The great hall is blazing with torchlight and noise — minstrels on the dais, strings and drums lilting in a raucous, jubilant beat. The feast is in full bloom: platters stripped to bone, goblets refilled faster than they can be drained, laughter tumbling off stone walls like thunder. Lords and ladies spin in a wide ring between the long tables, skirts twirling, boots stamping, the scent of mead and roasted meat clinging to the rushes underfoot.

Mikasa stands on the edge of it, as always — tall and unsmiling, carved of shadow and restraint in her black doublet and leather-cinched waist. Her hair is pulled half-back in a warrior’s knot, cheeks kissed pink from drink and heat, a blade still strapped to her thigh despite your protests. Everyone else has long since abandoned their weapons and their pride, but not her.

She’s watching them dance with that familiar expression — cool, unreadable, a little detached. As though she’s above it. As though she doesn’t care. But you know better. You always have.

You cut across the floor, skirts brushing past knees, laughter at your back. When you reach her, she doesn't move — only flicks her gaze to you like a blade sliding free of its sheath.

“Come dance,” you say simply, holding out a hand.

She arches a brow. “You know I don’t dance.”

“I know you don’t dance with them,” you return, stepping closer, voice low, intimate. “But with me?”

For a breath, she says nothing. The music swells. A swirl of dancers nearly sweeps you both aside. But Mikasa doesn’t look at them. She looks at you.

And then — wordless — she takes your hand.

Gasps flutter around you as you pull her gently into the circle, but you ignore them. She does too. Her grip is warm and firm and just slightly callused, the hand of someone who has fought, who still would, but lets you lead her now. You spin together into the movement, and for a moment, she stumbles — not from clumsiness, but surprise.

She laughs. Soft. Real. And the sound nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You tricked me,” she murmurs, as the music spins you both faster.

“I’d never,” you whisper back, grinning up at her. “You let me.”

Mikasa's hand tightens at your waist — not possessive, not demanding, just there. Steady. Anchoring. Her body leans into yours, not enough to draw notice, but enough to make your skin buzz under your bodice.

“You’re the only one I would,” Mikasa says, so low it disappears into the strings of the next song. But you hear it. And when you look up at her, she’s already watching you. Everyone else in the hall dances wildly, clumsily, laughing and tripping and chasing wine and glory.