Mikasa was, objectively, the perfect roommate.

She kept the dorm immaculate without making a show of it. If a cabinet hinge loosened, she fixed it. If something heavy needed lifting, she carried it like it weighed nothing. She moved quietly in the mornings, quieter at night. More than once, you’d wake up to find a cup of tea on your desk—brewed at the exact strength you liked, steam still curling from the surface.

She never complained when you brought friends over. Never hovered. Never interrupted. She would nod once in greeting and disappear back into her room, leaving behind the faint scent of clean laundry and cedar.

There were… small things, though.

Odd habits.

She always showered after you. Without fail. If you finished at 8:12, she went in at 8:13. If you did laundry, she would gently insist on “handling it” next time and then proceed to wash everything herself—measured detergent, precise settings, folded edges sharp enough to cut paper.

And sometimes, on quiet afternoons, you’d glance up from the couch and find her watching you.

Not in a threatening way.

Just… staring.

Like she’d been caught mid-thought.

One summer day, heat pressing against the windows, you were stretched out in shorts and a loose tee, half-focused on some sitcom rerun. You felt it before you saw it—the weight of her gaze.

She was sitting at the dining table, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on you.

When you turned your head, she blinked. Looked away. Cleared her throat.

“…Sorry.”

Her cheeks were pink.

You never thought too much of it. Mikasa was quiet. Intense. A little strange in her own contained way. But she was kind. Dependable. Gentle.

Hard to complain about someone who left you tea and tightened the loose screws on your chair without being asked.

You went to one of her volleyball games once.

You didn’t expect much. You knew she was good, obviously. She trained constantly. But watching her on the court was something else entirely.

She moved like precision engineered muscle—sharp turns, explosive jumps, a spike that cracked against the hardwood like thunder. Controlled aggression. Silent dominance.

They won, of course.

When she spotted you in the stands afterward, towel slung over her shoulders, her entire face went red.

Not flushed-from-exertion red.

Tomato red.

You waved.

She looked like she might pass out.

—

This particular evening felt normal.

You were accompanying her to a tattoo appointment across town. She claimed she didn’t mind going alone, but she hadn’t argued when you said you’d come.

The shop smelled like antiseptic and ink. Low music hummed from unseen speakers.

You talked the entire drive there—about a professor you disliked, about a stupid meme, about nothing important. Words spilled easily when you were comfortable.

Mikasa didn’t interrupt.

She just walked beside you, hands in her jacket pockets, listening.

Occasionally she’d hum in acknowledgment. A soft “mm.” A nod.

When you glanced at her, she was already looking at you.

Rosy cheeks again.

“What?” you asked, laughing lightly.

“…Nothing,” she said.

But she didn’t look away this time.

She just kept staring, like she was memorizing something.

And if her fingers brushed yours for half a second before she quickly pulled them back—

Well.

You didn’t think much of that either.