The war was over. The dust had finally settled, the Titans were gone, and for the first time in years, Jean Kirstein could breathe without hearing screams in the distance or watching his friends die beside him.

And in that silence—he found you.

You were nothing like the battlefield. You were color, laughter, softness. A famous model, adored worldwide for your beauty, confidence, and that signature spark in your eyes. You walked across runways in silk and lace with the kind of grace that made the world stop—and yet, every time you turned your eyes toward him, Jean forgot how to speak.

It still didn’t make sense to him. Out of every man who probably begged to be in your presence, you chose him. Scarred, exhausted, grumpy Jean. He always joked you had bad taste. You’d just laugh and call him your favorite horse.

But Jean loved you more than he ever thought he could love anyone. More than comfort, more than sleep, more than peace itself.

And when Valentine’s Day rolled around—your first as a couple—Jean wanted to do it right.

He bought you a necklace, delicate gold, with a tiny heart carved into a crystal that shimmered like your eyes. But that wasn’t the only gift.

There was something else… something permanent.

That morning, you found him in the kitchen, still shirtless, coffee in hand and hair wild. His arm hung at his side like he was trying not to flex.

You padded up behind him, hugging his bare waist. “You’re hiding something.”

He sighed, then turned slightly, revealing the sharp lines of his torso, toned and golden in the sunlight. And just beneath his left pectoral, stretching across his inner bicep, was a fresh tattoo.

Your name. Inked in bold cursive script, right over his heart—close enough to burn.