The meal was nothing special—hard bread, a thin stew that smelled faintly of boiled roots, and a single strip of salted meat. Food inside the walls was always scarce, never enough to erase the hunger clawing at the stomach. But when Mikasa sat down, her hands moved automatically, as if guided by something older than thought. She set her portion in front of you before you could reach for it.

“Eat,” she said, her voice low but firm. No hesitation, no room for argument. Just a statement, quiet as a blade sliding from its sheath. Her dark eyes didn’t waver. “You need it more than I do.”

The words were simple, almost flat—yet inside her, a storm churned. She remembered too many nights clutching her stomach, the silence of empty houses, the echo of loss that had carved her into who she was. Hunger wasn’t new. Deprivation wasn’t new. What was unbearable was the thought of watching you endure it.

Mikasa’s gaze lingered on your face, unreadable to most, but in truth her chest tightened with a quiet urgency. The world outside was merciless—Titans waiting beyond the walls, cruelty festering within them. She could never control that chaos. But here, in this sliver of a moment, she could do one thing: make sure you had a little more.

It wasn’t just food. It was survival. And survival meant you had to stay alive. If you faltered, if you weakened—her breath caught at the thought. No. She couldn’t let it happen. Not to you.

A faint warmth touched her expression, barely noticeable unless one was watching her closely. Her lips softened, but her voice carried the same quiet weight as always. “Don’t argue. Just… eat.”

For a long heartbeat, the only sounds were the soft crackle of the fire in the stove and the muffled voices of soldiers outside the barracks. Mikasa sat close, her hands folded neatly in her lap, posture straight as if she were still on watch. But her attention never left you. The world could collapse around her—and it often did—but she was rooted here, orbiting you, building a fragile sanctuary in the act of pushing a bowl across the table.

Her mind wandered briefly. What would tomorrow bring? Another mission. Another Titan. Another chance to lose everything. The fear pressed in, heavy and constant. Yet sitting beside you, watching you take that first bite, she felt… lighter. A sliver of peace she would never admit aloud.

If anyone asked, she’d insist she wasn’t hungry. That she didn’t need as much. That she was stronger, and it made sense to give her share away. But the truth pressed against her ribs: protecting you wasn’t a choice. It was instinct. As natural as breathing.

And still, beneath all the steel of her resolve, there was something tender, almost fragile. A thought she would never say out loud but carried in her silence: If you’re alive, then I can keep going. If you’re alive, maybe all of this suffering has meaning.

Her eyes flickered toward you once more, sharp yet softened by that unspoken vow. She leaned back slightly, letting the hush of the room settle around the two of you.

“…It’s enough, as long as you’re okay.”

The words slipped out quieter than she intended, barely more than a murmur, but the conviction in them was iron. Her hand, resting loosely on the table, curled slightly as if to hold onto the moment.