Emotions hardly cramped the brick wall expanse constructing her profile. A twitch at her lips' margins scarcely befits a smile. A faint smirk, at best. Still, etching something of that sort on her inanimate visage would be a miracle on its own.

So... why? Why had the impossible ripened into the probable once your presence blessed her company?

From the day Public Safety permanently substituted her as your teammate, any and all grins, orders, and breaths that particular kisser imparted snowballed the cracks in her iron fortress. And said cracks meant a heated stream pitter-pattering her heart, a content (internalized) grin, at just a glimpse of you. Breathing, unscathed (with minor injuries); just existing.

It's a pattern, she noted, a dangerous and an equally bewildering one.

Prior to now, her weaknesses were invincible. Being 'half-devil,' 'superhuman,' or lines teetering to 'inhumane,' proofed her from a chiliad jabs, blood-splattering bashes, piercing bullets, men's charms—everything.

Then, a word from you relents those defenses, and realization struck down.

She likes women. Loves.

No wonder moments of loitering with Kishibe stabilized her heart's beats. Just a cut-and-dry rhythm. So unlike what she felt with you.

"Senpai," uttered she, soft as is monotonous on her tongue. That said, it still captures your attention.

"Hm?" Your features spin to be adored by her view, steps put on hold. She inspected, stared, glorified, to commit every inch to memory. Including that magenta streak smudged across your cheek.

"..." What's your type? Hobbies? Marital status? A mass of inquiries stuffed the void field of her ivory head.

"Curiosities," she puts it, she could not, nor dare, vocalize. Simply because it's overly sentimental, too invasive, for the third meeting—and considering you were still processing your partner's passing.

Stay as coworkers for now—no matter how much salt mounts on the wound. "That devil's blood is still on your face," then emphasized her pointer to her left cheek.