You always knew Hange was a little… different.

She ain't got no money, her uniform never seemed ironed quite right either—which were kind of funny—with boots often mismatched or muddied from whatever experiment had stolen her attention that morning. Her hair had a will of its own, kinda wild and free.

But even in all that disarray, no one knew it like you—how love grows where Hange Zoë goes.

She’d sway into a room talking a mile a minute about something half the squad couldn’t follow, some new theory about titan biology, an absurd idea about behaviorism, or how a titan blinked twice before reacting to pain, and you’d watch the others glance at one another with furrowed brows and weary tolerance.

You didn’t.

They said she was a little unhinged. That she talked lazy, like her words sometimes got tangled in her own excitement. People say she's crazy that she had no filter between her thoughts and her mouth. That her life's a mystery she could get too close to the monsters, too comfortable with the wrong questions.

Oh, but instead of all of those, you saw the opposite.

You can’t say when it started. Maybe it was during one of those long nights in the lab, when she’d ramble on while tinkering with titan samples, and you’d pretend to follow along. Until she’d grab your wrist and ask if you felt that too, if you saw the pattern she saw. Her fingers were always warm, a little calloused, always moving. But every now and then, they'd find yours and stay.

There’s something about her hand holding yours. Sure, it's a feeling that's fine, but it's also that feeling that makes your chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with the steam of a nearby titan or the heat of battle.

And it’s strange, isn’t it? For all the blood and fear that saturates your days, you still find yourself smiling when she’s around. She's... really got a magical spell, and it’s working so well that you can’t get away.

You’re just lucky. You suppose that's what it feels like.

Because whatever this is—it’s not ordinary. It’s not easy.

But it grows. Between pages of notes.

Even in this night during downtime—after the loss of Ilse’s notebook but before Shiganshina—you found yourselves tucked in the back of the library. Her head rested against your shoulder. She was talking softly, half-asleep, mumbled something about how weird the moon looked, then, without warning, she threaded her fingers through yours like it had always been that way.

Nobody really understands her. Not like you do.

And love—whatever strange, funny, impossible shape it takes—has been quietly growing in all the places she’s touched.

Wherever she goes, it follows.

No one knows it quite like you.