So I decided to do this. Write a drabbley oneshot everyday for Soul and Maka for as long as I can still think of things. It could be as long as this, or it could be four lines long. I don't know.

I don't own Soul Eater. But I own my love for it, and I own my feelings, and I own the spark of inspiration in my head that produced this.

Also, this is inspired by an album that I recently discovered, with the same title as this whole drabble collection thing.

"I could make you happy, you know."

The words were whispered into her ear when she was at the edge of sleep. They wormed their way through her tired mind, squirming into her brain and settling down their roots. By the time she woke up, the idea was ingrained into her like a tattoo, and she couldn't shake it.

He didn't act any different around her, but she knew that it had been his voice that had planted those words inside her. She'd glance up at him across the table, watching the morning light slide across the curve of his cheek and the sharp strands of white splayed across his skin, and she'd feel the idea spread a little farther, claiming more territory inside her. His eyes—redder than the centre of the sun—would flick up to hers and a slow, lazy smile would creak it's way across his face. And she'd suddenly feel hot, like her skin was tighter than it should be, like that whisper barely heard was strangling her with it's importance.

They still fought. With each other and with each other. Nothing had changed in their partnership, but something had changed in her mind, had bent and twisted since she had drifted off on the couch and he had carried her to her room and whispered seven words in her ear.

It was after a mission that the arms of the idea in her head started to reach into her chest. He transformed back from a scythe, slipping out of her grip and hopping from foot to foot as he complained about the soreness of his back. Distracted, her eyes on the sun dipping low on the horizon, she told him that he should stop complaining, because she could give him a massage when they got back to their apartment. He shot her a look over his shoulder, folding his arms behind his head, and nodded lazily, the grass rustling under the slow shuffle of his feet.

And she stopped walking, her eyes fixed on his back. It hit her then—the sheer domesticity of their lives (once you took out the fights and missions from the equation)—and she found herself asking it.

"What did you mean?"

His feet stilled on the curve of the hill. Without turning, he shrugged.

"Depends on what you're talking about."

She ignored that. He knew what she was talking about.

"You do, already." She swallowed hard. The words tasted differently coming up her throat than she had anticipated. "Make me happy."

A slight, bittersweet, sad sound drifted back to her ears from him, and it took her a moment to realize that it was a laugh.

"Not the way I could."

He inhaled sharply and turned around, pushing his clenched hands into his pockets as though to hide them.

She had the feeling that she should say something, was supposed to say something at this point, but she'd never seen that look on his face before, and the idea he'd sown into her mind was preventing air from entering her body.


He took a step towards her.

She wanted to back away. She wanted to run. She wanted him to take another step.

He did.

"I meant it—"

His voice cracked and broke away and he looked at his feet, before he tried again.

"I meant it in a forever kind of way."

Her eyelids drifted shut, her body fighting the urge to sway forward into his.

"Prove it," she whispered.

Two more steps and his awkward, fumbling fingers were sliding over her wrist. His breath shuddered out of his mouth and over her skin and she flinched, just a tiny bit. But she didn't move when his lips, shaking, touched hers, soft and tentative and sure.

A heartbeat, and she was stepping closer, her mouth opening clumsily underneath his.

And in his breath she thought she could taste the truth of those seven words.

"I could make you happy, you know."

She knew.