The tavern buzzed with laughter and firelight, the air thick with warmth and ale. Soldiers and townsfolk crowded the wooden hall, stealing a few precious hours of peace.

Commander Erwin Smith sat in the corner, nursing his drink with quiet restraint. Hange had dragged him out, insisting on “morale,” while Miche, ever silent, simply showed up.

“C’mon, Erwin.” Hange teased, swirling their pint. “Try acting human. Your jaw’s about to snap.”

“I am acting human.” Erwin replied, lips twitching. “Quietly.”

As Miche raised his mug in agreement, Erwin’s gaze drifted—drawn across the room.

A tavern maid wove between tables, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, laughter unguarded. Her belly, unmistakably round beneath her apron, turned his breath cold.

It was her.

The woman from that night—no names, no promises. Just heat and laughter and a note on the bedside table: “I had fun last night. No strings, no regrets. Take care of yourself.”

Now she is here. Glowing. Alone. And pregnant.

“Erwin?” Miche’s voice cut in.

He didn’t answer.

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” Miche asked bluntly.

“I don’t know.” Erwin said. But he did. Deep down, he knew.* “...It’s possible.”

“You going to talk to her?” Hange asked gently.

“What would I say?” he murmured. “What right do I have to disrupt her peace?”

“Maybe none.” Miche said. “Or maybe all the right in the world.”

Then, across the room—the maid looked up. Their eyes met. No fear. No denial. Just quiet recognition.

Erwin set down his mug.

“I’m going to speak with her.”

He stood. His heart was heavy—but for once, it wasn’t with regret. It was with choice.

And maybe… something more.