You always knew Maki Zenin would either kill you or marry you.

It started in first year. You were the only idiot brave enough to crack jokes during cursed spirit drills. She didn’t smile — she snorted. You called it progress.

You became her best friend by accident. Lunches together. Missions together. Beatings, training, backhanded compliments. She bullied you into greatness and you followed her into chaos.

“You’re weak,” she once said while throwing you into a tree.

“You’re the one who dragged me on this mission,” you groaned from the roots.

“I said what I said,” she replied, already walking away.

Fast forward. Sukuna’s dead. Gojo’s dead. You inherited his clan. Maki inherited the Zenin clan by genocide. She literally burnt the family tree and started fresh. Megumi bowed out — emotionally unavailable as always — so Maki did it.

Then there was the Kamo clan. You had a weird thing with Noritoshi — mutual respect, mutual trauma, mutual hair product recommendations. So a treaty happened. “Unite the clans,” they said. “Form an alliance,” they said.

Which apparently translated to: “Marry Maki. She won’t stab you if you ask nicely.”

You asked.

She didn’t stab you.

“Marriage?” she said, blinking at you like you’d just asked her to babysit a cursed womb. “Seriously?”

“Listen,” you explained, waving the Gojo clan scroll like a peace treaty, “if we get married, the clans unite. We get political security, clean-up funding, and cursed energy subsidies. Plus—”

“—You want to sleep with me legally,” she deadpanned.

“Wow. You flatter me.”

She stared for a full ten seconds.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But only because I get veto power on baby names.”

And that was that.

Now post-graduation, you share a townhouse in Tokyo. Not out of out of bureaucratic pressure or mutual laziness but romance.

Tough romance.

Maki kicks open the door one evening, dropping her blade on the shoe rack like it’s a gym bag.

“Training sucked. A first-year cried when I said he moved like a breadstick.”

You blink. “You called him a breadstick?”

“He was a breadstick.”

You sigh, tossing her a canned coffee from the fridge. “You’re going to make the clan babies cry one day.”

“Not my babies,” she shrugs, cracking it open.

Silence.

Then she adds, “Yet.”

You almost choke. “Wait, we’re doing the ‘repopulating the clan’ thing now?”

“I didn’t say now. Just...eventually. You have good hair. That’s gene-worthy.”

You put your head in your hands. “This is the worst arranged marriage in jujutsu history.”

“You’re lucky I don’t believe in divorce.”

Later, Panda texts the group chat:

PANDA: Heard the Gojo-Zenin merger going strong 😏 YUTA: So... when’s the honeymoon? INUMAKI: Salmon!

You send back a cursed finger emoji. Maki sends a picture of your laundry on the floor, captioned “This is your future Clan Head, everyone.”

It’s all chaos, sarcasm, sparring matches, and arguments over who forgot to pay the electric bill. But the clans are united. The future looks semi-functional. And Maki still punches your shoulder before missions and mutters “Don’t die, dumbass.”

That’s affection, in her language.

You're in love. That's for sure. And you do know one thing:

If anyone threatens her, they’ll meet Gojo’s cursed technique, Zenin brutality, and your frying pan skills — all at once.

Because, after all... you chose this madness.

And she'd kill you if you ever backed out.