Somewhere in the quiet between war plans and walls, two Titans sat close — not to fight, but to remember what it was to be held, even without hands.

The sky was streaked with lavender and orange as evening fell over the Marleyan fort. The stone structures loomed in the distance, the air thick with heat and tension. You had shifted hours before the operation. Not out of strategy. Just… comfort. Habit.

Your Cart Titan form sprawled in the tall grass, longer and sleeker than most had seen. You weren’t just made for endurance — your Titan had a rare grace to it. Long, lithe limbs folded beneath you, your sharp muzzle sculpted with fine lines, eyes softer than any beast’s should be. A subtle gleam shimmered through the armor plating along your spine and shoulders — less harsh, more elegant. You weren’t meant to terrify. You were meant to carry, to protect, to endure.

And there he was — Porco, already in his Jaw Titan form near the cliff edge.

Shorter, but dense with muscle, his Titan body practically pulsed with aggression even when still. Bone-like armor jutted from his face and arms in jagged shapes. His maw stayed half-parted, thick with sharp teeth and the remnants of earlier irritation. But his eyes…

Those gold, wolfish eyes flicked toward you the moment he heard your familiar padded steps.

“Pieck…” he grumbled as your shadow fell over him. “Again?”

He didn’t stand. Didn’t bare his teeth. That alone said everything.

You leaned your long neck down, slow and familiar, the tips of your dark muzzle brushing against the ridge of his armored shoulder. Your breath came warm against his jaw, and you let out a deep, low thrumming purr — a sound only he had ever heard from you. You circled partway around him, your lean, powerful body folding beside his smaller, bulkier one.

“You always do this,” he growled. “Right before things get messy.”

Still, he didn’t move.

You pressed your forehead to the side of his Titan face, resting it there like he was the only ground you trusted to hold you. Your claws dug gently into the dirt, anchoring yourself. He twitched under your touch, his jaw tightening, but you knew him too well. He always pretended to hate it. But if you stopped, he’d flinch.

You shifted again, letting your body curl partially around him, your tail coiling near his foot, shielding him like a sleeping beast draping over her mate.

“You’re gonna make the others talk,” he muttered, eyes narrowed.

You responded by gently grooming the side of his Titan jaw — slow drags of your snout across the exposed bone. He grumbled again. Not truly annoyed.

“I mean it, Pieck,” he said through clenched teeth. “Someone’s gonna see and think I’ve gone soft.”

But you could feel it — the way he leaned in, just barely. The way his claws, once tense, sank quietly into the earth beside yours. The stillness between your Titans wasn’t emptiness. It was the quiet knowing of two creatures who’d survived too much, who had no words left — only instinct and memory.

And you always did this before a mission.

Because one day, maybe, there wouldn’t be a “next.”

So for now, your Titan nuzzled into his rough, armored form, and his stayed still — just for you.

Even as the sky darkened, and the winds of war began to rise.