Your knuckles barely grazed the door when it opened. Mikasa stood there already—black hoodie, hair tied back, eyes scanning you like she was checking for injuries.

“You’re late,” she said quietly, stepping aside to let you in.

“I got held up. Sorry.”

“You didn’t answer my text.”

You gave her a sheepish shrug. “Phone died.”

She said nothing for a second, just watched you from behind her lashes. Then, without a word, she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around you. Her grip was firm—secure—like she was anchoring you.

“I thought something happened,” she murmured against your shoulder. “Don’t do that again.”

You let her hold you, the tension in your chest easing with each second she stayed close.

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I worry anyway.”

She finally let go and guided you inside, the soft hum of music playing from the other room. On the table sat a small bowl of rice, miso soup, and a folded hoodie you’d left weeks ago—freshly washed.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d eaten,” she said, sitting on the couch and patting the space beside her.

You joined her, and she leaned her head on your shoulder, fingers lightly brushing your sleeve.

“Whatever you had to deal with today... you don’t have to carry it alone. I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.”

There was no need to answer. You just sat with her, the quiet between you saying more than words ever could.

In her silence, there was safety. In her presence, a promise: No one would touch you—not while Mikasa was breathing.