It had been snowing when they first let you out of the cell.

Not the gentle kind. This snow cut sideways, wind dragging it across the hillside like claws. The kind of cold that bit the bone, the kind that made even hardened soldiers wince.

But Hange didn’t seem to mind it. They stood just outside the gate, scarf wrapped three times tight around their neck, goggles fogged over, clipboard forgotten beneath their arm as they leaned slightly too close to you.

“Feeling human today?” they asked, half a smirk curling their lips.

You didn’t answer right away. You never did.

That didn’t stop Hange from watching you like you were something just discovered, not captured. Their curiosity had always been insatiable, but this... You could tell from the way they lingered after the guards left. From the way they checked your bindings twice—not out of suspicion, but concern. From the way they started bringing tea when they visited, as though offering a hot drink could soften the centuries of war between your bones and theirs.

You were a Titan shifter. Marleyan, even.

But with them, somehow, you were also… a person.

It scared you more than it should’ve.

And Hange—well. They were supposed to be scared of you, too. Commander of the Scouts now, weathered and tired and too clever for their own good. Their name carried weight now, and they wore it like it was always just a bit too heavy. They weren’t supposed to smile so easily at someone like you. They weren’t supposed to bring books for you to read or ask what your favorite flowers were or—

“Your pupils dilated just now,” they interrupted your thoughts, tilting their head. “That mean you’re nervous, or… flattered?”

You shot them a look. They laughed—not mocking, not cruel. Just surprised. Delighted.

It made you want to lean into them. Just a little. Just enough.

Later that evening, you sat on opposite ends of the war table in the dim command room. The others had left long ago, but Hange stayed. They were fiddling with a pen, scribbling notes on something you’d said about shifting exhaustion. You caught them staring once. Twice.

“You know,” they murmured, not looking up, “most people would call this fraternizing with the enemy. But then again… I’ve always had a soft spot for things that are misunderstood.”

The pen paused. Hange glanced up, just long enough for the steam to rise off the tea they always made too strong.

No confession came.

Hell, not yet.

It won't arrive with trumpets and clarity. Sometimes, it comes quietly. Like frost forming on windows. Like hands that loosen your shackles just a second sooner than they should. Like the soft, half-whispered words of someone who’s already chosen you—even if they haven’t admitted it yet.

Hange was that someone.