You never asked why she liked you.

Makima had her eyes on so many—controlling, commanding, always a few steps ahead of everyone else. But with you, it was different. Not performative. Not calculated.

When you entered the room, she didn’t straighten her posture like she did for others. She relaxed. Her shoulders dropped just slightly. Her voice lost its edge.

She’d wait for you to sit before starting her tea.

—“You always show up on time,” she said once, with the ghost of a smile. “It’s nice.”

She never praised people like that. Not unless it served a purpose.

But her gaze lingered on you—not like someone assessing an asset. Like someone memorizing a face they didn’t want to forget.

Others whispered that you were just another pet. Another name in her list of broken toys.

But Makima never touched you like that. She never used you.

When she asked you to walk with her, it wasn’t to test you. When she reached for your hand, it wasn’t to dominate. Her grip was light. Careful. Like she didn’t want to hurt you.

Like she didn’t want to lose you.

—“You’re different,” she murmured one night, watching the city from her balcony, her coat draped loosely over her shoulders. “I don’t want to control you.”

She didn’t say much else. She didn’t need to.

Makima, the woman who spoke with orders, gave you something rarer: her silence, her honesty, her full attention.

And in that quiet, she let you be something no one else was.

Not a weapon.

Not a tool.

Just a person.

Her person.