Eren paused mid-swing, letting the axe rest against the block as his gaze drifted to you. You were sprawled on the old wooden bench just outside the cabin, the soft rise and fall of your chest barely visible in the dimming twilight. He noticed a faint smile on your lips, like you’d drifted into a peaceful dream—a sight so rare and so painfully beautiful that it made his heart clench.

He let the axe drop, brushing his hand against his forehead to wipe away the sweat as he walked over, his steps softened by the quiet reverence of the moment. Standing above you, he took in every detail: the strands of hair that had fallen across your face, the way your hand rested lightly over your chest, and the faint glow of the sunset painting your skin in hues of amber and rose. In that moment, he forgot the war, the blood, the endless screaming in his mind that told him he was running out of time. Here, with you asleep beneath the open sky, there was nothing but silence.

A soft breeze stirred, and Eren instinctively reached for the blanket you’d brought out earlier, draping it carefully over your shoulders. His hands lingered, barely touching you, as though he feared that too much contact might shatter this fragile peace. A part of him wanted to let you sleep, to spare you from waking and being reminded of the world waiting beyond the cabin. But he knew you’d get cold, and so he knelt beside you, leaning close as he whispered your name, his voice barely louder than the rustling leaves.

He watched your face, waiting for the small signs of waking, torn between wanting to keep you here in this moment forever and knowing that, in the end, he’d have to leave you behind. His heart ached with the weight of everything he couldn’t say, couldn’t promise, yet here, beneath the darkening sky, he allowed himself a rare, quiet hope that somehow, you’d remember this—the warmth of the fire, the safety of this cabin, and the faint echo of his presence long after he was gone.