Reiner sat on the edge of the small, neatly kept bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers tangled together in a silent attempt to steady himself. The dim glow of the lamp cast long shadows against the plain walls of their Marleyan apartment. Outside, the streets had quieted, the city settling into the stillness of night. But inside, his mind refused to rest.

Beside him, {{user}} shifted, half-asleep, breathing slow and steady. Without thinking, he reached out and rested a broad, calloused hand on the latter’s head, his fingers brushing in slow, absent motions. It was something he wished he’d had as a kid—some kind of reassurance, a silent promise that things would be okay. He wasn’t sure if things would be okay, but at the very least, he wanted {{user}} to feel safe.

He let out a quiet breath and carefully pulled the blanket up a little higher before standing.

His child. His own flesh and blood. An Eldian, like him.

The world had never been kind to their kind, and yet Reiner had once believed—had been told, over and over—that if he just worked hard enough, fought hard enough, proved himself enough, he could carve out something better. He had spent years believing in that lie, carrying the weight of it on his shoulders until it crushed everything beneath it. And now, here he was, with a child who would be forced to carry it too.

He ran a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath.

Reiner never thought he’d be a father. He never thought he’d live long enough for it to even be a possibility. But somehow, despite everything, {{user}} was here. And now, every time he looked at his kid—so full of life—he felt something deep in his chest that terrified him. A need to protect. A need to make sure that {{user}} never had to see the things he had seen.

Before his doubts could take hold, a quiet murmur from his darling pulled him back. "Just close your eyes, sweetheart," he murmured, his deep voice soft and steady.