Miyako thought she knew what love was, before despair showed her the truth.
Love was a promise. Love was an obligation. Love was about control. Love was power.
And while she was not as physically capable as her lovers, she did have her own special weapon.
They loved her enough that they could go through the same routines month by month, week by week, day by day, and her lovers would still always come back to her and want her approval and affection.
Like what she and Kaito went through.
It’d start with an argument over even the smallest of details. It never mattered who was right or wrong, or even who started it.
Sometimes it was just for the thrill of it all: screaming, scratching, adrenaline pumping.
The holes that Kaito ended up punching in the wall were almost like trophies, reminders of favors owed because he was the one who lost his temper, he overreacted, she was innocent in this whole thing.
Even if Miyako made jabs at how Kaito wasn’t man enough, or quips about how he’ll never be like his father.
Even if she called him a sissy for attempting to walk away from this battle.
She still loved him when his hands were wrapped around her neck.
He still adored her, even when she was able to shatter him.
All she had to do was cry. All he had to do was apologize. All she had to do was forgive him and tell him she loved him more than she could ever love anyone else (including Maki).
And just like that, he was putty in her hands.