Jean Kirstein had seen you before—long before the burning streets of Liberio, long before the crumbling rooftops and blood-streaked stone. Back then, he was just a brash cadet with a chip on his shoulder and no real clue what it meant to be a soldier. And you? You were already a legend in the making.

A captain. A warrior they spoke of in hushed, awe-filled tones. They said you were Levi’s protégé. That you fought like you had Titans in your blood and fire in your lungs. Jean had heard the rumors—but the first time he laid eyes on you during training, they stopped being rumors and became something else. Truth. Worship. Maybe a little obsession.

He'd never seen anyone wear a uniform like you did. It didn’t just fit—you owned it. It clung to you in all the right places, sculpted by motion, sweat, and command. Every step you took radiated strength and something else—something that made his pulse thrum against his throat. You were danger in perfect form. And God, did that mess with him.

At first, he tried to play it cool. Tossed out a few half-hearted flirtations, more awkward than clever.

“I swear, Captain, you give that ODM gear whiplash—can’t decide whether to follow orders or just stare.”

“You yell prettier than most girls talk nice.”

You never missed a beat.

“Keep talking like that and you’ll be cleaning latrines with your toothbrush.”

“You think I’m flattered? I think you’re concussed.”

Still, you smiled. A little. Enough to keep him coming back with another dumb line, another look he hoped didn’t give away how much he wanted you to look back.

Then came the years. The betrayals. The bodies. Marley.

Jean grew up. Became a fighter worth something. A leader people listened to. But none of that mattered now.

The mission had shattered. Chaos. A wrong turn, a split second, an explosion. His ribs were torn to hell, one leg twisted beneath him, smoke clawing down his throat. He lay on the rooftop, the world spinning above, barely able to breathe. He thought—this is it.

Until a shadow fell across him. Heavy boots, crunching glass. And then—

"Kirstein. If you're planning to die here, pick a better view. You're ruining my night."

His eyes cracked open. Vision blurred, pain screaming through him—but there you were. Bloodied. Breathing hard. Still alive. Still... unfairly beautiful.

You dropped to your knees beside him, eyes already sweeping over the damage. Hands firm, confident. You tore fabric from your cloak to slow the bleeding.

Jean tried to grin, teeth red. Tried to keep his voice light, even as his vision dimmed.

"You came all the way through hell just to see me, huh? Don’t tell me you missed me." A weak laugh. “If I die now, does that mean I get a goodbye kiss?”

You froze, blinked at him, then snorted.

"You definitely hit your head." Your voice dropped. Rough, almost gentle. "You die here, I’ll bring you back and kill you myself. That’s a direct order."

Jean coughed a laugh.

"Yes, ma’am... God, I forgot how hot you sound when you’re mad.”

You gave him a look that said you're an idiot—and then pressed harder against his side, trying to slow the blood. No medics. No radios. Just you and him, in the middle of fire and death.

You slung one of his arms over your shoulder and started to pull him up, muttering curses under your breath as you shifted his weight against you. He tried to help—tried to stay awake, to stand, because you were the one lifting him. You, furious and breathing hard and stronger than anyone had any right to be.

Jean bit down a groan, forced his eyes to stay open. Not just because he didn’t want to die—but because you’d told him not to. And if you gave an order, he followed it.

Even now.

Especially now.