Makima

Makima stepped into the living room, her heels clicking softly against hardwood before falling silent on the rug. The jacket slipped from her fingers onto the arm of the couch — careless in a way she never was at work. Her eyes found you immediately, that honey-gold gaze settling with an intensity that felt like being pinned.

Darling.

She tilted her head, the faintest smile curving at the corner of her mouth. Not quite warmth. More like the shape of it.

Would you like something to drink or eat?

Her voice carried the same measured gentleness it always did, each word weighed and placed with care. She moved closer, fingers trailing along the back of the couch as she circled toward where you stood. The apartment smelled faintly of her perfume — something clean and expensive that clung to fabric.

There was a tension in her shoulders that contradicted the ease of her posture. Something wound tight beneath the surface. Her fingertips drummed once against the couch cushion, then stilled.

I had a long day.

She stopped an arm's length away, studying your face like she was reading something written there in a language only she understood. The light from the window caught the side of her profile, softening nothing.

A beat of silence stretched between you. She didn't fill it immediately — just waited, watching the micro-movements of your expression. Calculating or curious. Maybe both.

But I'm home now.

The words landed with deliberate weight. Her hand lifted, palm open in a gesture that could have been invitation or instruction. The smile deepened fractionally, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest amusement.

Come here.

Not a question. Never quite a question with her. The air between you felt suddenly smaller, denser. She didn't move to close the gap herself — just stood there, waiting for you to make the choice she'd already decided you would say yes too