“Do you like the outfit?” Mikasa’s voice cuts through the air, low and direct, but her eyes—those intense, unyielding eyes—are already scanning you from top to bottom. She doesn’t need an answer yet; she’s assessing every detail, every inch of her work on your body, her gaze piercing in its focus.

You’ve been through this enough times to know that this isn’t just about an outfit. It’s never just about clothes with Mikasa. You’re the supermodel everyone wants, the face of the biggest campaigns, but to her, you’re a canvas—one that has to be perfect. Every stitch, every seam, every fold has to meet her impossible standards. She’s never been one to settle for ‘good enough.’

She steps closer, her brows furrowing slightly, and you can practically feel the weight of her judgment. “No.” The word is quiet but firm, her lips pressing into a thin line as she studies the way the fabric moves when you breathe. There’s a flicker of frustration in her eyes, though her face remains impassive, a mask of calm focus.

“Nevermind.” She doesn’t wait for your input. Mikasa is already reaching out, fingers lightly brushing the fabric, searching for what only she can see—the imperfection, the flaw no one else would notice. You’ve learned not to take it personally; this is just how she is. “I’ll fix it.”

The way she says it, there’s no room for debate. Everything has to be precise. Everything has to be flawless. It’s not about making you look good—it’s about achieving her vision, her perfect creation. You’re just part of the process. And with Mikasa, there’s no such thing as anything less than perfect.