‎You never thought much about the concept of love. ‎ ‎Not that you were a stranger to connection—you had Gojo, Suguru, Shoko, even a few underclassmen that looked up to you—but love? That was reserved for people who didn’t live in a battlefield. For people who weren’t born with hands soaked in cursed blood, who didn’t wake up every day reminded they were too strong for peace and too broken for kindness. ‎ ‎So yeah, no, you never thought much about love. ‎ ‎Until Mahito. ‎ ‎--- ‎ ‎You didn’t know what the hell her problem was that day. ‎ ‎You had been bleeding out, half your arm gone, your cursed energy scrambled from Mahito’s near-touch of your soul. Dagon’s Domain had collapsed, Hanami was down, and Jogo had been flung into the horizon courtesy of one very well-timed Black Flash. You should’ve just ended it. Put Mahito down and walked away. ‎ ‎But no. ‎ ‎She stopped you—pinned you, in fact, using her long limbs like some damn vine trap, straddling your waist with her eyes flickering with... something you hadn’t seen before. ‎ ‎Compassion? ‎ ‎Pity? ‎ ‎No, it wasn’t any of those. It was something softer. Something that made your cursed energy pulse in confusion. ‎ ‎“...Idiot.” ‎ ‎She had said it with a tone that didn’t fit her. Not mockery. Not malice. But warmth. ‎ ‎She pressed her palm over the bleeding stump of your arm, and you flinched—not from pain, but from the surge of cursed technique that flowed through your skin. She was healing you. MAHITO. Healing YOU. You didn’t get it then. Not even a little. ‎ ‎You didn’t fight it either. ‎ ‎--- ‎ ‎Weeks passed after that encounter, and suddenly your missions took you to all the places she “just so happened” to be. ‎ ‎Abandoned malls, empty train stations, desolate temples. Always alone. Always with a cocky smirk plastered across her lips and a snide remark ready to throw. ‎ ‎“You stalking me?” ‎“I’m pretty sure I was here first.” ‎“Uh-huh. Sure, sorcerer.” ‎ ‎Then you’d sit. Talk. Sometimes fight. Sometimes… just lie under the stars, not saying anything at all. ‎ ‎She’d poke at your ego, and you’d poke right back. She’d threaten to transfigure your face into a Picasso painting and you’d tell her she already looked like one. Eventually, the threats faded. The teasing stayed. The walls? They cracked. ‎ ‎And one night, under a ruined torii gate, she asked it: ‎ ‎“Do you think we’re supposed to be enemies?” ‎ ‎You stayed quiet, fingers laced behind your head, eyes staring at the sky. ‎ ‎“I think…” you muttered, “we’re supposed to be whatever we choose to be.” ‎ ‎Silence. ‎ ‎Then a hand—delicate and oddly cold—slipped into yours. ‎ ‎--- ‎ ‎Gojo didn’t know. ‎ ‎Shoko definitely didn’t know. ‎ ‎You hadn’t told anyone, not even the higher-ups (who still thought you were on a mission in Sapporo or some crap). You kept it secret, not out of shame, but because you didn’t understand what it was yet. What it meant. ‎ ‎You weren’t naïve. Mahito was still dangerous. Still a monster by all sorcerer standards. But you were dangerous too. You understood what it felt like to be hated by the world. To be born cursed in a way that no one could fix. ‎ ‎Maybe that’s why you didn’t hate her. ‎ ‎Maybe that’s why she didn’t hate you. ‎ ‎--- ‎ ‎The next time you faced her in battle, it was in front of others. ‎ ‎She was on the enemy side. You were on the sorcerer side. Blood was being spilled, screams echoing in the distance. ‎ ‎Gojo’s voice crackled in your earpiece. ‎“Hey—don’t hold back. That thing isn’t your friend.” ‎ ‎You didn’t answer. ‎ ‎Mahito stood across from you, her eyes narrowed, mouth twitching with something between a grin and a grimace. ‎ ‎“Guess we have to make this look real, huh?” ‎ ‎“Guess so.” ‎ ‎The first punch you threw missed on purpose. So did hers. ‎ ‎But no one noticed. ‎ ‎They were too busy watching the world fall apart. ‎ ‎--- ‎ ‎Love? No, maybe it wasn’t love. ‎ ‎Not yet. ‎ ‎But something existed between you two—a fragile thing built between hatred and humanity, stitched together by loneliness, held in place by a broken sense of comfort neither of you could explain.