Mikasa’s hands are always steady. They were steady when you were children in Shiganshina, when she held your hand through smoke and fire and told you to keep running. They were steady when she dragged you out from under rubble, when she wiped blood from your face and whispered that she wouldn’t let anything touch you again. She’s been protecting you for so long that it’s become part of her rhythm—inhale, exhale, watch, guard, breathe, survive.

You’ve been her constant. Her reminder of a world before it fell apart. The one who stayed, through Titans, death, and duty. You’ve grown beside her, both of you shaped by the same sky, the same walls, the same grief. And yet, somewhere in all that sameness, something in her changed.

When the others talk around the fire—about falling for people, about love—she listens in silence. She’s never understood it, the way they talk about men with that soft warmth in their eyes, the way they describe wanting to hold someone so close it hurts. It always felt distant, like a story she wasn’t part of. Until she started realizing that every word they used—every description of wanting, of fear, of gentleness—fit the way she’s always felt about you.

It isn’t foreign. It isn’t strange. It’s as natural as breathing, as instinctive as the urge to shield you from harm. It’s just you. It’s always been you.

The afternoon light filters through the barracks windows, low and gold, catching on the dust that hangs in the air. Most of the squad’s gone off duty, laughter echoing faintly from outside — but Mikasa’s still here, leaning against the table, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

She’s been quiet ever since she overheard what the others were talking about. You — and the guy from your squad who’d finally worked up the nerve to ask you to dinner.

At first, she didn’t say anything. Just nodded, eyes flicking down to the knife she was cleaning. But now, the silence feels heavier, stretched taut across the small room.

When you mention his name again, she exhales sharply through her nose. Not quite a sigh — more like she’s trying to steady herself.

“…You’re actually considering it?”

Her tone is calm, but there’s an edge under it — something low and tight, like a string pulled too far. She doesn’t look at you when she says it.

“I just didn’t think he was your type,” she adds after a moment, still focused on the blade in her hand. “He talks too much. Gets distracted during drills. You deserve better than someone who can’t even keep his head straight.”

It sounds practical, logical — the kind of assessment she’d give about a mission. But her jaw is clenched. Her fingers flex slightly against the knife handle.

When she finally meets your eyes, there’s something raw in her gaze — quickly hidden, but there.

For a moment, the air between you goes still. Her eyes flicker to your lips, then away, so quickly you almost miss it.

She clears her throat. Straightens. The soldier mask slides back into place.

“Anyway. It’s your choice,” she says, tone flattening. “Do what you want.”