The training ground is quiet except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the faint rustling of the wind through the trees. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt, and your body is already burning from the countless rounds of sparring that have led to this moment. Everybody else is in the barracks, probably eating dinner or killing time but you’re still out in the training grounds.

Mikasa’s eyes flash beneath the evening light, sharp and calculating even through the loose strands of dark hair stuck to her sweat-slicked forehead. She’s fast—too fast—but you’ve been keeping up. Barely. You feint left, aiming for her shoulder, but she anticipates it — twisting her body with inhuman grace and using the momentum to knock your legs out from under you. You hit the ground hard, the breath rushing from your lungs.

Before you can recover, she’s already moving — kneeling over you, her hand pressing down on your chest, her knee braced against your ribs. Her strength is terrifying — measured and effortless — strands of black hair falling forward, brushing against your cheek.

“Slow,” she mutters, low and even.

Your jaw tightens. You grip her wrist and twist—using the angle of her weight to roll your hips and flip her off balance. She falls to the side, your hands slide to her wrists, pressing them into the dirt above her head. Your knees bracket her thighs, holding her down. You can feel the rise and fall of her chest beneath you, her heart pounding just as hard as yours.

Mikasa’s gaze narrows dangerously. “Better,” she murmurs.

“You think?” you breathe, your face inches from hers.

Her lips part slightly, her breath warm against your skin. Her pupils are blown wide. You can feel the subtle tension in her body, the coil of strength beneath you—she could throw you off at any second if she really wanted to.

But she doesn’t.

“You’re getting better,” Mikasa says, her voice softer now. Her eyes flick back to yours, and the slightest smile tugs at the corner of her mouth imperceptibly.