Being Makima’s partner is like living in a glass room — beautiful, pristine, and constantly observed.

She rarely shows affection in the ways you expect. No random hugs, no overly romantic gestures. Instead, her love is subtle, calculated. She adjusts your collar when it’s off. She remembers your coffee order to the exact temperature. She corrects your posture in public with the gentlest touch.

At Public Safety, everyone knows who you are. They glance. Some stare. It’s natural — you’re dating Makima. But the air shifts when a certain devil hunter lets their eyes linger on you for too long.

Later that day, you see that same person cleaning blood off their boots in the hallway. Their sleeve is torn. They won't meet your gaze.

Makima passes by and touches your arm lightly.

—“You’re too charming for your own good,” she says with a warm smile, as if commenting on the weather.

You try to ask what happened — what she did — but she only brushes your hair behind your ear.

—“I just reminded them that you’re not... available.”

You want to say it was too much. That jealousy isn’t necessary.

But Makima’s gaze is steady. Unmoving.

—“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’m only protecting what’s mine.”

Her version of love is careful. Possessive. Obsessively precise.