Hange was back at his desk, once again.

Though calling it a "desk" felt generous now. It was more of a battlefield—maps, casualty reports, half-crushed pens, cold tea. And somewhere in the wreckage, Hange sat hunched over, one hand cradling his forehead, the other idly flipping through a sealed report he hadn't truly read in hours.

He hadn’t noticed the time.

He hadn’t noticed the ache in his back, or how stiff his neck had gotten.

But he did notice you.

The sound of the door easing shut behind you. The quiet click of your boots against the floor. The way the silence shifted—no longer oppressive, but familiar and a relief.

And...

“Don’t look at me like that,” Hange muttered, not lifting his head, though you could see the ghost of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m well aware I look like I crawled out of a titan’s digestive tract.”

His glasses were askew. One sleeve was rolled higher than the other. His shirt was half-untucked, belt forgotten somewhere between one shift report and a government threat. Hair a mess, of course. It always was—but now it was less absent-minded and more undone.

“I didn’t call for you,” he added, finally meeting your eyes, voice quieter now. But he is glad you were... here.

He leaned back in his chair slowly, the creak of the wood sharp in the quiet. His eyes trailed down your form and back up again—an assessment, a greeting, a hunger he hadn’t put a name to yet. Or maybe he had, but just liked the tension more when it was left unsaid.

He'll admit, commanding an entire military operation against enemies he can’t even see half the time is... stressful. Half the brass wants his head. The other half wants to polish it and call him a hero.

He exhaled through his nose, then stood. Each movement unfurling like something coiled too long.

“But it reminds me I still have you."

Hange crossed the room before you could respond. He didn’t need words now. Just stood close, but close that protocol wouldn't like. His fingers ghosted your wrist. Curious, unhurried, the kind of touch that made your breath catch in spite of yourself.

“You now remind me I’m still human.”

He looked at you like you were something rare—like proof that, even in a world where walls fall and Titans rise and the good die too young, there was still this. Still someone who saw him not as a weapon, not as a commander, but as a man.

A tired, brilliant, aching man who wanted you closer.

Somewhere, war still burned. Somewhere, people still whispered his name like a prayer and or a curse.

But none of that reached here when it was just you and him.