin in her hands as she gazed at you— openly, like she wasn’t afraid of being caught looking.

“I’ve always noticed you trying,” she said after a pause. “You think I don’t, but I do.”

Silence stretched between you, comfortable but fragile. Like the space before a page turns.

“You’re always around,” Maka continued, voice quieter now, “always helping, always kind. Sometimes I catch myself thinking” she hesitated, eyes flicking away, “what if that’s not just how you are with everyone?”

Your heart stuttered. Her tone was cautious, hopeful. You could hear the unspoken; What if it’s just me? You reached across the table, brushing your fingers against hers — hesitant at first, then steadier when she didn’t pull away. “It’s always been you,” you said simply.

Her breath hitched. Her cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t look away this time. Instead, she smiled— slow, radiant, like the first bloom of something long-held and finally understood. Outside, the city was quiet. The kind of quiet that made things feel real.