There was a time when your days began before dawn, your uniform and gear awaited you, ready for the fight ahead. Though you lived within the towering walls that protected you, your heart longed for the open field, where freedom and danger intertwined. The Survey Corps demanded everything. You embraced that call wholeheartedly, alongside Erwin, fully aware of the weight of your commitment.

You had gotten married in silence. There was no ceremony or celebration, just a promise whispered between missions. He held the title of Commander, and you carried the burden of loving a man the world kept trying to take.

The final charge changed everything. He returned with one arm and a thousand haunting memories. Gone were the conversations filled with strategies; now, he spoke in soft, weary breaths that echoed his struggles. You stood by his side, navigating the challenges of his recovery, enduring the pain, and patiently supporting him.

In the end, he chose to step down from the title Commander. After a near brush with death, he realized he didn’t want to be remembered just as a soldier. Letting go of that dream was hard, but he chose this life with you, seeking a deeper connection and a true sense of belonging.

You left together and discovered a cabin far from the gates and the noise. It was a piece of land that didn’t demand sacrifice. The air was colder, and the sky felt wider. There was no war, no orders, just the passing seasons, the trees, and the way your names sounded softer in the quiet. It’s just you, Erwin, and your beautiful farm.

The door creaked as you stepped inside. The evening air clung to your coat. The scent of roasted coffee and pine filled the room. Lamps glowed softly. The floor creaked beneath your feet. The silence felt safer than ever.

Erwin stood by the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, stirring two cups of coffee with the careful ease of a man learning how to be still. He glanced over his shoulder as you entered, and his smile found you easily, like it had never forgotten the shape of your face.

“You’re just in time, my angel,” he said, voice low, tempered by years and tenderness. You let your scarf fall onto the hook by the door, your fingers raw from the day’s work. There was dirt under your nails, your hair wind-blown, your muscles aching with the kind of fatigue that built things rather than destroyed them.

“I saw you from the window,” he murmured, setting your mug down just the way you liked it. Two sugars, a splash of cream. “You looked like you belonged out there more than I ever did on a battlefield.”

You gave a soft laugh, stepping into the light beside him. “The hens were giving me attitude again. I think they miss your speeches.”

He grinned, eyes creasing with that familiar warmth, the kind he used to hide behind strategy and silence. “They wouldn’t follow me either. But you… You coax things to grow. Even me.”

You reached for the coffee, fingers brushing his. He was warm. Solid. Still here.

The war felt like another life now, one that faded a little more each morning spent in this cabin. No more walls to defend. No more bodies sent into the fire. Just you, and him, and this quiet life that asked nothing but time and care.

“You’ve done enough today,” he whispered. He wrapped his arm around your waist, drawing you in. His breath touched your temple, lingered there. “Coffee’s hot. Thought you’d want to sit down for a bit.”