Chapter Text
The rain hangs in the air. It does not fall, it waits. The streetlights bloom too wide, too bright.
The world feels padded. Muted.
Her father drives. Careful. Both hands on the wheel. Her mother hums beside him.
“We’ll be home soon, my darling.” Her father glances at the mirror.
“Mika,” he says gently.
The light is green, too green. They move forwardK, the headlights from the left are too bright.
Too fast.
The world slows.
White.
The sound of metal folding underwater, the glass blooming in silent flowers. The car turns sideways, for a moment gravity disappears. Then slams back into place. Her mother is gone—
Then she is there. Climbing. Reaching.
“MOMMY!”l. The second impact crushes the passenger side inward but her mother crashes into the backseat first, arms wrapping around Mikasa. Tight.
Too tight.
Shielding her head, her ribs, her heart.
Rain threads through broken glass, the engine hisses. Mikasa cannot breathe.
“I’m scared.” Her voice sounds far away.
“I know, my darling.” Her mother’s voice sounds closer than skin.
“I’ve got you.” Blood seeps warm between them. It smells like iron.
“You’re safe.” The word safe echoes.
Cracks.
“Mommy it hurts.”
“I know.” Her arms tighten again, bone against bone.
“You are so loved.”The rain grows louder.
“So loved.”
“Mommy don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” But her breathing is wrong now, skipping. Breaking.
“I love you.” The words blur.
“I love you more than—”. They never finish.
The sentence loops.
Again.
“I love you more than—” Again.
Her arms are still wrapped around Mikasa but they are colder now. Heavier.
The sirens begin and stop.
Red light.
Blue light.
Red.
Blue.
She hears boots splashing. Metal groans. A beam of white light cuts through the car.
“There is a child.” The words echo strangely.
Not once.
Twice.
Three times.
“There is a child.”
“There is a child.” Hands pull at her mother’s arms but hey don’t move. Her fingers won’t open, they pry them back.
One.
Two.
Three.
Mikasa is lifted, the world tilts again. She looks back. The car stretches longer than it should, too long. Her mother sits in the backseat not lying down but sitting upright. Still curved but her eyes were open, watching.
Rain falls upward now into the sky. She sees her mother’s mouth moves. But no sound comes out.
I love you more than—
The sentence never ends. Mikasa tries to speak.
“Mommy?” But her voice fills with water. The headlights burn white again and rain grows louder. Too loud.
Too loud—
———
Mikasa jerks upright in bed, for a moment she doesn’t know where she is.
Rain.
There is rain, no.
Silence. Her lungs drag in air like she has surfaced from drowning. Her arms are wrapped tightly around herself. Her fingers digging into her own ribs as if she is still inside someone else’s embrace. As if she is still being shielded.
Her heart pounds violently.
Red. Blue. Red. Blue.
The flashing lights from the nightmare pulse behind her eyelids.
“I love you more than—”. The sentence cuts off again. Her chest started to burn. For a split second she smells gasoline and she tastes metal. She feels the phantom press of the seatbelt crushing her sternum her wrist aches where her mother held her.
My darling. The words are still warm in her ears.
“There is a child.” The voice echoes.
Distant. Shocked.
There is a child.
Alive.
Her breathing stutters.
Alive.
She was alive, the only one. Her mother’s arms locked around her cold and tight. Peeling her fingers back.
One.
Two.
Three.
The word miracle tries to surface. She swallows it down.
Miracle is not soft. Miracle is not mercy. It is accusation.
Why you?
Her body trembles not from fear now but from memory. From the weight of being carried out while her mother remained curved in the wreckage still shaped like protection. She swings her legs over the side of the bed the marble floor is cold beneath her feet cold like rainwater, cold like metal.
The estate is silent there are no sirens, no boots in water, no voices saying
There is a child.
Just her own breathing, too loud in the dark. She presses a hand flat against her chest as if checking. Confirming.
Alive.
Her mother’s last words loop through her mind.
“I love you more than—“ But hey never finish, they never will and somewhere deep inside her the little girl still hears it. Still waiting for the sentence to end but it never does, only the rain does outside, soft, unthreatening. Nothing like the one in her dreams.
And yet she cannot convince her body of that she leaves her room without turning on the lights. Walks down the long hallway in measured steps and controlled breathing if she moves carefully enough, perhaps the crash will stay in the dark.
The kitchen light is already on, she stops at the doorway. Her grandmother sits at the dining table not in sleepwear but dressed her hair immaculate a porcelain teacup resting between her fingers as if she has been awake for hours.
“You are awake,” her grandmother says without looking up. Mikasa steps inside.
“Yes, Grand-mère.” She moves to the counter and pours water into a glass her hand trembles slightly. The sound is too loud in the quiet kitchen.
“You were restless,” her grandmother observes, not a question.
“Yes.” Mikasa drinks, the water does nothing. Her grandmother finally looks at her. Sharp. Assessing.
“You must learn to regulate your emotions more effectively.” Mikasa nods.
“Yes, Grand-mère.”
“Emotional instability weakens the body,” her grandmother continues calmly. “A weakened body cannot sustain excellence.”
No mention of Clara.
No mention of her role.
The absence is deliberate.
“You are entering a decisive stage of your development,” she continues. “Technique is no longer the concern.” Silence.
“Your mind is.” Mikasa’s fingers tighten around the glass.
“You cannot afford distraction,” her grandmother says. “Not from disappointment. Not from memory. Not from emotion.”
The words feel pointed.
“You survived,” her grandmother adds quietly. Mikasa’s breath stutters.
“That survival obligates you to something greater.”
Obligates.
Not saves.
Not protects.
Obligates.
“You were spared,” she continues evenly. “Do not squander that mercy on weakness.” Mikasa swallows.
“I won’t.” Her grandmother studies her face carefully searching for tears and finding none.
“Your mother,” she says at last, “Michiko was brilliant.” The name sounds foreign in the air.
Unused.
“She allowed emotion to dictate her life.” A pause.
“It made her reckless.” Another sip of tea.
“Discipline is what remains when everything else is taken from you.” Her eyes meet Mikasa’s.
“You will not falter.” It is not encouragement but an expectation.
Mikasa lowers her gaze.
“No, Grand-mère.” The clock ticks once, twice.
“You should rest,” her grandmother says finally. “Tomorrow, you train.”
Train.
Not shine, nor feel.
But train.
Mikasa sets the glass carefully in the sink aligns it perfectly beside the faucet.
She turns to leave.
“Mikasa.” She pauses.
“Yes?”
“Control,” her grandmother says softly, “is the only thing that cannot be taken from you.” A beat.
“Do not lose it.” Mikasa inclines her head.
“I won’t.” She walks back upstairs each step steady and measured. By the time she reaches her room, the crash has been forced back into silence. She lies down and stares at the ceiling.
Alive.
The only one, not miracle.
Obligation.
And somewhere deep in her chest, grief tries to rise but she presses it down because she has been taught. Emotion destroys and she will not be weak.
Not like Michiko.
Not ever.
————
The studio is colder during private lessons, not in temperature but in atmosphere. The mirrors seem taller, the silence heavier and every breath measurable, mikasa stands at center. Alone, hair pulled tighter than usual, ribbons wrapped precisely around her ankles.
“From the beginning,” Madame Vivienne says.
The pianist presses the first note. Mikasa inhales, her shoulders down, he chin lifted. She begins.
Glissade. Assemblé. Developpé.
Her leg unfolds smoothly, controlled.
“Higher.” She lifts, her standing foot trembles.
“Do not let them see it.” She doesn’t.
Arabesque.
Her back lengthens, arms curving softly
“Stop.” The music cuts, madame Vivienne steps forward.
“You are thinking,” she says evenly.
“Yes, Madame.”
“That tension is visible.” Mikasa nods.
“Again.” The music resumes this time she empties herself of hesitation, harder lines, harper transitions and less softness. Her calves begin to burn.
“Hold.” She rises into relevé.
The pianist extends the phrase, her ankle quivers and suddenly she is five years old.
⸻
The barre is too high, the room smells different. Chalk and dust and something sharp.
Her first teacher, Madame Yelena Volkovna does not smile.
“Straighten,” the woman says, pressing two fingers into Mikasa’s lower back.
Mikasa’s spine arches painfully.
“Again.” Tiny legs lift into a stretch that feels impossible, her hamstrings scream. She does not cry.
Crying is weakness.
Madame Yelena pushes her further into a split, too far. Pain flashes white behind her eyes.
“Good,” the woman says. “Pain means you are improving.” Mikasa bites her lip until she tastes blood, the other girls have left but she remains repeating the same combination until her legs tremble uncontrollably.
“Again.”
“I’m tired,” she whispers once, madame Yelena’s eyes narrow.
“Do you want to be ordinary?”
No.
“Then again.” Mikasa stands.
Again.
Again.
Again.
She goes home that day barely able to walk, tillie carries her upstairs. Her grandmother says only
“Excellent.” And something inside five-year-old Mikasa learns a lesson
Pain is proof.
Exhaustion is progress.
Affection follows endurance.
⸻
The memory dissolves, she is back in the present still in relevé and still holding.
“Longer,” Madame Vivienne says. Mikasa holds,her calf shakes violently but she forces stillness. Madame circles her slowly.
“You were shaped by discipline,” Madame says quietly. “Do not abandon it now.” Mikasa lowers, sweat runs down her spine her chest feels tight. Her Madame Yelena’s voice echoes faintly in her mind.
Do you want to be ordinary?
No.
Never.
“From the top,” Madame commands.
The music begins again.
Fouettés.
One. Two. Three.
Her vision edges slightly dark.
She spots harder.
Five. Six. Seven.
“Control,” Madame says. The word lands like a commandment.
She stabilizes, finishes cleanly. Silence. Madame Vivienne watches her carefully.
“You are compressing,” she says finally, mikasa’s pulse stutters.
“I am focused.”
“You are bracing.” The correction is subtle.
“You are dancing as if something is chasing you.” Mikasa doesn’t respond because something is disappointment. Obligation. Survival.
Madame Vivienne steps closer.
“When I first taught you,” she says quietly, “you danced with breath.” A pause.
“With curiosity.” Mikasa feels something tighten in her throat.
“That is no longer present.” Her first teacher’s hands pressing her deeper into splits.
Pain means you are improving.
Madame Vivienne had been different. Measured. Demanding. But never cruel. She had corrected with intention, not force. She had allowed softness.
Now, there is an edge in her voice that wasn’t there before. Sharper. Harder.
“You were not chosen for fragility,” Madame continues. “But neither were you chosen to become stone.” Stone. The word lands heavily.
“You must maintain authority without sacrificing humanity.” Humanity, the concept feels foreign. Mikasa’s hands tremble slightly, she steadies them.
“My grandmother believes emotion weakens the body.” Madame’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Your grandmother,” she says carefully, “values outcome.”
Outcome.
Not feeling.
“Do you?” The question lingers, mikasa doesn’t answer because at five years old, she learned that value is earned through endurance.
At eight, she learned tears are wasteful.
At thirteen, she learned love is dangerous.
At eighteen, she learned being “too advanced” is displacement disguised as praise.
“Again,” Madame says, no resolution. Only repetition.
The music begins, mikasa dances. Harder. Stronger. Her final arabesque slices through the air like a blade, she holds it longer than necessary. Her calf trembles violently she locks it still pain crawls up her leg, her lungs burn. She refuses to lower not until
“Enough.” The music stops.
She lowers with perfect control, her breathing is steady. Madame Vivienne studies her for a brief second something flickers in her expression. Recognition. Regret, because she sees it now. The same thing she once watched happen to another girl, hardness mistaken for strength.
“Better,” Madame says quietly. Approval of containment not of expression.
Mikasa gathers her bag as she reaches the door
“Your first teacher,” Madame says suddenly, “pushed you too far.” Mikasa stills.
“She made you exceptional.” A beat.
“She also made you afraid of softness.” Silence. Mikasa’s voice is calm.
“I am grateful to her.” Madame’s gaze sharpens.
“Yes,” she says softly. “That is the problem.” Mikasa leaves the studio, her legs are steady, face composed. Inside, everything feels stretched too tight like wire pulled to the brink of snapping. She passes the mirrors in the hallway her reflection follows.
Perfect line.
Perfect posture.
No child at a barre, no trembling five-year-old.
Only authority. Only control. Only survival, and somewhere deep in her chest a small, quiet question rises.
If pain made her excellent, what would gentleness have made her?
She does not let the thought finish because she was taught long ago, excellence costs and she has always paid.
———
The hallway outside the studio is dimmer at this hour, most of the lights have already been switched off. The academy feels different when emptyL. Less competitive, more honest.
Mikasa walks slowly, dance bag resting against her shoulder. Her muscles ache beneath her tights deep, steady soreness from repetition without mercy. Her calves feel bruised and her arches tender.
Good.
Pain means progress
She pushes open the door to the changing room the echo of her own steps follows her. Usually by now, the others have gone home. Sasha leaves first, always hungry. Annie leaves quietly, without lingering. Mikasa sets her bag down on the wooden bench and begins untying her ribbons carefully. One loop. Two. Then footsteps echo down the corridor. She glances toward the mirror, in its reflection, she catches movement. Dark hair slipping past the doorway.
Marionne.
Brunette.
Deep brown under the hallway lights, catching warmth instead of glare. Her hazel eyes flicker briefly in the glow before she disappears down the side corridor. Mikasa’s fingers pause mid-knot, it’s late. Too late for most students to linger. Usually by this hour, she is the only one left.
Marionne walks with confidence not rushed, not sneaking. Just certain, her posture relaxed in a way it rarely is in class. Mikasa tells herself it doesn’t matter. She resumes untying her shoe but something about it feels off. She stands.
Quietly.
The corridor to the instructors’ offices is dimmer. Half the lights already switched off. Marionne’s dark hair is easy to follow in the reflection of the polished floor a deeper shadow moving against the light. She stops at a door.
M. Duval.
One of the visiting instructors, not Madame Vivienne.
Mr. Duval.
Marionne doesn’t knock long, the door opens almost immediately she slips inside the door closes behind her.
Mikasa stands just at the corner of the hallway. Still. Listening. Muted voices drift through the thin crack in the door.
Low. Close.
Not instructional or formal.
A soft laugh, marionne’s. Light.Easy. The kind she doesn’t use in class. Mikasa’s jaw tightens, she steps closer, not enough to be seen but just enough to hear.
Mr. Duval’s voice murmurs something indistinct. Another laugh. A pause, the sound of a chair scraping.
Too familiar.
Too relaxed.
Marionne does not sound like she is discussing choreography, she sounds comfortable.
Very comfortable.
Mikasa’s mind moves quickly, marionne’s calmness, mina’s pre-celebratory smile, the judges’ certainty, the speed of the announcement and the absence of deliberation.
Too advanced for Clara.
Her fingers curl slightly against her bag strap. She stops herself.
No.
Speculation is weakness, assumption is dangerous. It is not her place.
She steps back into shadow just as the door shifts slightly, it does not open. But she has seen enough to feel something unsettled. Not jealousy. Not yet.
Just… misalignment.
Marionne is pretty, soft-featured. Hazel eyes. Brunette. Clara looks natural on her, she fits the silhouette.But Mikasa knows what she saw in the studio, knows what she held in that final arabesque and what Madame Vivienne’s eyes said. Still, mikasa turns away it is not her business.
Control what you can. Ignore what you cannot.
She returns to the changing room, pulls on her sweater, laces her shoes. In the mirror, her reflection is stark against the pale tile.
Raven hair. Sharp lines. Quiet authority. She is not soft, not delicate.
Not brunette and storybook, more composed, more severe. Perhaps that is the problem.
She lifts her bag and steps outside, the academy doors close softly behind her. The late-afternoon breeze is lighter than it was the day before. Still early for her driver to be waiting, private lessons ended sooner than usual. The sky hasn’t fully darkened yet. A wash of pale gold fading into blue. Mikasa stands at the top of the steps for a moment her body still humming faintly from exertion. Her mind replaying fragments of the hallway.
Brown hair disappearing into Mr. Duval’s office.
A soft laugh.
A door almost closed.
It is not her concern, she repeats it internally like instruction.
Her phone remains silent in her hand, no message from the driver yet. She exhales.
Then
Uninvited, a different voice surfaces.
“You should come by the café tomorrow.” The words replay with infuriating clarity.
Casual.
Unassuming.
Not commanding.
Not pleading.
Just… open.
You should come by.
She adjusts the strap of her bag, the café is only a short walk down the boulevard.
Five minutes, maybe seven.
She should go home, review choreography, ice her calves and rest. That would be sensible, her grandmother would approve.
She takes one step forward, not toward the street where her car will eventually arrive but toward the boulevard. She stops, this is foolish. He is a stranger, a barista with a motorcycle and cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket. She does not go places without reason or without schedule nor a purpose. She takes another step, the pavement feels unfamiliar beneath her pointe-bruised feet.
What is the reason?
She tells herself she wants coffee, that is all.
Coffee.
She rarely drinks it, it affects her stamina but that is not the point. The point is—
He looked at her differently, not as a stranger, as prodigy, as legacy but jmust as a girl standing beneath a streetlamp. The thought tightens something unfamiliar in her chest. She continues walking, her steps are measured at first then less so. The academy grows smaller behind her, the city becomes louder, cars passing, laughter drifting from open windows. A world that does not revolve around rehearsal schedules and silent judgment. She reaches the corner, the café sign comes into view. Warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, her pulse shifts. This is absurd, she should turn back.
She pauses across the street watching through the glass. There are a few people inside.
Students.
An elderly couple.
Someone typing on a laptop.
And behind the counterL. Him.
Eren, sleeves rolled up, his hair slightly messy. Moving with effortless ease, he laughs at something a customer says. The sound carries faintly even through glass.
Uncontrolled.
Uncontained.
Alive.
Her fingers tighten slightly around her bag strap, she should leave now before he sees her.
Before this becomes something but she doesn’t move. Instead, she crosses the street. Each step feels deliberate and reckless at the same time.The bell above the café door chimed softly.
Eren looked up out of habit and forgot to breathe.
She came.
Not because she had to, not because someone arranged it, not because it benefited her. She came because she chose to.
“You actually came,” he said, and this time he didn’t try to hide the relief in it. Mikasa met his gaze evenly, but there was something softer in her eyes than the night under the streetlamp.
“I said I would try.”
“You did,” he nodded. “And you’re terrifyingly punctual.”
“Terrifying? I am not terrifying.” He smirked faintly.
“You absolutely are.” She stepped closer to the counter.
“I’ll have tea please.”
He blinked. “Tea.”
“Yes.”
“You come into a café I recommended and order tea.”
“You did not specify coffee.” God, she was serious and he liked that.
Behind him, Nicolo stepped out from the kitchen, blonde hair framed loosely, blue eyes sharp with suspicion. He looked from Eren to Mikasa, slowly.
“Oh,” Nicolo said.
Eren immediately stiffened. “Don’t.” Nicolo ignored him entirely.
“You must be the ballerina.” Mikasa’s shoulders tightened just slightly at the word. Eren noticed.
Nicolo extended a hand politely. “Nicolo.”
“Mikasa.” They shook hands.
Nicolo’s eyes flicked back to Eren.
“So this is why you’ve been obsessing over almond ratios.”
“Shut up, I was not obsessing.”
“You used a scale.”
“That’s normal.”
“For you? No.” Mikasa blinked between them, faintly confused.
“He described a streetlamp,” Nicolo added casually to her. “He never describes lighting.”
Eren groaned. “You are the worst.” Nicolo smirked faintly.
“You have twenty minutes.”
Eren blinked. “Twenty?”
“You’re already useless,” Nicolo replied. “Might as well commit.” Eren stared at him in disbelief.
“Milk better not burn,” Nicolo added before disappearing.
Eren looked back at Mikasa, half stunned, half triumphant.
“I negotiated.”
“You did not.”
“Details.” He prepared her tea quickly, then carried a small white plate toward her table. The same window seat she had chosen before, of course she chose it again.
Consistency. Structure. Safety.
He set the plate down, three macarons. Not perfect, one cracked slightly.
“I made them,” he said, and there was no joking in his tone.
She looked down at them carefully.
“They are slightly uneven.” He leaned back in the chair across from her.
“Yeah.” She picked one up, delicate fingers. Controlled movements. She took a bite.
He watched her face like it was a performance.
“It is good,” she said.
“That’s it?” he asked. She tilted her head slightly.
“It is very good.” Relief warmed his chest.
“I came in at five in the morning to make sure the filling is balanced.”
“For a café?”
“For you.” He didn’t look away when he said it.
Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly.
“That is unnecessary” He laughed softly.
“Yeah. But I wanted to.” She didn’t know what to do with that effort without expectation. Effort without pressure and effort simply because he felt like it. It confused her more than if he had been smooth. He studied her more closely now. Up close, she looked tired.
“You had rehearsal?” he said.
“Yes I did.”
“Long?”
“Yes.” He paused.
“Was it bad?” The question was simple and direct. She almost gave him the polished version. Productive. Fine. Standard. But something about his tone, not probing but just genuinely asking made her hesitate.
“It was… intense,” she said carefully. He nodded slowly.
“You don’t have to give me the official answer.”She blinked.
“I am not giving you—”
“You talk like you’re being graded.” The words landed deeper than she expected. Because it was true she was always being graded. She looked at him for a moment.
“And here?” she asked quietly. He leaned forward slightly.
“Here you’re just Mikasa.” Not legacy.
Just her name, something inside her chest loosened just a little. He noticed it immediately.
“There,” he said softly.
“What?”
“You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did.” She tried to suppress it but failed slightly. He grinned.
“That one. That’s my favorite.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And yet you came back.” She looked down at her tea to hide the warmth rising in her cheeks. He studied her for a moment, then said casually
“You look very pretty today.” She froze, her eyes lifted slowly.
“That is inappropriate.”
“No, it’s accurate.” He didn’t say it like a line, he didn’t lean in. He just said it like he’d comment on the weather.
Matter-of-fact, she wasn’t used to that. Compliments she received were polished. Formal. Strategic.
“You were very composed today,” critics said.
“Your line was exquisite,” teachers said.
“You are pretty” had never been delivered so simply.
“You are very bold,” she murmured.
“I’m nervous,” he admitted.
She blinked.
“You are?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back slightly.
“You’re kind of intimidating.” She almost laughed.
“Am I?.”
“You walk like you own every room you enter.” She didn’t own rooms, she survived them. He tilted his head.
“What?”
“You’re thinking too much again.” She surprised herself by exhaling sharply.
“You notice too much.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What occupation is that?”
“Interested.” She looked at him more carefully now.
“You are very straightforward.”
“Would you prefer I be vague?”
“No.” A pause.
He smiled.
“Good.” For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The café hummed around them and Mikasa realized something strange. Her shoulders were not tight, her breathing was normal. She had not thought about ballet, not once. She cleared her throat slightly.
“How was your day?” He blinked.
“My day?”
“Yes.” He smiled faintly.
“You’re asking about me?”
“That is how conversation functions.” He laughed.
“Fair.” He leaned back in his chair.
“I burned one batch of pastry. Nicolo made fun of me twice. A kid tried to pay in coins. And I kept looking at the door.” Her eyes flicked up.
“Why?”
“In case you showed up.” The honesty in it startled her again.
“You are very transparent.”
“Only when it matters.” She hesitated then without planning to, she asked
“Why are you talking to me this way?” He stilled slightly.
“What way?”
“Like…” She struggled for the word.
“Like what?” he prompted gently.
“Like I am... like I am someone you have known for a long time”. The question was more vulnerable than she intended. He studied her for a moment, carefully now.
“I’m talking to you like I want to know you.” Silence.
“If I’m lucky,” he added lightly, though his eyes stayed sincere, “I’d like to be your friend.” Friend. The word felt almost foreign, he wasn’t asking for anything dramatic.
Not romance.
Not performance.
Friend.
Her chest tightened unexpectedly because friendship was something she rarely allowed.
Friendship required time, time required vulnerability. Vulnerability invited loss. Her mind flashed briefly
Her grandmother’s voice.
Control.
Discipline.
Do not falter.
Then she looked at him sitting across from her, crooked smile, hands dusted faintly with flour. Not intimidated by her posture, not impressed by her title. Just curious.
She swallowed.
“You are very strange,” she said softly.
He grinned.
“I’ve been told.” She didn’t realize she was smiling again until he leaned forward slightly and said:
“There it is again.”
“Huh?”
“That smile.” Her stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with nerves before performance.
And for twenty full minutes, they talked.
About nothing.
About pastries.
About how he hated alarm clocks.
About how she once sprained her ankle and still performed.
About how he dropped out of something he didn’t love.
She didn’t give him everything but she gave him pieces. Small ones and when Nicolo finally appeared at the edge of the counter and said dryly,
“Time’s up, Romeo,” Mikasa felt something unfamiliar. Disappointment, and she didn’t know what to do with that either.
The weight in her chest
The rehearsal.
The hallway.
Marionne.
Her grandmother.
It had all gone quiet, for twenty minutes and she had simply been Mikasa.
Not porcelain.
Not legacy, just a girl sitting by a window with tea and imperfect macarons. And somehow that felt more dangerous than anything else. Nicolo’s voice cut across the café.
“Time.” Eren didn’t look away from Mikasa.
She had been mid-sentence explaining, almost shyly, why she preferred tea over coffee something about stamina. Something about control. He liked that she tried to justify even small preferences. She glanced toward the counter, then back at him.
“I should go,” Mikasa said softly.
The café had dimmed into evening warmth. Golden lights, quiet conversations tapering off, the soft hum of machines cooling down. Eren didn’t want it to end. He could feel the moment thinning, stretching toward goodbye.
“It’s not that late,” he said.
“It will be.” She stood, even the way she put on her coat was precise, smooth, controlled, deliberate.
He stood too.
“Oh you don’t have to walk me,” she said.
“I know, but I want to”. They paused at the door, warm air behind them. Cool evening waiting outside.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
She looked at him properly this time.
“I’m glad I did.” And she meant it.
“Thank you,” she added.
“For the macarons?”
“For trying.” He smiled.
“I’ll fix the cracked shell next time.”
“Balance is more important,” she replied.
He laughed softly. “I’ll remember that.” A beat.
Then
“…Eren.”He froze.
She said his name like it mattered.
“Yes?”
“They were very good.” And then
“Goodnight, Eren.” He froze for a moment.
“Goodnight,” he managed.
She stepped outside, the bell chimed behind her. He stood there, still. Smiling. The door opened again.
“Sorry, I’m late—” Armin stopped mid-step looked at Eren’s face then looked toward the window.
“…She just left?”
“She said my name,” Eren muttered.
Armin blinked.
“…Okay.”
“She said it twice.” Armin leaned on the counter.
“You’re done.” Eren didn’t deny it.
Outside, Mikasa stood beneath the streetlamp, waiting for her car. The same kind of light from the first night. Headlights turned the corner, her car was arriving.
And suddenly, eren’s stomach dropped.
He didn’t have her number.
“Oh no.”
Armin squinted. “What.”
“I don’t have her number.”
“You just walked her out.”
“I know but—.”
“Eren—”. Too latek, he bolted.
The café door flew open, bell clanging loudly as he rushed outside. Cold air hit him instantly, mikasa turned at the sudden noise and nearly jumped. He was suddenly there, too close. Her eyes widened.
“Eren?”. There was actual surprise in her voice.
He almost skidded to a stop beside her.
“I— I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to— I just—” She stared at him.
Blinking.
Then glancing toward the café window where Armin and Nicolo were very obviously watching.
“You startled me,” she said quietly.
He looked horrified.
“I did?”
“Yes.” There was the faintest hint of a smile threatening her lips. He ran a hand through his hair.
“I’m really bad at timing.”
“That is obvious” He exhaled sharply.
“Can I have your number?” There.
No buildup.
No smooth delivery.
Just blunt.
Her brows lifted.
“My number?”
“Yes.” He nodded too quickly.
“Only if you want. I just— I figured— I mean I said I wanted to know you and it’s hard to do that if I don’t—” He stopped himself.
He was unraveling.
Her car rolled up to the curb beside them the driver stepped out. Time was closing.
“You ran outside to ask me that?” she asked.
“Yes.” No shame. She looked at him, really looked at him. He was slightly out of breath, hair messy from running his hands through it, eyes bright.
Nervous.
“You are very impulsive,” she said.
“Yeah.”A beat.
“But consistent.” That made something soften in her expression. She hesitated, then reached into her jackets pocket pulled out her phone. He blinked.
Wait.
Was she
“Yes,” she said simply.
“I will give it to you.” His entire face lit up.
“Really?”
“Yes.” She recited it slowly while he fumbled typing it in.
“Wait— say the last part again— no, I’ve got it— okay, I think I—” She almost laughed, actually almost laughed. He saw it and grinned like he’d just achieved something monumental. The driver cleared his throat politely, she stepped toward the car. Before he could think twice, Eren moved to the door and opened it for her.
Overly dramatic.
Entirely unnecessary.
Completely sincere.
She paused before getting in looked up at him.
“You are smiling,” she observed.
“I know.” She shook her head faintly but she was smiling too now.
Small.
Soft.
Unrehearsed.
“Goodbye, Eren.” There it was again.
His name, oh he was absolutely ruined.
“Goodnight, Mikasa.” She slid into the backseat, the door closed. The car pulled away.
He stood there staring after it. Grinning like an idiot.
The café door opened behind him.
“I can’t believe you just sprinted,” Nicolo said flatly.
“I did not sprint.”
“You absolutely sprinted,” Armin added. Eren didn’t even look at them.
“She gave me her number.” Armin blinked.
“…Of course she did.” Nicolo crossed his arms.
“You’re hopeless.” Eren finally turned to them.
Cloud nine didn’t even cover it.
“She said my name,” he said softly. Armin shook his head, smiling.
“You’re done.”
“Yeah,” Eren replied.
“I know.” And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.
———
Eren lasted exactly two minutes.
Armin was mid-sentence — something about patience and “normal human timing” — when Eren pulled his phone out anyway.
“Don’t,” Armin said calmly.
“I’m not,” Eren said.
He was.
He opened her contact.
Mikasa, just seeing her name there made his stomach flip.
“She’s still in the car,” Armin added.
“Exactly.”
“That’s worse.” Eren typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
___
Eren:
Hi. It’s Eren. Just confirming you didn’t give your number to someone cooler in the last 120 seconds.
___
Sent.
He immediately regretted it.
“That was bad,” Armin said.
“It was fine.”
“You counted seconds.”
“It was charming.” His phone buzzed, eren froze. He stared at the screen like it might explode.
____
Mikasa:
Your timing is… very fast.
____
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“She replied,” he whispered.
Armin rolled his eyes.
“Good for you” Eren grinned helplessly and typed again.
___
Eren:
I panicked.
___
He didn’t even try to make it cooler.
Sent.
A moment later
___
Mikasa:
I figured.
___
He laughed out loud, nicolo glanced over from the espresso machine.
“You’re unbearable.” Eren didn’t care.
His phone buzzed again.
___
Mikasa:
I am glad you asked.
___
He stopped smiling because it wasn’t teasing. It was honest and it hit him straight in the chest. He typed slower this time.
___
Eren:
Good. I would’ve been thinking about it all night.
___
He stared at the screen after sending it. Armin leaned over his shoulder.
“You’re gone.”
“Yeah,” Eren admitted softly.
A final message appeared.
___
Mikasa:
Goodnight, Eren.
___
There it was again, his name.
He smiled wide, helpless, completely unguarded.
___
Eren:
Goodnight, Mikasa.
___
Eren set his phone down slowly still smiling.
Still replaying:
Goodnight, Eren.
Armin leaned against the counter, watching him.
“You look ridiculous.”
“I know.” He didn’t even try to hide it.
The café hummed softly around them. Warm lights. The scent of coffee. Flour still dusted faintly along his sleeve.
For a moment, everything felt easy.
His phone vibrated.
Sharp.
Abrupt.
He glanced down lazily at first.
Then froze.
Dad.
The name alone shifted something in his posture. It kept ringing, he didn’t pick it up.
Armin noticed.
“You good?” Eren didn’t answer.
The call stopped.
Silence returned.
Then
A buzz.
A message.
He picked up the phone this time.
Unlocked it.
Read.
His expression changed immediately the warmth drained from his face. Whatever softness had been there — gone.
Armin straightened slightly.
“What happened?” Eren locked the screen, too quickly.
“Nothing.” It wasn’t convincing.
He grabbed his jacket and helmet, jmovements sharper now. Efficient.
“You’re leaving?” Nicolo asked.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Something came up.” That was it.
No further explanations.
He pushed the café door open, the bell chimed sharply as it swung shut behind him. Cold air rushed in briefly then it was warm again. Outside, under the streetlamp, Eren stopped for half a second, his phone still in his hand. He unlocked it again.
The screen glowed in the dark.
A single message:
⸻
Dad:
Your mother collapsed. She’s at Saint-Pierre. Come now.
⸻
The engine of his motorcycle roared to life and he drove.
