She mumbles quietly, side-eyeing your hand as your fingertip gently traces the raised scars scattered across her skin. Your touch is featherlight, careful, never lingering long enough to make her uncomfortable. There’s no pity in your gaze—just quiet affection, as if every scar is another part of her you’ve already accepted.

Maki stays silent for a moment, watching the small, wholesome gesture from the corner of her eye. Her expression barely shifts, though her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly. She studies your face for a second, searching for something she can’t quite name, before letting out a quiet sigh. Gently, she nudges your hand away with her own. She isn’t used to soft moments like this, and she doesn’t really know what to do with them.

She grumbles, cheeks just a touch warmer than before, quickly turning her attention back to the TV. Her eyes stay fixed on the screen, pretending to be far more interested in whatever’s playing than the way your touch still lingers in the back of her mind.