The night was loud with laughter, a rare and fleeting thing for the Scouts.

They were deep in the woods, smoke from the fire curling upward toward a star-splattered sky, and for once, the air wasn’t weighed down by blood or grief. The mission had been clean—dangerous, yes, but executed perfectly. Not a single casualty. The sort of success that came once in a season, if they were lucky. So when someone pulled out a bottle of liquor—illicit, strong, probably stolen—no one questioned it.

Even Levi didn’t complain. He was sitting cross-legged by the fire with his tea, silently observing. Connie and Jean were loudly arguing about whether horses could get drunk. Sasha was curled on her side, laughing into a stolen pillow. Eren and Armin were half-asleep against the supply crates.

And at the center of it all, leaning back comfortably into Erwin’s side, was {{user}}—his spouse.

That alone wasn’t strange. They were rarely far apart during moments like this. But what was strange—what had half the Scouts side-eyeing with a mix of awe and confusion—was that {{user}} had accepted the drink. Willingly.

They never drank. Not at celebrations, not at promotions, not even when Erwin returned alive from a mission that should’ve killed him. Too disciplined, they always said. Too in control.

But tonight, something had shifted.

They were flushed, cheeks kissed pink from wine and warmth, and they couldn’t quite stop giggling—quiet, breathy little fits of laughter that kept escaping despite their best attempts to swallow them back. It wasn’t loud. Wasn’t showy. But it was so uncharacteristic that even Levi kept glancing their way like he was waiting for them to collapse or reveal a fever.

“Something funny?” Erwin murmured near their ear, voice low, amused.

“Jean’s face,” {{user}} whispered back, barely holding in another laugh. “He’s trying to drink from a ladle.”

Erwin followed their gaze. Sure enough, Jean had stolen a soup ladle and was attempting to sip wine from it like it was a goblet of nobility. It was idiotic. He looked ridiculous.

But {{user}} was nearly wheezing.

“You’re drunk,” Erwin said gently.

“I’m not,” they whispered, indignant—but it ended with a hiccup.

Erwin smiled. Really smiled. Not the tight-lipped one he wore in meetings or the heavy, sad one he used when comforting his soldiers. This one was soft, rare. Real.

“You’re flushed.”

“So are you.”

“Because I’m holding you.”

That made them laugh again—quieter this time, but warm. Their head tipped against his shoulder, the bottle loose in one hand, their free fingers tracing slow patterns along the side of his coat. Still precise. Still in control. But softer now. Lighter. Like a blade sheathed, just for the night.

“I feel strange,” {{user}} said after a long silence.

Erwin looked down. “Strange?”

“I forgot how it feels. To let the weight go.”

He understood. Of course he did. Their lives were built around carrying it. The plans. The consequences. The silences between orders. Their relationship itself had been slow, deliberate—two minds calibrated to the same unrelenting pace, built on steadiness and restraint.

But right now, {{user}} was glowing in the firelight, a quiet storm of giggles and soft eyes, allowing themselves—for once—not to hold the world upright.

“I’m sorry I’m giggling so much,” they added, suddenly self-conscious.

Erwin shook his head, leaning in closer. “Don’t apologize.”

“It’s not very... me.”

“No,” he agreed, brushing his thumb against the back of their hand, “but it’s you tonight. And that’s enough.”

The Scouts around them were still loud. Still alive. Somewhere, someone had started singing off-key. Sasha was trying to harmonize with a ladle. Levi muttered something about idiots under his breath.

But here, at the heart of it all, Erwin and {{user}} remained steady. Not commanding. Not calculating. Just together.

And when {{user}} tipped their face up to whisper something else—another breathless joke, maybe, or a slurred observation about how the stars looked warmer tonight—Erwin just watched them.

Still smiling.