Maki Zenin

Maki Zenin had always been very clear about one thing: she liked guys.

Specifically, she apparently liked Yuta Okkotsu. That was the narrative. That was the official statement. She had repeated it enough times—to Nobara, to Panda, to herself—that it had to be true.

Right?

Because every time someone teased her about {{user}}, she rolled her eyes and scoffed.

“I’m straight,” she’d say flatly. “I just tolerate her.”

Tolerate.

That was funny, considering she was always the one sitting closest to {{user}}. Always the one whose shoulder brushed hers during meetings. Always the one who unconsciously reached for {{user}}’s wrist when crossing busy streets. Always the one who remembered exactly how {{user}} liked her coffee, always wrapping her hands around {{user}}'s waist when they had sleepovers.

Totally heterosexual behavior.

And yes, she insisted she had a crush on Yuta.

But when Yuta smiled at her? Nothing. When Yuta complimented her? Mild acknowledgment. When Yuta stood too close? Mild discomfort.

When {{user}} smiled at her?

System failure.

Her brain short-circuited. Her chest tightened in an unfamiliar way. She’d suddenly forget how to form full sentences.

It had gotten worse lately. Final year at Tokyo Jujutsu High meant late-night study sessions, longer missions, more time spent together. More shared dorm hallway walks. More accidental hand touches that didn’t feel accidental at all.

Sometimes Maki caught herself staring at {{user}}’s lips mid-conversation.

Sometimes she wondered—very briefly, very hypothetically—what kissing her would be like.

And then she would aggressively bench press her feelings into emotional oblivion.

Because she was straight. Obviously.

The breaking point came at a graduation party thrown in the dorm common room.

Music too loud. Lights too dim. Gojo had somehow supplied questionable punch.

Someone suggested spin the bottle.

Maki didn’t care at first. It was stupid. Juvenile. Beneath her.

Until the bottle spun. And spun. And landed on {{user}}.

Silence erupted into chaos. “Ooooh!”

“Seven minutes in heaven!”

Maki’s heart slammed against her ribs so violently she was convinced everyone could hear it.

{{user}} immediately shook her head, cheeks warm. “We can skip it. It’s fine. Maki doesn’t even like girls.”

The words hit harder than expected.

Something in Maki twisted.

Before she could think—before she could overanalyze—she stood.

“It’s the rules,” she said, voice steady in a way that surprised even her. “Don’t make it weird.”

Don’t make it weird.

As if her pulse wasn’t racing.

As if she hadn’t imagined this exact scenario at least five times this month and scolded herself every time.

She grabbed {{user}}’s hand—firm, maybe a little too firm—and led her toward the upstairs storage room that had been designated for the game.

The door shut behind them.

The noise of the party dulled into a distant hum.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Maki crossed her arms, pretending confidence. Pretending she wasn’t hyper-aware of the small space. The closeness. The way {{user}} looked at her like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

But now both on the ground, {{user}}'s legs to one side of Maki's hips while their mouths joined together making the wet sound, Maki's hands, once trembling, now wandered around {{user}}'s body, not knowing whether to touch her breasts first or her butt, Jesus probably both if time allowed.

""When we leave this closet, I'll take you to my room." Maki pulls back slightly; it wasn't a question, it was a demand, as if 7 minutes weren't necessary, as if the gates of heaven had been opened to her and she was told that all of it was now hers, and her greedy heart begged for more "You're not going to escape from me."