The room they gave you was small—barely wide enough for two cots—but the warmth of the lantern in the corner and the hum of Pieck’s quiet voice filled it with a calm nothing else could.

You sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, your back pressed against the cold wall, while she lay on her stomach across one of the cots, hair cascading in soft waves over her face.

“I told them I didn’t need a break,” she murmured into the mattress, muffled and drowsy. “But Porco practically carried me here.”

You smiled faintly and reached for the warm compress that had started to cool in the bowl beside you. “Because you do need a break,” you said. “Your back’s been killing you for days.”

“More like weeks.” Her voice had a threadbare quality, tinged with dry amusement. “Ever since I shifted during that training in the woods. Felt it snap the second I crawled out.”

Her titan form, prone and low to the ground, was useful beyond belief. Fast, nimble, perfectly made for battle. But at a cost. You’d seen how she walked afterward—limp, stiff, always slightly tilted to the right.

You dipped the cloth in hot water again and wrung it out with care. Then you set it gently along the small of her back, your fingers brushing the edge of skin between her jacket and waistband.