The sun was dipping below the walls of the Liberio internment zone, casting long, bruised shadows across the dirt paths of the training camp. Zeke leaned against a stone pillar, the heavy fabric of his new Warchief uniform feeling stiff and foreign on his seventeen-year-old frame. It had only been a month since he had watched Ksaver draw his last breath, a month since he had inherited the power of the Beast and the crushing responsibility of leading the Warrior unit. His gaze was fixed on the endurance track, where you were finishing your final lap. At fourteen, you were already being heralded as the perfect candidate for the Stealth Titan—lethal, quiet, and possessed of a focus that put the younger cadets to shame.

But as you crossed the finish line, Zeke didn't see a weapon; he saw the girl who had shared her meager rations with him when they were children. He ignored the hushed, ugly murmurs of the Marleyan guards standing by the gate. He knew what they said when they thought he wasn't listening—sneering remarks about the "Great Warchief" and his obsession with a girl barely out of her childhood. Even the Eldian elders gave them wide berths, their faces twisted in silent judgment of the three-year gap that, in the eyes of a dying race, seemed like an unnecessary scandal. Zeke pushed off the pillar and walked toward you, his stride confident despite the turmoil in his chest. As he reached you, he didn't care that Marcel and Pieck were huddled nearby whispering, or that little nine-year-old Reiner was watching him with wide-eyed, hero-worshiping intensity.

"Breathe," Zeke murmured, his voice softening as he stepped into your space, effectively using his height to block the view of the prying Marleyan handlers. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he gently tucked a sweat-dampened lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers were trembling—just a fraction—from the sheer weight of the affection he had to keep suppressed in public. "They're staring again," he said, his eyes flicking toward a pair of Marleyan officers who were gesturing toward the two of you with disgusted smirks. "They find it 'distasteful' that I spend my evenings with you instead of studying tactical maps. They think three years is a lifetime of difference, yet they have no qualms about putting a spinal fluid needle into an eight-year-old like Annie." He leaned down, his forehead nearly touching yours, his voice dropping to a low, protective rasp.

"Let them talk. Let them judge. They don't know what it’s like to have the clock of the Thirteen Years ticking in their ears. They don't understand that you are the only thing in this hellhole that doesn't smell like death and duty. You’re fourteen, and I’m seventeen... in their world, that’s a tragedy. In mine, it’s the only thing keeping me sane." He straightened his back, his expression shifting into the cold, distant mask of the Warchief as he felt a supervisor approaching. But before he pulled away, he squeezed your hand—a quick, firm pressure that promised everything his words couldn't. "The archives at seven," he whispered. "I’ll make sure the guards are occupied. I don't want to be the Beast tonight. I just want to be Zeke, and I just want to be with you."