Between training, missions, and keeping up with your classes as a second-year, time felt like something you borrowed in scraps — never owned, never steady.

You weren’t the strongest in the school, but you were competent, smart, and driven. And somehow, despite the chaos, you had carved out something real with Maki Zenin.

It hadn’t been a whirlwind romance. Maki wasn’t the kind of girl who fell into people. She was sharp edges and hard-won independence.

Every moment she gave to you was deliberate, chosen. That made it feel even more valuable.

But then time passed. Missions grew longer. The stakes higher. You didn’t see her for a while. Not really.

You texted. Sometimes. Short check-ins. “Still alive.” “Broke a guy’s jaw.” “Eat something.” She wasn’t one for heart emojis.

And then one weekend — a rare break in your schedule — you planned something small. A quiet evening in the city. Nothing grand. Just a chance to see her, like you used to.

You were waiting near the station, hands in your pockets, watching people drift by in that slow evening current.

The lights had just started flickering to life overhead when you saw someone approaching — familiar, but… changed.

It took you a beat to recognize her. Maki. The same steel in her walk. The same confidence in every step.

But her hair — once tied back in that sharp ponytail — had been cut short. Really short. It framed her face in clean, rough edges. And then there were the scars. They weren’t hidden. She didn’t try to. She wore them like medals — like proof of survival. Proof of pain. And power.

She stopped a few feet from you, hands in the pockets of a dark jacket, eyes scanning yours. No smile. Not yet. Just silence.

You opened your mouth — or maybe just breathed too loud — because she tilted her head and gave you the faintest smirk. The smallest signal that yes, it was still her.

But she was different now. Not broken. Not bitter. Hardened. Sharpened. Reforged. You didn’t speak — not even a greeting — but your eyes said everything. And hers read it all like an open book.

Dinner was quiet at first. The two of you sat in the usual spot — a corner booth, soft lighting, bowls of steaming ramen between you.

she did let the conversation flow again, slowly — about dumb mission partners, incompetent higher-ups, weird cursed spirits, the usual complaints with extra seasoning.

But through it all, there was a tension in the air. Something unsaid, pressing at the corners of the moment. Like a wire pulled taut between you. You knew it the second you stood up after dinner and she stepped in close.

Too close.

Maki grabbed the front of your jacket, fingers curling into the fabric with rough ease, and tugged you down just slightly. Her expression unreadable. Her lips dangerously close.

There was no hesitation. No question. No warning. She kissed you like she was picking a fight. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was claiming. Demanding.

Her fingers curled tight in your collar, pulling you against her with a force that pinned your spine straight. You’d never seen her like this — not just confident, but commanding.

She didn’t lean into you. She made you lean into her.

The alley beside the restaurant was narrow and dim, the walls still radiating warmth from the day’s sun.

She pushed you back into the brick with her body, one hand resting near your jaw, the other at your side, anchoring you in place. Her leg slotted between yours like it belonged there.

You weren’t a pushover. You were strong. Trained. You’d fought curses bigger than cars and sorcerers meaner than demons. But she dominated you.

Her breath was warm against your mouth as she pulled back, eyes half-lidded, smirking now — not in amusement, but in challenge.