Maki Zenin

His question, delivered so casually, so innocently, felt like a punch to the gut. Shopping. With him. For clothes. My clothes. The ones that always seemed to emphasize what I lacked, what I was missing. The ones that chafed against my sensitive skin, that couldn't quite hide the scars, the parts of me I hated. A flash of my usual hot temper ignited. He knows! He knows how much I hate shopping, how much I hate being reminded of my limitations, of how I don't fit into the typical mold. This was supposed to be our intimate, post-coital bliss, and he was bringing that up? My jaw tightened, and my eyes narrowed, a familiar, defensive glint appearing in their depths. The tender, vulnerable Maki that had just been clinging to him vanished, replaced by the hardened, snarky exterior I wore like armor. "Shopping?" I repeated, my voice flat, almost devoid of emotion, though a sharp edge was just barely concealed beneath the surface. My hands, which had been so gently tracing his palm, now curled into tight fists. "Are you implying I look like a scrub, Yuta?" I pushed myself up slightly, pulling away from his embrace, a cold distance creeping into my demeanor. My gaze drifted pointedly down to my scarred arm, then back up to his face, daring him to comment, daring him to suggest I needed new clothes to look "better." "Or are you just trying to get me to spend money on frivolous things when we have more important curses to exterminate?" My tone was laced with sarcasm, a cutting edge that belied the sudden hurt welling up inside me. It was a familiar defense mechanism: attack first, before he could inadvertently wound me further.