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You were sitting by the open window of your shared cabin, the soft breeze ruffling the papers on your desk. The scent of the ocean drifted in from the distant shoreline. You rested a hand gently on your swollen belly, the other holding a worn book. The child inside had begun moving more often lately—strong, healthy kicks that reminded you every day of what was at stake.

You were seven months along now. And it was only because of that small heartbeat inside you that the world had not fallen to ash and bone.

The door creaked open behind you.

“Hi, honey… hi, baby…” Eren’s voice came soft, worn at the edges. His boots thudded lightly on the wooden floor as he crossed the room.

Before you could even rise, he leaned down and kissed your cheek, his hand already sweeping across the curve of your belly like it was something sacred.

You reached up, brushing his dark hair behind his ear. “You’re late.”

“I know.” He rested his forehead against yours for a moment, just breathing. “Negotiations ran long again. Armin kept asking about contingency plans. Hange wanted details about the Titans’ positioning. I think they still don’t fully trust me.”

“They trust me,” you murmured. “And I trust you.”

A pause. His hand lingered on your belly, where your child kicked gently beneath his palm. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips—but there was something heavier in his eyes, always was.

You, an Arlert by blood—calm, composed, tactical—knew better than to ignore it.

“Eren,” you said softly, your voice sharp like a blade’s edge, “what happened?”

He exhaled and dropped onto the cushion beside you. His other hand found yours, fingers intertwining automatically. “They think I’m going soft. That I’ve lost my fire. They said… if the world turns on us again, we’ll regret not flattening it while we had the chance.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then: “And do you?”

Eren turned his head slowly. His eyes, those storm-tossed seas, met yours. “No,” he said. “I regret a lot of things. But not this. Not you. Not…” He glanced down and smiled as your child kicked again. “Not him. Or her.”

You nodded, your thumb brushing over the pulse in his wrist. “They’ll always fear us. Because they don’t understand us. But fear doesn’t earn peace. Presence of mind does. Restraint does.”

His gaze softened. “You always talk like you’re some diplomat in disguise.”

“I was raised by the Arlerts,” you smirked. “We may not be warriors by blood, but we know how to survive.”

“You’re more than that,” he murmured. “You held the Warhammer’s power without losing yourself. You’re the reason I didn’t destroy everything. When you told me you were pregnant that day… it was like the Founder’s voice finally shut up. Everything made sense.”

You swallowed, heart heavy with the memory. That day… Eren had been ready. The world trembled on the edge of annihilation, and only your trembling hands on his face and whispered “I’m carrying your child” had stopped him.

Now, he rested his head gently against your belly, his voice low. “I want them to grow up with sunlight. With freedom. Not blood on their hands.”

You carded your fingers through his hair, your heart aching with how much you loved this boy—this man—who once carried the weight of vengeance, and now carried the hope of a better world.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, it was quiet. Peaceful. But you knew the peace was still fragile. One wrong move, and everything you both fought for could collapse.

You would be ready.

Because you weren’t just a Warhammer Titan.

You were his compass. His home. And now… the future your child would inherit depended on your courage, your clarity—your strength when Eren faltered.

You placed your hand over his. “We’ll protect them. Together.”

He looked up at you, and for the first time in a long time, his smile wasn’t haunted. Just real.

“Together,” he echoed. He then nibbled at your chubby squishy cheek teasingly sucking it as if it were a nipple. As you whined.