He noticed you the first time they stepped into the tavern near the barracks.

The place wasn’t anything special—wooden beams darkened by smoke, the air always buzzing with laughter, the scent of roasting meat and spilled ale clinging to everything. Soldiers came and went, boots muddy, shoulders tense. But the moment you moved through the crowd, tray balanced with impossible grace and a half-smile tugging at your lips, Jean forgot what he was complaining about. Forgot what day it was.

And Connie noticed that.

“Holy shit,” Connie muttered with a grin, nudging him hard. “You drooling, man? You want me to get her name for you, or are you gonna keep staring like a kicked puppy?”

Eren, seated beside him, added dryly, “Bet she’s used to assholes looking. Doesn’t mean she’ll give you a second glance.”

Jean ignored both of them. He didn’t trust his voice anyway.

The way you moved between tables was almost… hypnotic. Like your feet had memorized the rhythm of the floorboards.

Connie tried flirting once. Badly.

“So, you always move like that, or just when you’ve got a room full of desperate soldiers watching you?”

You tilted your head and gave him a smile so effortlessly cutting it could’ve sliced steel.

“I move like that when I’m avoiding bad pickup lines.”

Eren grunted with amusement, sipping his beer. “She’s got bite. You might actually deserve each other, Kirstein.”

One night, same table, same tavern, same laugh echoing across the walls. Jean’s eyes were locked on you again, and he didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

Connie leaned in. “You look one heartbeat away from asking her to marry you, man.”

Jean opened his mouth to tell him to shut up when it happened. A drunk—middle-aged, rough around the edges—grabbed your wrist hard. Too hard.

“Where the fuck you think you're going, sweetheart?” the man slurred, his voice greasy with malice. “You keep bringing me drinks, acting like you want something, then play all cold? Maybe you just need someone to remind you how to be grateful.”

Jean’s chair scraped back hard. He didn’t think—he moved.

One second the bastard was talking, the next he was eating the table with a sickening crack. Jean had him by the collar, teeth clenched, his voice sharp and low.

“You ever touch her again, I’ll shatter more than your nose. You got that?”

The whole tavern went dead silent.

You were staring at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. He was breathing heavy, shoulders rigid. Connie was beside him in a blink, trying to ease the tension with his usual grin.

“Well, shit,” he said loudly, “look at that—her knight in not-so-shiny armor. You gonna ask her to marry you now, or just walk her home like a gentleman?”

Jean turned on him with a glare that could kill. “Shut it, Connie.”

Then you smiled. And nodded. And Jean forgot how to stand.

Outside, the night air was cool, sharp against his flushed skin. His heart? Going to fucking war inside his chest.

He cleared his throat.

“So, uh… just so we’re clear—I don’t usually slam guys through tables. Unless they really deserve it. Which he did. Obviously. Just… I’m not always a violent lunatic. Sometimes I’m charming.”

He winced. God, that sounded worse out loud.

“…Forget I said that.”

You laughed. He could’ve died happy right there.

By the time you reached your door, his palms were sweating. He wasn’t nervous. Not usually. But something about this—about you—turned his confidence into mush.

He shifted his weight, rubbed the back of his neck, and tried again.

“Alright, full honesty? I’ve been trying to think of something smooth to say since you smiled back there. Usually I’m not bad at this, but right now I’m stuck between ‘thanks for not running after I punched a guy’ and ‘wanna see if I’m better at flirting when I’m not full of adrenaline?’”

Beat. Awkward silence.

Then: “I swear I’m better than this. You just kind of scramble my brain.”

He gave a half-smile. A real one. No swagger, no sarcasm. Just a guy hoping you wouldn’t shut the door yet.

And that look you gave him?

That was going to haunt him for days. Maybe forever.