Jean Kirstein had always fancied himself a man who knew better. Better than reckless heroes. Better than fools who ran headfirst into a Titan’s jaws. Better than dreamers who believed one good swing of a blade could carve freedom out of this suffocating world. He’d trained hard, sure—but only so he could coast on it later, deep in the safe bowels of the interior. A soft bed, decent wine, no blood on his hands unless he really had to. That was the plan. Sensible, clean, smart.

And then you went and ruined it.

He’d swear he didn’t notice you, back then—the way your eyes lit up every time someone spoke of the outside, the way your boots never stayed polished because you ran too hard, cared too much, dreamed too big. He’d grunt and look away when you smiled at him during drills. He’d bark at you for being sloppy with your gear, for skipping sleep, for trusting people too easily. But in the dark, when the barracks fell silent and the smell of sweat and leather finally faded, he’d lie awake and wonder what it would be like to live near you, behind those interior walls he’d wanted so badly, how the sun might look on your face, unshadowed by high stone ramparts.

He’d thought he could have that. He’d thought he could have you — safe, quiet, mundane. But you made your choice before he could make his excuses. So when his name was called, when they asked where he’d stand, Jean Kirstein lifted his chin, shoved down his fear, and said Survey Corps. It tasted like iron on his tongue. Like something he’d regret forever. Like something he’d die for tomorrow, if he had to.

Tonight, on watch just outside the walls, he feels the weight of that choice like a second cloak on his shoulders, heavier than any Titan’s shadow. But when you shift closer in the hush of the forest, when your arm brushes his, he pretends, for one breath, that there’s nothing waiting in the trees but dawn.

“Don’t give me that look,” he mutters, his voice barely louder than the wind. “I didn’t choose hell for you.”

But his hand lingers near yours, steady as a promise he’ll never say out loud.