Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Shoulders down, chin lifted. Again from the top”

The studio smelled of rosin and polished wood as the pianist began softly.

“And plié. One, two… and stretch. Good, hold that back straight. Beautiful, mikasa”

The music grew brighter.

“Pirouette preparation and turn! Spot your head — yes! Don’t rush it. Control not speed.”

A gentle clap.

“From fifth now. One, two, three — soutenu, soutenu and arabesque. Longer lines, darling. Reach your fingertips like you’re touching the sun.”

The music starts shifting into a slower tune.

“One, two, three — glissade, assemblé. Again. One, two three — lighter this time. You’re floating, not stomping”

A firmer voice now.

“Soleil, soleil — and arabesque! Lift that back leg. Higher. Higher!.. there it is. Wonderful, mikasa! Beautiful as always” Madam Vivienne spoke with a soft smile in her voice.

The music faded into a lingering final note.

Mikasa lowered her leg slowly from arabesque, controlling the descent as if even gravity answered to her. Only when both feet returned to fifth position did she allow herself to breathe.

Her chest rose and fell, measured but heavy. A thin sheen of sweat shimmered along her temples, and her calves trembled almost invisibly beneath her tights. Every muscle burned but her chin remained lifted.

Calm. Composed.

She would not let them see the ache.

A few soft claps broke the silence.

Then more.

“Bravo,” someone whispered near the barre.

Two of the younger girls beamed at her, their admiration unhidden. One even bounced slightly on her toes, inspired.

But not everyone clapped.

Across the studio, marionne folded her arms, lips pressed thin. Another girl adjusted her ribbons with unnecessary force, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The applause from their corner was slow — polite, measured, hollow.

Mikasa noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Still, she only bowed her head slightly toward Madam Vivienne, as etiquette demanded.

“Thank you, Madame.”

Her voice did not shake.

Inside, her lungs felt as though they were made of fire, and her legs begged for rest. Yet her expression remained serene almost distant like a swan gliding across still water, hiding the frantic movement beneath.

Madam Vivienne’s eyes softened.

“Again tomorrow,” she said quietly.

Mikasa gave a small nod.

“Yes, Madame.”

The studio doors opened quietly behind them.

Near the mirrored wall, three visiting instructors had been observing the entire class. Arms folded, expressions unreadable. One of them held a leather portfolio against his chest. Another whispered something to the third, eyes still fixed on Mikasa.

Madam Vivienne inclined her head respectfully toward them.

“The Clara role will require grace,” one of the instructors said softly. “And endurance.”

“And presence,” another added.

Their gazes lingered a moment longer before they gathered their things.

The decision would be made soon.

⸻
It was nearly dusk by the time practice ended.

The girls’ changing room buzzed with the familiar sounds of exhaustion. Lockers clicking open, pointe shoes being untied, tired laughter echoing against tiled walls. The air smelled faintly of powder and worn satin.

Mikasa sat quietly on the wooden bench, carefully unwrapping the ribbons from her ankles. Her movements were slow now, the discipline finally slipping into fatigue. A dull ache pulsed through her calves.

The door burst open.

“Mikasa!” Annie squealed.

“You were incredible!” Sasha added, dropping her bag onto the bench. “Did you see the other teachers watching you? There’s no way you’re not Clara.”

Annie plopped down beside her. “You have to get it. Your arabesque? The control in your turns? Please. It’s already yours.”

Mikasa gave a small, tired smile as she slipped her flats on.

“We’ll see,” she said softly.

But before either of them could continue

A whisper.

Not quiet enough.

“Of course she’s the best.”

Marionne’s voice.

Mina’s softer giggle followed.

“Well,” Marionne continued, not bothering to lower her tone much, “it must be nice when your grandmother literally pays for private coaching.”

Mina scoffed. “Extra lessons every week with Madame Vivienne herself. I’d be Clara too if I had that.”

“Exactly,” Marionne said. “Talent is one thing. Money is another.”

Sasha froze.

Annie’s hands clenched into fists.

Annie stood so abruptly the bench screeched against the tile.

“Oh please,” she snapped. “You think money held her turns today?”

Marionne didn’t step back.

“If you had private coaching every week,” she said evenly, “you’d look that confident too.”

Sasha rose beside Annie. “Confident? She earned that.”

“Earned?” Marionne let out a short, humorless laugh. “It’s easy to ‘earn’ things when you get extra time with the instructor.”

A few girls shifted awkwardly.

Mina crossed her arms. “Everyone knows she gets special treatment.”

Annie took a step forward. “That’s not special treatment. That’s extra work.”

Marionne’s eyes flicked toward Mikasa. “Sure.”

Through all of it, Mikasa remained seated.

Calmly retying the ribbon on her flats.

She didn’t rush.
Didn’t sigh.
Didn’t even look up at first.

Sasha’s voice sharpened. “You’re just mad no one was watching you today.”

Marionne’s jaw tightened. “I’m not mad.”

“Then why do you sound like that?” Annie shot back.

Silence stretched.

Finally, Mikasa stood.

Not dramatically.

Not defensively.

Just… stood.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and smoothed an invisible crease from her sleeve.

“If believing that helps,” she said quietly, finally meeting Marionne’s eyes, “you can.”

No bite.
No anger.
No emotion at all.

It was almost worse.

Marionne frowned. “So you’re not even going to deny it?”

Mikasa tilted her head slightly. “Deny what?”

“That you only look good because of private lessons.”

A small pause.

Mikasa’s expression didn’t change.

“Think whatever makes you comfortable.”

The words were soft. Effortless.

Like she truly didn’t care enough to argue.

Annie blinked. Sasha looked ready to explode.

Marionne opened her mouth again

But there was nothing to push against.

No defensiveness.
No outrage.
No crack in composure.

Just calm.

And calm is very hard to fight.

The room had gone quiet.

Marionne’s confidence wavered under the weight of Mikasa’s steady gaze. She shifted her bag higher onto her shoulder.

“Whatever,” she muttered. “We’ll see who gets Clara.”

Mikasa gave a single, polite nod.

“Yes,” she said simply.

That was all.

Marionne hesitated waiting for something more.

There wasn’t anything.

With no comeback left to reach for, she turned sharply and walked out, Mina hurrying after her.

The door closed.

Annie exhaled sharply. “You’re way nicer than I would’ve been.”

Sasha shook her head. “You don’t even look mad.”

Mikasa adjusted the strap of her bag.

“I’m tired,” she said.

And maybe that was true.

Her legs still ached. Her shoulders felt heavy. Her lungs hadn’t fully recovered.

But her voice was steady.

Untouched.

If the whispers bothered her, she didn’t carry them on her face.

She moved toward the door without looking back.

Because whether they clapped…

Or whispered…

Tomorrow, she would still dance.

———

The evening air was cooler outside the studio.

“Don’t forget we have center work first thing tomorrow,” Annie said, adjusting the strap of her dance bag. “Madame Vivienne looked like she was in one of her moods.”

Sasha groaned softly. “If she makes us redo adagio for an hour again, I’m blaming you, Annie.”

“I didn’t make you wobble in développé.”

“I did not wobble.”

Mikasa allowed the faintest smile at that.

They reached the bottom of the steps. Annie started toward the corner, but Sasha lingered, glancing down the quiet street.

“Is your driver here yet?” she asked.

Mikasa looked briefly toward the curb. No headlights. No familiar silhouette. “Not yet.”

Sasha shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “I can stay. It’s not a big deal.”

“You don’t have to,” Mikasa said calmly.

“I don’t mind.”

Mikasa met her eyes steady, reassuring. “I’m okay.”

Sasha hesitated, searching her face for any sign of doubt.

“You sure?”

A small nod. “Yes. Go home. Rest. Tomorrow will be harder than tonight.”

Annie called from down the street, “Sasha!”

Sasha exhaled. “Fine. But if you freeze out here, I’m telling Madame Vivienne it’s your fault.”

“That would be dramatic,” Mikasa replied evenly.

Sasha smiled. “Goodnight, Mikasa.”

“Goodnight.”

They disappeared around the corner, their laughter fading into the narrow Parisian street.

Silence settled.

Mikasa moved closer to the streetlamp, its golden light pooling gently at her feet. The warmth brushed against her chilled skin as she tilted her face upward.

The sky was slowly surrendering to night, deep indigo stretching across Paris, fading into violet where the last breath of sunset clung to the horizon. Slate rooftops framed the narrow alley, their silhouettes sharp and elegant against the darkening sky.

In the distance, beyond the old stone buildings and wrought-iron balconies, the Eiffel Tower shimmered faintly, its lights beginning to glow like quiet stars.

She watched it in silence.

Tomorrow.

The word echoed in her mind.

The Nutcracker casting.

Clara.

Her pulse quickened at the thought, though her expression remained composed. She replayed the choreography over and over the softness in the arms, the controlled extensions, the delicate turns. Had her balance wavered during the final arabesque? Did she rush the music during the transition?

No.

She couldn’t afford doubt.

Grace. Control. Stillness.

Madame Vivienne always said the audience must never see the effort, only the illusion of ease.

Mikasa exhaled slowly, forcing her heartbeat to steady.

She would be calm.

She would be ready.

A sharp scent suddenly cut through the cold evening air.

Smoke.

It drifted toward her in thin, lazy spirals.

Her brows knit slightly as she glanced to the side.

A few steps away, beneath another streetlamp, stood a tall figure. One shoulder leaned casually against the metal pole. His black leather jacket fell neatly along his frame, dark and structured. Beside him rested a sleek black motorcycle, polished enough to catch the amber light.

His hair was tied back, loose strands framing sharp features. Between his fingers, the faint orange glow of a cigarette burned steadily.

He hadn’t noticed her.

The smoke curled in her direction.

Mikasa tried to subtly lift her sleeve, turning her face away, attempting to breathe through the fabric.

It wasn’t enough.

A small cough slipped out despite her effort.

The sound broke the stillness.

The man’s head turned.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

His gaze was sharp. Observant, but not harsh. It lingered a fraction longer than politeness allowed.

He glanced at the cigarette, then back at her.

And something in his expression shifted.

“Oh—!” he blurted, far too fast.

He straightened slightly, stepping away from the direction of the wind, lowering the cigarette away from her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, smooth unexpectedly gentle.

There was a faint accent beneath his words.

His eyes remained on her, as though he hadn’t quite expected her to be real.

“I didn’t see you there.”

He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe, but even then, his gaze didn’t fully leave her. Curiosity flickering there, quickly masked behind composure.

For a brief second, he looked almost… caught.

Like he had been staring.

And was trying very hard not to.

Before Mikasa could respond, a sharp car horn broke through the quiet alley.

The sound echoed against the stone walls.

A pair of headlights swept across the pavement.

A white Audi turned the corner and slowed to a stop beside the curb.

Her ride.

The driver stepped out quickly, closing the door with urgency as he hurried toward her.

“Miss Mikasa, I’m so sorry,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Traffic near the boulevard was heavier than expected.”

“It’s fine,” she replied calmly.

Her voice was steady again composed, polished, as though the brief encounter hadn’t unsettled her at all.

She didn’t look back.

Not at the streetlamp.

Not at the motorcycle.

Not at him.

The driver opened the back door for her. Mikasa stepped inside gracefully, gathering her coat as she settled into the seat. The warmth of the car wrapped around her almost instantly.

The door shut softly.

The Audi pulled away from the curb, tires gliding over the quiet Parisian street.

Inside, Mikasa adjusted her posture and looked forward, already retreating back into her thoughts.

Tomorrow.

Clara.

The lights of the city blurred past the window.

Behind them, beneath the fading glow of the streetlamp, the tall man remained where he stood.

The alley was quiet again.

But his eyes followed the white Audi until it disappeared around the corner.

Only then did he move.

————

The white Audi rolled through the tall wrought-iron gates, which opened with a quiet mechanical hum. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as it moved into the courtyard of the estate.

The house stood dignified and luminous against the night. Cream stone walls washed in golden light, tall arched windows glowing warmly from within. Ivy climbed carefully along the façade, trimmed with deliberate care.

The car came to a gentle stop.

The driver hurried out first, opening the back door. Mikasa stepped onto the gravel with effortless grace, as if even this simple movement were rehearsed.

The front door opened before she reached it.

“There she is… my little étoile.”

Tillie stood in the doorway, her face lighting up the moment she saw her. The word was spoken with warmth, not expectation, not pressure but pride.

Mikasa’s guarded expression softened.

“Tillie.”

The older woman stepped forward and pulled her into a firm embrace, squeezing her tighter than etiquette ever allowed inside this house. She smelled of lavender soap and warm bread.

“You’re freezing,” Tilly murmured, rubbing her arms gently. “And don’t tell me you’re not tired. I can see it in your shoulders.”

“I’m fine,” Mikasa replied automatically.

Tillie leaned back, giving her a knowing look.

“Hmm. A true étoile never admits she’s exhausted, is that it?”

A faint smile touched Mikasa’s lips.

“Something like that.”

Tillie brushed a loose strand of hair from Mikasa’s face. “Listen to me,” she said softly. “An étoile isn’t someone who never wobbles. It’s someone who keeps going even when she does.”

The words lingered longer than they should have.

“I kept dinner warm,” Tilly continued gently. “Your grandmother arrived about an hour ago.”

The softness faded from Mikasa’s posture almost instantly.

“She’s in the dining room.”

Of course she is.

Tillie gave her hand one last squeeze. “Whatever happens tomorrow… you are already shining to me.”

Mikasa swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat.

“Thank you.”

She handed over her coat and stepped further into the house, warmth replacing the cool night air, the scent of polished wood and fresh flowers filling the hall.

And with each step toward the dining room, the weight returned.

Because in this house, étoile did not mean hope.

It meant legacy.

————

The warmth of the house settled around her the moment she stepped inside.

Crystal lamps cast soft light along the marble floors. The air smelled faintly of white lilies, her grandmother’s favorite.

Tillie gently took Mikasa’s coat.

“Go on,” she whispered. “She’s waiting.”

Mikasa nodded once and walked toward the dining room, her footsteps measured, silent.

The chandelier glowed above a long mahogany table set with precision polished silver aligned perfectly, fine porcelain untouched.

At the head of the table sat her grandmother.

Elegant.

Immovable.

Time had refined her beauty rather than diminished it. Her silver hair was swept into a flawless chignon, her silk blouse falling effortlessly over a posture that had never forgotten the discipline of the barre.

She did not rise immediately.

She observed.

“Mikasa.”

Her voice was smooth, controlled. A quiet authority that filled the room without effort.

“Grand-mère.”

Mikasa approached and bowed her head slightly before leaning in to receive a light kiss on her cheek.

Her grandmother’s hands rested briefly on her shoulders, assessing.

“You’ve grown thinner.”

“I’ve been training more.”

“Mm.” A faint nod. “Training should sculpt, not drain.”

They took their seats.

Servants poured water and retreated.

For a moment, there was only the soft clink of cutlery.

Then

“The auditions are tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“You feel confident?”

Mikasa folded her hands neatly in her lap before answering.

“I’ve reviewed every correction Madame Vivienne gave me. My timing is sharper now. The final arabesque is steadier.”

Her grandmother cut her food delicately, movements exact.

“Steady is expected.”

A pause.

“Clara requires something rarer.”

Mikasa lifted her eyes.

“Presence.”

The word lingered in the air.

“When I danced Clara,” her grandmother continued, “the director told me I carried the role before I even moved. Stillness can be louder than motion.”

Mikasa listened carefully.

“You must command attention without asking for it.”

“Yes, Grand-mère.”

Her grandmother studied her more intently now.

“Did the instructors watch you closely?”

“They did.”

“And did you hold their gaze?”

“I did not break it.”

A flicker of approval.

“Good.”

Dinner was served, delicate portions, arranged like art.

“You understand what this role represents,” her grandmother went on. “It is not merely another performance. Clara is tradition. Innocence. Refinement.”

She set her fork down softly.

“Our family has always embodied refinement.”

The weight settled gently but firmly.

“You carry my name into that studio.”

Mikasa felt her spine straighten instinctively.

“I won’t dishonor it.”

“I know you won’t,” her grandmother replied.

But the softness in her tone did not remove the expectation beneath it.

“I was younger than you when I first performed Clara at the Palais Garnier,” she continued. “The critics wrote that I floated across the stage. They said I made the audience believe in magic.”

Mikasa had read every article. Memorized every photograph.

“I do not expect you to imitate me,” her grandmother added. “But I do expect excellence.”

“Yes, Grand-mère.”

Her grandmother’s gaze softened only slightly.

“Talent runs in your blood. Weakness does not.”

The words were sweet.

But absolute.

“You will not allow nerves to show tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

“You will not hesitate.”

“No.”

“And you will not let other girls intimidate you.”

Mikasa’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“They won’t.”

Silence fell again.

Then, more quietly

“Your mother lacked the discipline for a true career,” her grandmother said. “Emotion without control is wasteful.”

Mikasa lowered her gaze respectfully.

“I understand.”

Her grandmother leaned back, studying her like a finished sculpture.

“You were raised properly.”

The closest thing to praise she would ever receive.

Dessert arrived untouched.

After a final sip of tea, her grandmother stood.

“Rest well,” she said. “Tomorrow, you remind them who you are.”

“I will.”

As she turned to leave, she paused.

“You were born for this role.”

Not encouragement.

Certainty.

And expectation.

When the room finally emptied, Tillie reappeared quietly and squeezed Mikasa’s hand.

“Remember what I said, my étoile,” she whispered.

Mikasa nodded.

Later, alone in her bedroom, she stood before her mirror.

She lifted into relevé.

Held.

Held longer.

Her ankle trembled slightly.

She lowered before it became visible.

Born for this role.

She turned toward the window, the moonlight silver against the glass.

“I won’t disappoint you,” she whispered softly.

Whether she meant her grandmother…

Or herself…

Even she wasn’t sure.

And the night carried her into uneasy sleep.

—————

A violent bang shook the thin wooden door of Eren Yeager’s apartment.

Not a polite knock.

A bang.

Then another.

“YEAGER!”

Eren groaned into his pillow.

Sunlight was long gone. The room was dim, lit only by the orange glow of the city leaking through half-broken blinds. His apartment looked like a war zone. Clothes thrown over a chair, boots tipped over near the couch, a sketchbook that definitely wasn’t his sitting under an empty takeout container.

Another bang.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”

Eren rolled onto his back, squinting at the ceiling.

He blinked once.

Twice.

Then slowly reached for his phone on the floor.

6:01 PM.

“…No way.”

He sat up abruptly.

“What?”

Another bang.

“RENT!”

Ah.

Right.

That.

He dragged himself out of bed, tall frame moving lazily despite the urgency. He wasn’t rushed he never looked rushed. Even when he absolutely should be.

He ran a hand through his brown hair, gathering it into a loose bun at the back of his head, strands falling carelessly around his face.

He opened the door halfway.

His landlord stood there, red-faced and fed up.

“Rent. Now.”

Eren leaned one shoulder against the doorframe like he was greeting a friend instead of a man about to evict him.

“Good evening to you too.”

“Don’t start.”

Eren scratched the back of his neck, flashing a crooked grin slow, charming, dangerous.

“Tomorrow.”

The landlord’s eye twitched.

“You said that yesterday.”

“And look,” Eren spread his arms dramatically, “I’m still here. That means I’m good for it.”

His green eyes caught the hallway light, bright, unapologetic. He looked less like someone behind on rent and more like someone starring in his own movie.

The landlord sighed.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yet lovable.”

Silence.

A long one.

Then the landlord shook his head and walked off muttering threats that didn’t sound fully committed.

Eren closed the door and leaned against it.

He exhaled.

“Tomorrow,” he muttered to himself.

His phone rang.

Armin.

He answered without moving.

“…Yeah?”

“Tell me you’re awake.”

“I’m vertical.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Eren rubbed his face.

“What time is it?”

“Six.”

“…In the morning?”

A long pause.

“Eren.”

He looked at the clock again.

6:05 PM.

“Oh.”

“The interview,” Armin said carefully. “The café job. Six thirty. We talked about this. You said you needed money. Desperately.”

Eren stared at the ceiling.

“I do need money.”

“Then move!”

He jolted into action suddenly all limbs and chaos.

“Why didn’t you call earlier?!”

“I did!”

Eren tripped over a boot, caught himself on the counter, grabbed a random grey shirt off the floor, sniffed it.

“…Acceptable.”

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“I did not forget.”

“You forgot.”

“I temporarily misplaced the memory.”

Armin sighed.

“Just meet me outside the art building. And try to look like someone who won’t set the café on fire.”

“No promises.”

He hung up and rushed into the bathroom, splashing water on his face. His reflection stared back at him — sharp jaw, faint scar under his eye, hair tied up but already messy again.

He grinned at himself.

“You’ve survived worse.”

Ten minutes later, he was yanking on his boots while hopping toward the door, helmet tucked under his arm, jacket half-zipped.

He needed that job.

Not for pride.

For survival.

He grabbed his keys and stepped outside.

Moments later, his motorcycle roared to life.

The sound was smooth and powerful the one thing in his life that obeyed him without question.

He sped through the Paris streets like he owned them, weaving between cars with reckless precision. Wind whipped against his face, adrenaline waking him up properly.

6:19 PM.

He skidded to a smooth stop outside Armin’s art school.

Killed the engine.

Silence.

No Armin.

He pulled out his phone.

A message.

Armin:
urgent matter at class, I’ll be out in a sec ;(

Eren stared at it.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He shoved his phone back into his pocket, mildly irritated but not enough to truly care.

He parked the bike properly, locking it with a click.

Then

His stomach growled.

Loud.

“Oh come on.”

He blinked.

When had he last eaten?

Yesterday?

Maybe.

He checked the time again.

6:27 PM.

“Why is it evening already?”

He scanned the street.

Cafés.

Bakeries.

Food.

The logical choice would be to eat.

Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

He leaned back against his motorcycle, one boot resting casually against the tire.

“What’s the best way to ignore hunger?” he muttered.

He lit it.

The flame flickered.

The tip glowed orange.

He inhaled deeply, exhaling a slow stream of smoke into the cool Paris air.

Not a solution.

But a distraction.

His green eyes drifted lazily across the street, watching strangers move through their neat, organized lives.

People with schedules.

Plans.

Stability.

He smirked faintly.

“Couldn’t be me.”

He didn’t notice the way the streetlamp above him cast his shadow long and sharp against the pavement.

He didn’t notice how easily he commanded space just by standing there.

——-

Eren had been standing there longer than he meant to.

The street was caught in that fragile hour where the day hadn’t quite let go yet. The sky still held onto pale gold and soft blue, dusk stretching lazily across the city at 6:27 p.m. The streetlamp above him was already on, its warm glow spilling onto the pavement, competing gently with the fading sunlight.

He leaned slightly against the pole, shoulders tense, jaw tight.

The cigarette burned slowly between his fingers.

He wasn’t really smoking for the nicotine anymore. It was the ritual. The pause. The excuse to stand still while his thoughts circled things he refused to name. Smoke curled upward, carrying pieces of him away with its restlessness, anger, memories he couldn’t outrun.

Then

A cough.

Soft. Controlled. Close.

Not loud enough to demand attention. Not sharp enough to sound irritated. Just enough to be noticed.

Eren’s brow furrowed as his head turned toward the sound.

And then he saw her.

She stood a few steps away, just inside the reach of the streetlamp’s glow. The last light of the sun brushed her first, then the lamp caught her like the world itself had decided she deserved a second look.

She was beautiful in a way that made him forget how to breathe.

Her skin was pale, almost luminous against the dusk, white as untouched snow. She was tall, taller than most but still not as tall as him. Composed. Still. As if she hadn’t just stepped into the scene, but had always been there.

A pristine white coat wrapped around her frame, clearly expensive, its fabric clean and sharp. In her hand was a small pink duffel bag, held neatly at her side. Practical. Light. Intentional.

Her black hair was pulled into a precise bun, secured with a soft pink ribbon. The color struck him harder than it should have. Gentle. Unexpected.

She had one delicate hand raised, covering her nose.

And she was looking directly at him.

That’s when it clicked.

The cough.

It wasn’t annoyance. It wasn’t judgment.

It was him.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Eren felt it then her gaze. Sharp. Observant. Not harsh. It lingered a fraction longer than politeness allowed, and instead of bristling, instead of looking away, he found himself rooted in place.

Something in his chest tightened.

His eyes flicked to the cigarette in his hand. The thin trail of smoke drifting toward her. Then back to her face.

And something in his expression shifted.

“Oh—!” he blurted, far too fast.

He straightened immediately, stepping slightly away from the direction of the wind, lowering the cigarette as if that alone might undo the moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low unexpectedly gentle.

He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. It just… did.

There was a faint accent beneath his words, something old and ingrained, slipping through before he could stop it. His eyes stayed on her, as though he hadn’t quite accepted that she was real.

“I didn’t see you there.”

He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe without looking down, grinding it into the pavement. Even then, his gaze didn’t fully leave her. Curiosity flickering briefly before he forced it back behind composure.

For the first time that evening, the noise in his head went quiet.

And all Eren could think was that the dusk had never looked like this before.

Eren had the uneasy sense that he’d been caught.

Not in the middle of something obvious, no sudden guilt, no sharp reprimand but in something far more vulnerable. Like she’d seen him before he could arrange himself properly. Like she’d caught him lingering in a moment he hadn’t meant to linger in at all.

He adjusted his posture, straightening just slightly, as if composure were something he could slip back into by force alone. His expression settled into something neutral, practiced.

But his eyes

His eyes stayed on her.

She stood there, calm and unreadable, watching him with a quiet intensity that made his chest feel tight. Not accusatory. Not uncomfortable. Just… aware. As if she knew he was trying very hard not to stare.

And maybe she knew he was failing.

Before either of them could say anything before the moment could tip fully into something dangerous

A car horn cut through the alley.

Sharp. Metallic. Too loud.

The sound shattered the hush around them, echoing off the stone walls and snapping the fragile tension clean in half. Eren flinched, instinctively turning toward the noise as headlights swept across the pavement, washing over them in a cold, blinding white.

A white Audi turned the corner and slowed, pulling neatly to the curb.

Eren felt it immediately the shift in her. Not surprise. Not relief. Just recognition. Like this interruption had been written into the moment from the start.

The driver stepped out quickly, shutting the door with urgency before hurrying toward her.

“Miss Mikasa, I’m so sorry,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Traffic near the boulevard was heavier than expected.”

Eren caught the name like a spark.

Mikasa.

“It’s fine,” she replied.

Her voice was calm again. Smooth. Polished. Whatever softness had flickered beneath the streetlamp was carefully tucked away now, folded back into composure like a secret she hadn’t meant to share.

She didn’t look at Eren.

Not even once.

That, somehow, was worse.

She adjusted her grip on the small pink duffel bag, the ribbon in her hair catching the last of the daylight as she stepped forward. As she passed him, her coat brushed the air beside his arm not quite touching, but close enough for him to feel the absence afterward.

The space she left behind felt colder.

Emptier.

She disappeared into the car without a backward glance. The door closed softly. The engine hummed. And just like that, the Audi pulled away, melting back into the city as dusk slipped closer to night.

Eren remained where he was.

The streetlamp buzzed faintly overhead. The sky had dimmed another shade.

He exhaled, slow and deep, only now realizing he’d been holding his breath.

“Wow,” a voice said behind him. “You look like someone just got hit by a cinematic turning point.”

Eren turned sharply.

Armin stood a few steps away, hands tucked into his coat pockets, eyes bright with curiosity and poorly disguised amusement.

“How long have you been standing there?” Eren asked.

Armin shrugged. “Long enough to know I missed something.”

Eren scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was nothing.”

“Mhm,” Armin said, unconvinced. “Because you always stare into the distance like that over nothing.”

Eren didn’t answer.

His gaze drifted down the street where the Audi had vanished, his mind replaying details he hadn’t meant to memorize the pale glow of her skin, the quiet steadiness in her eyes, the way the moment had slipped through his fingers before he’d even realized he wanted to hold onto it.

“I was going to ask you something,” he said finally.

Armin blinked. “Oh? This I gotta hear.”

Eren opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“…Never mind.”

Armin sighed. “You’re unbelievable.”

They started walking, footsteps syncing naturally as the city’s noise grew louder around them. The café was only a few blocks away the place where Eren’s future, apparently, was about to be decided.

“You nervous?” Armin asked.

“No,” Eren said automatically.

Armin raised an eyebrow. “You’re lying.”

Eren didn’t bother correcting him.

The café glowed warmly when they arrived, light spilling onto the sidewalk like an invitation. Inside, everything smelled like coffee and sugar and possibility. The interview passed in fragments questions, answers, polite nods, careful smiles. Eren spoke clearly, confidently, like someone who knew what he wanted.

And yet, between sentences, his mind wandered.

Back to dusk.

Back to a streetlamp.

Back to a girl who had stepped briefly into his world and left without leaving her name behind.

“We’d like to offer you the position.”

The words landed heavier than he expected.

For a second, everything went quiet.

Then

Relief. Surprise. Something like pride.

Eren nodded, accepted the handshake, thanked them. When he stepped back outside, the sky had fully darkened, the city alive with lights and motion.

Armin laughed, unable to contain himself. “You did it! I told you you would.”

Eren smiled wide, genuine, unguarded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I did.”

They walked on, the night wrapping around them, plans already forming. Celebrations. Drinks. The future stretching open in front of him.

And yet

His thoughts betrayed him.

They drifted back to a quieter moment. To a girl in white beneath a streetlamp at 6:27 p.m. To a ribbon caught in the fading light. To a name spoken once and then gone.

Mikasa.

They walked on, the night settling comfortably around them, the city alive now with passing cars and glowing windows. Armin was practically floating beside him, hands clasped behind his head, a grin stretched far too wide.

“So,” Armin said casually, “new job. Successful interview. You didn’t even threaten anyone. I’d call today a miracle.”

Eren scoffed. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Armin continued. “I half-expected you to flip a table.”

“That was one time.”

Armin laughed. They passed beneath another streetlamp, their shadows stretching long across the pavement. Eren slowed slightly, then spoke, trying very hard to sound uninterested.

“Hey. Armin?”

“Hmm?” Armin replied, already suspicious.

“There wouldn’t happen to be a girl named… Mikasa at your school, would there?”

Armin stopped walking.

Oh no.

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing, studying Eren like he’d just revealed classified information. “Wow,” he said. “You don’t even hesitate. First name only? That’s bold.”

Eren frowned. “What? It’s just a name.”

“Mhm. Sure.” Armin tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, let me think. Mikasa… Mikasa… I might have heard it before.”

Eren’s heart kicked. “You have?”

Armin smiled. “Look at you lean in.”

“I didn’t lean in.”

“You absolutely did.”

Eren crossed his arms. “Do you know her or not?”

Armin chuckled, walking again. “I don’t know her personally. But yeah, the name sounds familiar. Like someone people mention once in a while. Can’t picture her, though.”

Eren nodded, forcing indifference. “Alright.”

“That’s it?” Armin asked. “You’re not going to ask anything else?”

“There’s nothing else to ask.”

Armin gave him a sideways look. “You know, for someone who ‘doesn’t care,’ you asked really fast.”

Eren bumped his shoulder. “Drop it.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely not dropping it,” Armin said, laughing. “You get a job and immediately start collecting mysterious girls under streetlamps? Should I be worried?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Uh-huh. Was she at least real?”

Eren shot him a look. “You’re annoying.”

“Just concerned,” Armin replied cheerfully. “Next thing I know, you’ll be asking me to check the yearbook for her.”

Eren paused. “…Don’t.”

Armin burst out laughing. “I knew it!”

Eren shook his head, muttering, “Forget I said anything.”

“Too late,” Armin said. “I’m invested now.”

They continued walking, the teasing fading into lighter conversation, work hours, classes, the café, normal things. Ordinary things.

And yet

Eren’s thoughts refused to stay grounded.

They drifted back to dusk. To a white coat glowing beneath a streetlamp. To a pink ribbon caught in fading light. To a name that now echoed softly in his mind.

Mikasa.

Somewhere in the city, she was moving through her evening, unaware she’d left a mark on someone she’d met only once.

Eren Yeager had secured his future that night.

But the moment that lingered wasn’t the handshake or the offer letter.

It was 6:27 p.m., beneath a streetlamp, when a stranger stepped briefly into his life—and vanished.

The lamp buzzed faintly in his memory.

And deep down, he knew

This wasn’t the end.

It was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Morning light stretched lazily across the studio floor, warm and golden, like it had no idea lives were about to be altered inside it.

Sasha lay flat on her back in the middle of the floor, staring up at the ceiling as if expecting divine intervention.

“I just want to clarify,” she said solemnly, “if I pass out today, someone catch me in fifth position so it looks intentional.”

Annie didn’t look up from tying her ribbons. “If you pass out, I’m stepping over you.”

“That is so cruel.”

“It’s efficient.”

Sasha rolled onto her side dramatically. “You don’t understand the magnitude of today. This is Clara. This is childhood dreams. This is emotional devastation waiting to happen.”

Annie stood and began stretching calmly. “You’re in Snow Corps.”

Sasha gasped. “How dare you limit me.”

Mikasa stood at the barre, rolling slowly through her feet into relevé.

Up.

Hold.

Lower.

Controlled.

Measured.

Breathing steady.

Sasha squinted at her. “Why are you not spiraling? It’s suspicious.”

“I’m conserving energy,” Mikasa replied evenly.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Annie glanced at her reflection. “She doesn’t spiral. She just… compresses.”

Sasha pointed accusingly. “Yes! That. You compress your emotions into a tiny emotional diamond.”

Mikasa blinked once.

“Diamonds are valuable.”

Annie snorted.

Sasha sat up. “You’re impossible.”

Mikasa’s reflection stared back at her shoulders relaxed, chin lifted.

Shoulders down. Chin lifted. Always lifted.

Her grandmother’s voice echoed automatically.

Stillness commands a room more loudly than noise ever could.

Sasha crawled closer. “Be honest. Are you nervous?”

Mikasa considered it.

Her pulse was steady.

Her breath was measured.

Her mind, however

You were born for this role.

Her grandmother’s certainty had never sounded like encouragement.

It had sounded like a contract.

“I’m prepared,” Mikasa said instead.

Sasha groaned. “You answer like a politician.”

Annie folded into a split without warning. “She answers like someone who knows she’ll get it.”

Sasha’s head whipped toward Mikasa. “You do know you’re getting Clara, right?”

Mikasa rose slowly into relevé again.

Hold.

Longer.

“I know nothing,” she replied calmly.

You will not hesitate.

Her grandmother’s voice layered over her thoughts.

Weakness is visible. And visibility is dangerous.

Sasha narrowed her eyes. “See? That’s ominous. Why are you ominous?”

“I’m not ominous.”

“You’re very ominous.”

Annie stood and adjusted her skirt. “She’s fine.”

Sasha glanced across the room.

Marionne stood near the windows, arms folded loosely, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate.

Mina stood beside her, whispering something that made Marionne smile.

Not a nervous smile.

Not forced.

A slow, knowing one.

Sasha leaned closer. “She looks way too calm.”

Annie followed her gaze. “She always does.”

“No,” Sasha insisted. “This is different calm. This is pre-celebration calm.”

Mikasa finally turned slightly.

Marionne wasn’t stretching.

Wasn’t pacing.

She stood as if she were waiting  not hoping.

Mina laughed softly at something she said.

The sound carried lightly through the studio.

Sasha frowned. “Why does Mina look like she already bought flowers?”

Annie exhaled. “Because Mina always commits too early.”

Mikasa turned back to the mirror.

You were born for this role.

Her grandmother’s certainty felt heavier this morning.

Not encouragement.

Expectation.

Weakness is visible. And visibility is dangerous.

Sasha leaned toward her again. “Okay, hypothetical. If you get Sugar Plum but not Clara, are you mad?”

Mikasa paused at the top of her relevé.

Sugar Plum.

Precision.

Authority.

Control.

Clara.

Heart.

Center.

Innocence.

Her grandmother’s voice again

Perfection is not enough. You must own the space before you move.

“I would perform what is assigned to me,” Mikasa answered evenly. Sasha stared at her in disbelief. “That is emotionally unsatisfying.”

Annie smirked. “She doesn’t do emotionally satisfying.”

Mikasa lowered slowly.

Her ankle did not tremble.

But beneath the calm

Something tighter coiled.

Sasha flopped back dramatically. “If Marionne gets Clara, I’m starting a revolution.”

“You’d forget the cause in five minutes,” Annie replied.

“I would not.”

“You would.”

Mikasa allowed the faintest hint of a smile.

The studio doors opened.

The warmth shifted instantly.

Madame Vivienne entered.

And just like that

The girls stopped being girls.

They became dancers.

Mikasa straightened fully.

Control. Presence. Grace.

Whatever happened today

She would not let it show.

—————

The studio had never been so quiet.

The pianist adjusted his glasses.

“Snow Queen,” Madam Vivienne called.

Annie stepped forward.

Her movements were precise, almost surgical. Strong extensions. Clean landings. Every turn landed exactly where it should. She commanded space with sharp clarity.

When she finished, applause followed quickly.

Respectful.

Certain.

“Very good,” one of the visiting judges murmured.

Annie bowed once and stepped back into line.

“Dew Drop.”

Another dancer moved light and airy, quick footwork sparkling like sugar across the floor.

More applause.

Then

“Sasha Blouse.”

Sasha inhaled like she was about to dive into deep water.

Her performance was bright, almost reckless with joy. Her arms were soft, expressive, slightly rushed in the transitions  but honest. She smiled through the turns as if daring herself not to falter.

One wobble.

Recovered.

Applause came warmer this time.

Encouraging.

Sasha returned to line, cheeks flushed but proud.

One by one, the girls danced.

Each talented.

Each trained.

Each hungry.

Then

“Mikasa Azumabito.”

The shift was immediate.

Not louder.

Quieter.

Mikasa stepped forward.

The music began.

The first note settled into the room like breath held too long.

She didn’t rush into motion.

She allowed the stillness to gather around her first.

A subtle glide forward.

Her foot barely kissed the floor.

Glissade.

Assemblé.

The transitions were seamless, as though the choreography had been poured into her instead of taught.

Her shoulders were relaxed.

Her neck long.

Her eyes distant  but not vacant.

She wasn’t performing for approval.

She was discovering something.

Her turns unfolded one after another, controlled but fluid, skirt whispering against her legs. There was no tension in her jaw. No tightening of breath.

Only flow.

She crossed the diagonal slowly, arms opening as if reaching into snowfall no one else could see.

The studio faded.

The mirror no longer mattered.

The judges no longer mattered.

The other girls no longer mattered.

Clara did.

And in that moment, Mikasa was not a dancer competing for a role.

She was a child stepping into magic.

The first stillness came.

She held it.

Longer than rehearsed.

Longer than anyone else had dared that morning.

Her chest rose gently.

Her fingers curved slightly inward, trembling not from weakness but feeling.

The music softened.

The final phrase approached.

She did not accelerate.

She did not push.

She let the music rise to meet her.

Then

The final arabesque.

It unfolded slowly.

Her back leg lifted, controlled, steady, impossibly high without strain.

Her torso lengthened.

Her arms curved into perfect symmetry.

She held it.

No tremor.

No adjustment.

The pianist’s last note lingered beneath her balance like fragile glass.

The room did not breathe.

Time thinned.

And when she lowered

It was seamless.

The music ended.Silence.

Not confusion.

Not hesitation.

Reverence.

Even Sasha forgot to clap.

Even Annie’s composure flickered.

Across the room, Marionne’s smile faded for half a second.

Only half.

Then applause came.

Not explosive.

But undeniable.

One of the judges leaned forward slightly.

Another nodded.

Madame Vivienne did not clap.

She stared.

Because she knew.

That was Clara.

That was the heart of the ballet.

That was legacy.

Mikasa bowed once.

And stepped back into line.

Still.

Composed.

Unaware that perfection was not the only thing being weighed that day.

—————

The silence did not shatter all at once.

It unraveled.

First, a single pair of hands.

Then another.

Then applause spread outward in widening ripples across the studio.

Not polite.

Not automatic.

Earned.

Sasha was the first to break formation entirely.

She darted forward before anyone could pretend composure still mattered and grabbed Mikasa’s hands in both of hers.

“What,” she demanded breathlessly, “was that?”

Mikasa blinked once. “Clara.”

Sasha stared at her like she had just committed a crime.

“No. No. That was something else. You didn’t even look human during the last hold. I thought you were going to levitate.”

Annie approached more slowly, but there was something sharper in her gaze  something like respect edged with disbelief.

“You adjusted the second diagonal,” she said. “You softened it.”

Mikasa inclined her head slightly. “It felt better.”

“You felt better,” Annie corrected quietly.

A few of the younger dancers hovered nearby, whispering among themselves before one finally stepped forward.

“That was beautiful,” she said shyly. “I forgot I was waiting for my own casting.”

Another added quickly, “You looked like… like you weren’t trying.”

Mikasa folded her hands gently at her waist.

“I was,” she replied evenly.

Sasha scoffed. “Don’t lie. If that was you trying, I don’t want to see you not trying.”

Laughter rippled lightly through the nearby girls.

Even some who had competed directly against her offered small nods.

Across the studio, the energy had shifted.

It wasn’t competitive anymore.

It was certain.

Sugar Plum had been deserved.

Clara had been undeniable.

Even those who would not admit it out loud knew what they had just witnessed.

Marionne stood near the mirrors, arms crossed loosely.

Mina leaned in toward her, whispering something under her breath.

Marionne’s smile didn’t disappear.

But it sharpened.

“She loves the dramatics,” Mina murmured.

Marionne’s eyes flicked briefly toward Mikasa then away.

“She loves control,” Marionne replied calmly.

Sasha squeezed Mikasa’s forearm again.

“They don’t even need to deliberate,” she said. “It’s obvious.”

Annie didn’t respond.

 Her gaze had drifted toward the office door.

It remained closed.

Muted voices filtered through the wall.

Low.

Measured.

Too long.

Minutes passed.

The applause had faded, but the energy lingered.

Mikasa stood at the center of it without stepping into it.

Her posture remained flawless.

Her breathing steady.

Inside

Her grandmother’s voice echoed quietly.

Stillness commands a room before movement ever can.

She replayed the final hold in her mind.

The balance.

The suspension.

The silence.

It had felt right.

Not forced.

Not desperate.

Right.

She had not chased the role.

She had embodied it.

Sasha leaned closer again. “When they say your name, don’t cry.”

“I will not cry,” Mikasa replied calmly.

“You say that like it’s illegal.”

Annie’s voice was low. “It is.”

A ripple of nervous laughter moved through the trio.

The office door opened.

The shift was immediate.

Conversation died mid-breath.

Madame Vivienne stepped out first.

And something was wrong.

She was holding her bag.

Not resting at her side.

Gripped.

Her posture was still elegant, shoulders aligned, chin lifted but there was a tightness in her movements that did not belong.

Her heels struck the floor harder than usual.

The room parted instinctively.

Sasha’s grip on Mikasa loosened slightly.

“Why is she—” Sasha began, but stopped.

Vivienne walked forward without looking at the dancers at first.

The visiting judges followed behind her.

Composed.

Collected.

Unbothered.

Vivienne did not look at them.

She did not speak to them.

She walked straight toward the exit.

Then—

She stopped.

Right in front of Mikasa.

The world narrowed.

For a moment, no one else existed.

Their eyes met.

And Mikasa saw it.

Fury.

Not at her.

At something else.

At someone else.

But beneath it

Guilt.

And something deeper.

A kind of helplessness she had never seen in her teacher before.

Vivienne’s Clara.

The words did not need to be spoken.

They were written in her gaze.

Mikasa felt her chest tighten.

“Madame?” she asked softly.

Vivienne’s lips parted slightly.

As if she might explain.

As if she might apologize.

As if she might say:

You deserved it.

But she did not.

Because to say it would fracture her composure.

Instead, she inclined her head.

Just once.

Not formal.

Not distant.

Almost … personal.

And in that movement was an unspoken admission.

She could not stay.

She would not stand beside what was about to unfold.

She stepped past Mikasa.

The door opened.

Closed.

The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet studio.

No one moved.

Sasha’s voice was barely audible. “She’s not supposed to leave.”

Annie’s eyes remained fixed on the office door. “No.”

Mikasa stood very still.

Her hands folded neatly in front of her.

Her spine straight.

Her breathing even.

But inside

Something cold had begun to spread.

The judges stepped forward now.

The silver-haired man adjusted his cuff calmly.

He did not look toward the door Vivienne had exited through.

He did not acknowledge her absence.

The air felt heavier.

Less warm.

The earlier certainty in the room began to thin.

Sasha shifted her weight.

Annie’s jaw tightened.

Mina’s smile returned.

Marionne lifted her chin slightly.

And Mikasa

For the first time that morning

Felt uncertainty.

Not in her performance.

Not in her worth.

But in the outcome.

Her grandmother’s voice whispered in her mind.

You were born for this role.

Her pulse did not race.

It slowed.

And that frightened her more.

————-

The silver-haired judge stepped forward.

The room tightened.

No one clapped now.

No one whispered.

Even Mina had fallen quiet.

The air felt thin.

He folded his hands loosely in front of him, posture relaxed, as though this were a simple formality.

“Before we announce Clara,” he began smoothly, “we would like to address a principal role.”

A ripple moved through the dancers.

Sasha’s fingers tightened around the fabric of her skirt.

Annie’s gaze sharpened.

Mikasa stood perfectly still.

Her hands were folded neatly at her waist.

Her breathing controlled.

Her chin lifted.

Her grandmother’s voice rose quietly inside her.

Stillness. You must always appear certain.

“The Sugar Plum Fairy,” the judge continued, “is not a role granted lightly.”

His gaze moved down the line.

Paused.

Lingered.

“It requires technical mastery. Endurance. Authority over the second act.”

A beat.

“It demands more than innocence.”

The room waited.

Mikasa’s pulse began to slow.

Not race.

Slow.

A warning.

He inclined his head slightly.

“This season’s Sugar Plum Fairy will be performed by… Mikasa Azumabito.”

Silence.

Not applause.

Not at first.

The name hung in the air, heavy, misplaced.

A few dancers blinked.

Someone shifted their weight.

Sasha’s fingers tightened around Mikasa’s sleeve not in excitement.

In confusion.

“…Sugar Plum?” she whispered.

Annie didn’t breathe.

Across the room, Mina’s brows lifted slightly.

Marionne did not react.

Not yet.

Then

Polite clapping began.

Scattered.

Uncertain.

Across the room, a few girls exchanged looks of admiration.

Sugar Plum was the pinnacle.

The technical crown.

The role that required perfection.

Mikasa stepped forward.

Her bow was flawless.

Her expression serene.

But inside

Her heart faltered.

Sugar Plum.

Not Clara.

The judge continued speaking before the applause fully died.

“Miss Azumabito possesses a precision and command rare for someone her age,” he said. “Her technique exceeds expectation.”

Another nod.

“She is, quite simply, too advanced to remain within the confines of Clara.”

The words struck.

Too advanced.

Too good.

The role demands her more.

A murmur moved faintly through the room.

It sounded like praise.

It felt like displacement.

Mikasa’s stomach tightened.

Her grandmother’s voice echoed sharply now

Clara is legacy. Clara is center.

Sugar Plum is control.

Clara is heart.

The judge smiled faintly.

“The Sugar Plum Fairy requires authority. Miss Azumabito will elevate the production.”

Elevate.

A promotion disguised as removal.

Mikasa’s heartbeat stuttered.

For the briefest second

Her vision blurred at the edges.

Sugar Plum was not a lesser role.

It was harder.

More demanding.

More impressive.

But it was not Clara.

Clara began the story.

Clara was the dream.

Clara was innocence.

Clara was what her grandmother had danced.

Her hands remained folded.

Her posture did not shift.

She bowed once more.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Her voice did not tremble.

Inside

Shock.

Disappointment.

Something colder than either.

The judge stepped back.

“And now,” he continued smoothly, “the role of Clara.”

The room had grown quiet again.

Too quiet.

The applause from moments before felt distant now.

Sasha’s grip on Mikasa had loosened.

Annie’s jaw was tight.

Mina’s smile returned slowly.

Deliberately.

“The role of Clara,” the judge said, “requires delicacy. Emotional openness. The ability to grow.”

A pause.

“Clara will be performed by… Marionne Dubois.”

Silence.

Not delayed applause.

Not gasps.

Silence.

The kind that swallows sound before it forms.

Marionne stepped forward.

Her chin lifted slightly.

Her smile was controlled.

Victorious.

Mina clapped first.

Bright.

Confident.

Almost celebratory.

A few others followed hesitantly.

But the room did not erupt.

It absorbed.

Sasha blinked once.

Twice.

Annie did not clap.

Her eyes moved from Marionne

To Mikasa.

Mikasa stood exactly as she had before.

Perfect posture.

Perfect composure.

Only her pulse betrayed her.

Sugar Plum.

Too good for Clara.

Too advanced.

Her grandmother’s voice grew louder in her mind

You were born for this role.

You carry my name.

Clara is tradition.

Her heart tightened painfully.

Had she failed?

Had she misread everything?

Had perfection become distance?

The judge continued speaking something about interpretation, about fresh perspective.

The words blurred.

Mikasa inclined her head slightly toward Marionne.

“Congratulations.”

Her voice was silk.

Untouched.

Marionne held her gaze this time.

And smiled.

Not apologetic.

Not uncertain.

Certain.

The decision was made.

Madame Vivienne was not there to witness it.

She had known.

She had left.

——————

The room slowly began to move again.

Whispers.

Confusion.

Thin applause.

Mikasa stood still.

Inside

Everything trembled.

But no one saw it.

Because she would not let them.

Her grandmother would not see tears.

The academy would not see doubt.

If they wished her to be Sugar Plum

She would be untouchable.

But as the applause faded and Marionne took her place as Clara

Mikasa felt something she had never allowed before.

Not anger.

Not envy.

But displacement.

She had been lifted higher.

And moved aside.

And she had never felt smaller.

The applause faded unevenly.

It did not swell into celebration.

It thinned.

Fell apart.

————-

Girls shifted where they stood, exchanging glances that were too quick to be polite and too pointed to be accidental.

“Sugar Plum is huge,” someone whispered near the barre.

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

“…Clara is the lead.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“She was better.”

The words floated not loud enough to confront, but loud enough to be heard.

Marionne stood at the center of it all.

Smiling.

Receiving scattered congratulations from Mina first enthusiastic, exaggerated.

“I told you,” Mina said brightly, loud enough for nearby dancers to hear. “They wanted something fresh.”

Fresh.

The word scraped.

A few girls approached Mikasa instead.

“You were incredible.”

“That final hold—”

“I don’t understand.”

Mikasa inclined her head gently to each of them.

“Thank you.”

Her voice did not waver.

She did not look at Marionne.

She did not look at the judges.

She stood tall, hands folded neatly at her waist, Sugar Plum Fairy incarnate already.

Inside

Her heartbeat had not stabilized.

Too advanced for Clara.

Her grandmother’s voice pressed harder now.

Clara is legacy.

Clara is center.

She could almost see her grandmother’s expression.

Not proud.

Measured.

Disappointed.

Sasha slipped in beside her, lowering her voice.

“Okay,” she said carefully, “we’re going to talk about this.”

Annie joined on her other side.

“You’re quiet,” Annie observed.

“I am always quiet,” Mikasa replied evenly.

“That’s not what she means,” Sasha said.

Mikasa’s gaze remained forward.

The room had begun to fracture into small clusters of conversation.

Some girls congratulated Marionne politely.

Others avoided her entirely.

A few looked openly confused.

“She didn’t even hold her second turn,” someone muttered near the mirrors.

“She traveled.”

“I thought it was obvious…”

Marionne heard it.

She absolutely heard it.

But she did not react.

She moved through the room with deliberate grace, accepting congratulations with a composed smile that bordered on smugness.

When she finally approached Mikasa, the room shifted again.

The whispers lowered.

Eyes turned.

Marionne stopped in front of her.

For a second, neither spoke.

Then

“I suppose we’ll both be busy,” Marionne said lightly.

Sugar Plum and Clara.

The center and the crown.

Her smile curved just slightly higher.

“You were… impressive,” she added.

The pause before impressive was too deliberate.

Mina stepped closer beside her.

“Honestly,” Mina chimed in brightly, “they probably didn’t want to overwhelm the audience by putting all the spotlight in one place.”

A few dancers exchanged looks.

Overwhelm.

Spotlight.

Mikasa met Marionne’s eyes.

There was no bitterness in her gaze.

No anger.

Only stillness.

“Congratulations,” she said again, softly.

Her composure was immaculate.

Marionne searched her face, perhaps hoping for something else  frustration, jealousy, resentment.

There was nothing.

Which made her smile tighten.

“Well,” Marionne replied, “I’ll see you at rehearsals.”

She turned.

Mina followed, whispering something that made her laugh under her breath.

The room did not celebrate behind them.

It thinned.

It murmured.

“She should be embarrassed,” someone whispered near the lockers.

“She knows.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She can hear us.”

Annie exhaled slowly.

“She doesn’t care,” she muttered.

Sasha stepped in front of Mikasa now, searching her face.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Look at me.”

Mikasa did.

Her expression was serene.

Untouched.

Too untouched.

“You’re okay?” Sasha asked.

“Yes.” Annie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That wasn’t an answer.”

Mikasa tilted her head slightly.

“I received Sugar Plum.”

“That’s not the point,” Annie said quietly.

Sasha’s voice softened. “You wanted Clara.”

Mikasa did not respond immediately.

Wanted was a weak word.

You were born for this role.

Her grandmother’s certainty pressed against her ribs.

She swallowed it.

“It was not given,” she said calmly.

Annie stepped closer.

“You were better.”

“That is not relevant.”

Sasha blinked at her. “It absolutely is relevant.”

Mikasa’s lips curved faintly not a smile, not quite.

“Sugar Plum requires more discipline,” she said. “It is an honor.”

Annie studied her for a long moment.

“You’re not angry,” she said finally.

“No.”

“You’re not bitter.”

“No.”

Sasha’s voice dropped. “You’re disappointed.”

A pause.

Small.

Controlled.

“Yes.”

It was the first honest word she had spoken.

Sasha reached for her hand gently this time.

“We can celebrate,” she said quickly. “It’s still huge. Sugar Plum is massive. We can go to that café near the academy. The one with the yummy croissants i talk about ”

Annie nodded once. “We should.”

Mikasa’s gaze drifted briefly toward the studio doors.

Her grandmother would already know casting was today.

She would be waiting.

Waiting not for Sugar Plum.

For Clara.

“I can’t,” Mikasa said quietly.

Sasha’s brows knit. “Why?”

Mikasa exhaled softly.

“My grandmother will be expecting news.”

Annie’s expression shifted slightly.

Understanding.

“Oh.”

Sasha’s grip tightened again. “You don’t owe anyone—”

“I do,” Mikasa interrupted gently.

Not sharply.

Just factually.

The weight of legacy pressed invisibly against her shoulders.

You carry my name.

The room continued to hum behind them.

Some dancers still whispered.

Some avoided eye contact with Marionne entirely.

The decision was made.

But it did not sit cleanly.

Mikasa smoothed an invisible crease from her skirt.

Perfect posture.

Perfect composure.

“I will see you tomorrow,” she said softly.

Sasha hesitated.

Then pulled her into a quick, tight hug.

“Text me,” she whispered fiercely.

Annie didn’t hug her.

She simply held her gaze.

“If you need anything,” Annie said.

Mikasa nodded once.

“I’m fine”

Which meant she probably would.

As she walked toward the exit, the whispers did not follow her.

They followed Clara.

And Marionne stood at the center of them

Smiling.

But not celebrated.

———-

The gates opened before the car fully slowed.

The estate stood illuminated against the darkening sky, golden light spilling from tall arched windows. It looked as it always did dignified, untouchable, composed.

Like her grandmother.

The Audi rolled to a stop.

Mikasa stepped out gracefully.

Her posture was perfect.

Her breathing steady.

Her face unreadable.

Inside, her pulse still felt misplaced.

The front doors opened before she reached them.

Not Tillie.

Her grandmother.

She stood in the entry hall beneath the chandelier, silver hair immaculate, posture unbending.

“You are late,” she said calmly.

“I apologize, Grand-mère.”

Her grandmother studied her face.

Searching.

“And?”

There was no warmth in the question.

Only expectation.

Mikasa inhaled quietly.

“I have been cast as the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

The silence that followed was not celebration.

It was assessment.

Her grandmother’s expression did not soften.

“And Clara?”

The word cut sharper than it should have.

Mikasa’s fingers curled slightly against her skirt.

“Clara was given to Marionne Dubois.”

The shift was immediate.

Not dramatic.

Worse.

Controlled.

“I see.”

Two words.

Flat.

They walked toward the study without another word.

The office door shut softly behind them.

The room smelled faintly of old books and polished wood.

The large painting dominated the far wall, a ballerina in a white tutu, mid-arabesque, luminous against a pale background.

Mikasa had always believed it was her grandmother.

It had to be.

Who else would command a canvas that large?

Her grandmother moved behind the desk.

Sat.

Folded her hands.

“You were given Sugar Plum,” she repeated.

“Yes.”

“And Clara was not considered suitable.”

The phrasing was deliberate.

Mikasa swallowed.

“They said I was too advanced for Clara.”

Silence.

Then

A soft, humorless exhale.

“Too advanced.”

Her grandmother leaned back slowly.

“A prodigy, they say.”

The words were not praise.

“They speak of your technique as if it is beyond question.”

Mikasa stood straighter.

“I performed well.”

Her grandmother’s gaze sharpened.

“Well.”

The word tasted sour in her mouth.

“Well is not Clara.”

The air thickened.

Mikasa tried again.

“Sugar Plum is the more demanding role.”

“And yet,” her grandmother cut in softly, “it is not the role I danced.”

The room went very still.

Clara was legacy.

Clara was history.

Clara was continuation.

“You were born for Clara,” her grandmother continued. “It was understood.”

Understood.

By whom?

Mikasa’s throat tightened.

“I did not fail.”

Her grandmother’s eyes flashed.

“Did you not?”

The words were quiet.

Far more devastating than shouting.

“If they chose another girl for Clara, then something was lacking.”

The sentence hung like a sentence passed.

“Was your expression insufficient?” her grandmother pressed. “Was your presence inadequate?”

Mikasa’s composure trembled at the edges.

“They praised my performance.”

“And yet you stand here without the role.”

The finality in her voice was merciless.

“A prodigy?” her grandmother murmured coldly. “What a fragile title.”

Mikasa felt the first crack inside her chest.

“I did everything as instructed.”

“And still it was not enough.”

Her grandmother stood abruptly.

“I will not see your face while you look like this.”

Mikasa froze.

“I am not—”

“Do not insult me by pretending this does not affect you.”

The words were sharp.

“Control is meaningless if it does not produce results.”

The dismissal came swiftly.

“You may go.”

Not gently.

Not kindly.

Dismissed.

Mikasa inclined her head.

“Yes, Grand-mère.”

She turned.

Walked toward the door.

Perfect posture.

Perfect steps.

As she reached the threshold, her gaze lifted instinctively to the large painting on the wall.

The ballerina in white.

Mid-arabesque.

Weightless.

Radiant.

She had always believed it was her grandmother in her prime.

The legacy she was meant to continue.

For a moment, she studied it longer than usual.

The softness in the painted eyes.

The curve of the wrist.

The tenderness in the line.

Something about it felt… different tonight.

But she did not linger.

She left.

The door closed behind her.

And the silence of the hallway swallowed her whole.

She does not run to her room.

She walks.

Measured.

Silent.

As if nothing inside her is collapsing.

The hallway stretches endlessly beneath her feet. The house is too quiet. Too polished. Too dignified to hold something as ugly as failure.

Failure.

The word settles into her bones before she reaches her door.

She closes it carefully behind her.

No slam.

No sound.

Her back rests against it.

She inhales.

Exhales.

Once.

Twice.

Then—

Her knees give out.

Not dramatically.

They simply stop holding her.

She slides down the door slowly until she is sitting on the floor, skirt pooling around her.

Sugar Plum Fairy.

Too advanced for Clara.

Too advanced.

She laughs.

It is not a pleasant sound.

It is small.

Breathless.

Almost broken.

Her grandmother’s voice replays with brutal precision.

If they chose another girl, then something was lacking.

Lacking.

Mikasa presses her hands against her eyes.

Too advanced.

No.

Too cold.

Too controlled.

Too empty.

Clara requires innocence.

Clara requires heart.

Clara requires transformation.

Had she looked too rigid?

Too distant?

Too composed?

Her breathing grows uneven.

She stands abruptly.

The first vase shatters before she even registers throwing it.

The crash is violent.

Glass explodes against the wall.

The sound feels deserved.

She stares at the shards scattered across the floor.

Beautiful things breaking.

Like they were meant to.

Her hand trembles.

She grabs another.

Throws it harder.

It shatters louder.

A third follows.

A fourth.

She doesn’t scream.

She doesn’t sob yet.

She dismantles.

The small porcelain figurines on her vanity go next.

The framed photo on her bedside table hits the wall.

Her hands shake violently now.

“Of course,” she whispers hoarsely.

Of course she wasn’t Clara.

Of course perfection wasn’t enough.

Of course she wasn’t enough.

She moves to the mirror.

Stares at her reflection.

The prodigy.

The Azumabito name.

The girl raised to continue legacy.

Her eyes are red now.

Her breathing fractured.

“What was lacking?” she whispers to the reflection.

Her reflection does not answer.

She grips the edge of her vanity so tightly her knuckles whiten.

“You were born for this role.”

The words sound cruel now.

Mocking.

She was not born for Clara.

She was born to disappoint.

The sob finally tears out of her.

Violent.

Raw.

Uncontained.

She sinks to the floor among broken glass, not caring if it cuts.

Her hands cover her face.

Her shoulders shake.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

To whom, she doesn’t know.

To her grandmother.

To her parents.

To the painting downstairs.

“I’m sorry.”

She accepts it now.

The truth as she understands it.

She was not enough.

Sugar Plum is technical.

Clara is soul.

And maybe

She has no soul left to give.

The knock comes softly.

“Mikasa?”

Tillie.

No response.

The door opens slowly.

Tillie steps inside

And stops.

Glass.

Porcelain.

Chaos.

Mikasa curled on the floor like something abandoned.

Tillie rushes to her instantly.

“Oh, my sweet girl—”

Mikasa flinches at the touch at first.

Then collapses into it.

Not gracefully.

Not carefully.

She clutches Tillie’s dress like a child.

“I ruined it,” she sobs.

“No—”

“I wasn’t enough.”

The words come faster now.

“I wasn’t Clara. She was right. Something was missing. I don’t know what was missing.”

Tillie cups her face gently.

“There is nothing missing from you.”

Mikasa shakes her head violently.

“There is. There has to be.”

Her voice breaks again.

“Why else would they choose her?”

Tillie pulls her tightly into her arms, rocking her gently as the sobs grow heavier.

“You are more than a role,” Tillie whispers.

“But she isn’t,” Mikasa cries. “To her, I’m not.”

And that is the deepest wound.

Not losing Clara.

Losing her grandmother’s pride.

“I don’t know how to be enough,” she whispers brokenly.

Tillie presses her cheek against Mikasa’s hair.

“You already are.”

But Mikasa cannot hear it.

Because tonight

For the first time

She believes she is a disappointment.

And that belief hurts more than the loss.

————-

By the time the rush died down, the café felt like it had exhaled.

Chairs half-stacked.

Counter wiped but still faintly sticky.

The espresso machine humming low and steady like it had won the war.

Eren leaned both hands on the marble surface.

He was exhausted.

His first full shift had been eventful in all the wrong ways.

“You survived,” Armin said lightly from the stool near the register.

“Barely.”

“You only burned milk seven times.”

“Six.”

“Seven,” Nicolo corrected calmly without looking up from the pastry case.

Eren shot him a glare.

Nicolo raised an eyebrow. “I count.”

Eren groaned and dragged a cloth across the counter again.

The bell above the café door chimed softly.

A girl stepped inside, wind-touched, tote bag hanging off her shoulder.

“Are you still open?” she asked.

“Technically,” Nicolo replied.

“Perfect. I just need tea.”

She stepped toward the register.

Paused.

“…You’re Armin, right?”

Armin blinked.

“Yes?”

“I knew it! Fine Arts. You’re always with Connie.”

Recognition clicked.

“You’re Dance,” Armin said. “First floor studios.”

“Yes! You guys always smell like paint.”

“You guys always block the hallway stretching.”

“That’s necessary.”

She leaned against the counter with a sigh.

“Long day?” Armin asked.

“Dance department,” she muttered. “Casting aftermath.”

Eren’s hand slowed.

He didn’t look up.

Just listened.

“People are weird after results,” she continued. “Especially when it’s not what they expected.”

Nicolo handed her the tea.

“And what did you expect?” he asked mildly.

She blew on it lightly.

“Clara was supposed to go to Mikasa.”

The name.

Eren’s head lifted just slightly.

Armin saw it.

The sharpened attention.

The stillness.

“She got Sugar Plum,” the girl continued. “Which is incredible. But still.”

Eren swallowed.

“She’s pretending she’s fine,” she added. “She’s already pushing herself harder.”

Armin leaned back casually.

“She doesn’t show things?” he asked.

The girl huffed softly.

“Never.”

She finished her tea quickly, thanked them, and left.

The bell chimed again.

Silence lingered.

Eren wiped the same spot on the counter three times.

Then, casually

“That girl talks a lot.”

“Yes,” Nicolo agreed.

Eren hesitated.

“She mentioned someone.”

Armin’s lips curved slowly.

“Did she?”

“Mikasa.”

There was no pretending now.

Armin tilted his head.

“You remember.”

“I remember the name.”

“Full name,” Armin corrected.

Eren frowned slightly.

“Mikasa Azumabito.”

The name settled heavier than before.

Azumabito.

It sounded expensive.

Old.

Carried.

“She’s in Performing Arts,” Armin continued, more thoughtful now than teasing. “Dance major. First floor studios.”

Eren said nothing.

“Her family’s been in ballet for generations,” Armin added.

Nicolo glanced over.

“Ah.”

Armin nodded slowly.

“She’s not internationally famous or anything dramatic like that,” he clarified. “But in the academy? She’s… known.”

“How,” Eren asked quietly.

Armin watched him carefully before answering.

“Teachers use her as an example.”

Eren didn’t react.

“Her technique is precise. Controlled. She doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t oversell.”

Nicolo hummed faintly. “Discipline.”

“Exactly,” Armin said. “People say she doesn’t just learn choreography, she absorbs it.”

Eren remembered the streetlamp.

The way she had stood.

Still.

Unshaken.

“She moved up roles fast,” Armin continued. “Faster than most in her year. People expected Clara to be hers.”

“Expected,” Eren repeated.

“Yes.”

Armin’s tone shifted slightly.

“And when expectations sit on someone long enough, they become… weight.”

Eren’s jaw tightened.

“Prodigy,” he muttered.

“Yeah.”

Armin nodded.

“She’s been called that since she was a child”

Eren exhaled slowly.

“She doesn’t look arrogant,” he said.

“She’s not,” Armin replied.

“She just… looks like she’s carrying something.”

Eren didn’t like how accurate that felt.

“She doesn’t laugh much,” Armin added quietly. “Not in class. Not in the halls. She’s composed.”

Composed.

Controlled.

Doesn’t show things.

Eren stared at the espresso machine.

“She didn’t look like someone who’d just lost something,” he said.

Armin’s teasing was gone now.

“Prodigies don’t get to look like that,” he replied softly.

The café hummed around them.

Eren’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

He pulled it out this time.

Mom.

Three messages.

How was your first full shift?

Did you eat?

Call me tonight. I miss hearing your voice.

His throat tightened faintly.

Armin noticed.

“You should answer.”

“I will.”

He didn’t.

He locked the screen.

“She doesn’t get to fall apart publicly,” Armin said quietly.

Eren looked at the door.

He could still see her under that streetlamp.

Calm.

Unmoved.

Perfect posture.

He didn’t know why it mattered.

But it did.

And that was the problem.

————

Eren’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from someone who claimed he had his life together.

It did not look together.

Helmet on the kitchen table.

Jacket hanging halfway off a chair.

One sock on the floor that had been there long enough to legally claim residency.

He kicked the door shut with his heel and stood in the middle of the room.

Silence.

He exhaled.

First full shift.

Milk betrayal.

Nicolo judging him.

Armin being insufferable.

Random dance girl.

And

Mikasa Azumabito.

He dropped onto the couch dramatically.

“Why,” he muttered to the ceiling, “is that name still in my head?”

It sounded like it belonged on a marble plaque somewhere.

Mikasa Azumabito.

He rolled onto his side.

“This is stupid.”

He saw her once.

Once.

Under a streetlamp.

She barely spoke.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t look impressed.

She just

Stood there.

Like she had been placed.

He sat up abruptly.

“No.”

He grabbed his phone.

“This is just curiosity. Normal curiosity.”

He unlocked it.

Typed the name.

Paused.

“This is not stalking.”

He hit search.

The results loaded instantly.

Too many.

“Oh.”

Images flooded the screen.

Performance stills.

Academy announcements.

Program photos.

He blinked.

“That’s… a lot.”

He tapped one.

Stage lighting.

White costume.

Arms curved mid-turn.

Back straight like she was physically incapable of slouching.

He squinted.

“She doesn’t even look real.”

He zoomed in slightly.

The precision was insane.

Every line intentional.

Every movement exact.

She looked like

He leaned back slowly.

“Like one of those ballerinas in a music box.”

He snorted.

“Yeah. That’s it.”

The tiny porcelain ones.

You wind the key.

They spin.

Perfect.

Delicate.

Untouchable.

He stared at the screen.

“She even stands like she’s waiting for someone to wind her up.”

Pause.

“…Okay that sounded weird.”

He scrolled.

More recitals.

More reviews.

Small academy write-ups.

Azumabito demonstrates rare control beyond her years…

“Beyond her years,” he read aloud.

“How old even is she?”

He clicked another image.

Her younger.

Small.

Serious.

Hair pulled back tight.

Eyes focused like she had taxes to file at age twelve.

He blinked.

“She looked sophisticated at fourteen.”

He leaned closer.

“Why do you look like you’ve been paying rent since birth?”

Scroll.

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

Seventeen.

Always poised.

Always composed.

He frowned.

“Do you ever laugh?”

He opened a short performance clip.

She moved like gravity had personally negotiated with her.

Not soft.

Not fragile.

Precise.

He swallowed.

“…Okay, that’s impressive.”

He locked the phone.

Threw it onto the couch. Sat back.

“What am I doing?”

He ran both hands through his hair.

“I don’t even know her.”

He grabbed the phone again.

“No. This is weird. This is literally how documentaries start.”

He paced once across the apartment.

He stopped.

Opened the phone again.

“Just one more.”

He scrolled.

“STOP.”

He stared at the screen.

“This is creepy. This is actually creepy. I saw her once.”

He froze mid-scroll.

“…Okay but why does she look like she’s carved out of marble?”

He leaned back against the wall.

Music box ballerina.

Porcelain.

Spinning.

Perfect.

But those things were fragile.

And something about her didn’t look fragile.

He stared at one image longer than he meant to.

She wasn’t smiling.

Just poised.

Like someone watching herself constantly.

“She doesn’t look like someone who’s allowed to mess up,” he muttered.

His phone buzzed suddenly in his hand.

He almost threw it.

Mom.

Calling.

He hesitated.

Then answered.

“…Hi.”

“Eren.” Her voice was soft, relieved. “I was starting to think you’d ignore me again.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you.”

“You never are,” she said gently.

He leaned back against the counter.

“How was your first day at the café?”

“Busy.”

“Did you burn anything?”

“…Maybe.”

She laughed quietly.

“That’s how you learn.”

He didn’t respond.

“You sound tired,” she said.

“I am.”

A pause.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me, you know.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m not proving anything.”

“You are,” she replied softly.

He stared at the floor.

The cracked tile near the fridge.

The one he kept meaning to fix.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“I know you are,” she said gently. “But being fine isn’t the same as being okay.”

That one landed.

He swallowed.

“I don’t want your money,” he muttered.

“I didn’t offer it.”

Silence.

“I just don’t want you to struggle because of him,” she added carefully.

His shoulders went rigid.

“I’m not struggling.”

“You will be working three days into a job. You’ll be exhausted.”

“I can handle it.”

“I know you can.”

She wasn’t arguing.

That made it worse.

“I just… miss you,” she said.

He exhaled slowly.

“I miss you too.”

“You don’t have to do everything alone.”

He closed his eyes.

“I know.”

A small pause.

“Call me if it gets heavy,” she said.

He almost laughed.

“It’s just coffee.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

They both knew it.

He swallowed.

“Love you.”

“I love you more.”

They hung up.

The apartment felt different after that.

Quieter.

Not empty, just… still.

Eren stood there for a long moment.

Then walked back to the couch.

His phone lit up again not a call this time.

Just the open search page he hadn’t closed.

Mikasa Azumabito.

He stared at it.

Then slowly—

Exited the tab.

Locked the phone.

Set it face down.

“This isn’t about her,” he muttered.

He sank back into the couch.

It wasn’t.

Not entirely.

Maybe he just needed something outside of himself to focus on.

Something precise.

Composed.

Put together.

Something that didn’t look like him.

He stared at the ceiling again. He was messy.

Restless.

Too loud.

Too stubborn.

She looked like someone who never made a mistake.

He looked like someone who made too many.

He exhaled slowly.

“I’m not obsessed,” he muttered.

Silence.

“…I’m just tired.”

That felt more honest.

He closed his eyes.

And for once, it wasn’t Mikasa’s face that lingered.

It was his mother’s voice.

And the quiet weight of trying to be fine.

BALLET TRIO:

BARISTA EREN AND PASTRY CHEF NICCOLO

Chapter Text

Morning arrived too politely.

Light spilled through the curtains in soft gold, as if nothing had happened the night before. As if glass hadn’t exploded against her walls. As if porcelain hadn’t shattered into a hundred sharp pieces. As if Mikasa hadn’t collapsed into the kind of grief she’d spent her entire life training herself not to have.

Her room was spotless.

Too spotless.

The vases were gone. The broken figurines, gone. Even the framed photograph that had hit the wall are replaced, aligned perfectly on the bedside table as if the air itself had apologized and fixed it.

Tillie had cleaned everything.

Erased the evidence.

Like it had never happened.

Mikasa sat on the edge of her bed with her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring at the clean marble floor that hadn’t held her sobbing body for even a second. Her breathing was steady. Her face calm. Her eyes clear.

The perfect prodigy again.

She swung her feet down and stood.

Routine would save her. Discipline would correct whatever weakness had leaked out of her last night. That’s what she’d always believed.

So she dressed.

White tights. Warm-up sweater. Hair pulled back into a bun so tight it tugged at her scalp. A soft pink ribbon wrapped cleanly around it, tied with practiced precision. Her rehearsal bag was packed exactly the way it always was. Pointe shoes, toe pads, spare ribbons, rosin, water, protein bar she never ate.

Control.

She stared at herself in the mirror.

Her reflection stared back composed, pretty, distant.

Mikasa lifted her chin slightly.

As if her grandmother were watching.

As if her grandmother’s disappointment hadn’t cut through her like a blade.

As if the word lacking hadn’t settled into her bones.

She turned away before she could see anything else in her own eyes.

Downstairs, the estate was quiet in the way rich houses always were. Polished silence. Thick carpet swallowing sound. Crystal lamps glowing softly like nothing ugly was allowed to exist under their light.

Tillie was in the hallway as Mikasa descended the stairs.

She looked up too quickly like she’d been waiting.

“Mikasa,” she said gently.

Mikasa paused. Smiled faintly.

“Good morning.”

Tillie’s gaze lingered on her face a second too long. Searching. Measuring.

“Are you—” Tillie began, then stopped herself. Swallowed whatever question she wanted to ask.

Mikasa’s smile didn’t change.

“I have rehearsal.”

Tillie nodded slowly, as if that answered everything and nothing all at once.

“Your grandmother already left,” she said softly. “Early.”

Of course she did.

Mikasa’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.

Tillie stepped closer and smoothed an invisible crease from Mikasa’s sweater. Motherly, careful, quiet.

“You don’t have to be perfect all the time,” Tillie whispered, as if the house itself might punish her for saying it too loud.

Mikasa’s throat tightened. She kept her expression steady.

“I’m fine.”

Tillie’s hand stilled.

The lie didn’t even sound like a lie anymore. It sounded like a rule.

Tillie lowered her gaze and nodded, because she knew pushing would only make Mikasa retreat further behind the walls she’d built.

“I packed you something,” she murmured, slipping a small wrapped pastry into Mikasa’s bag when Mikasa wasn’t looking too closely. “Just in case.”

Mikasa’s fingers brushed it. Warm. Soft.

Something small tried to rise in her chest.

Gratitude. Love. A feeling she could not afford to show too clearly.

“Thank you,” she said, voice calm.

Tillie stepped back, watching her like she was watching someone walk onto thin ice.

The driver was already waiting at the front entrance. The white Audi stood immaculate against the gravel courtyard, polished enough to reflect the pale morning sky.

The door opened.

“Mademoiselle.”

Mikasa stepped inside.

Leather seats. Quiet air. The familiar scent of expensive cologne and clean upholstery.

She sat straight, hands folded in her lap again, eyes forward.

The car rolled through the wrought-iron gates.

Paris moved past the window like a film she’d watched too many times without ever stepping into.

She didn’t think about last night.

She didn’t think about Clara.

She didn’t think about the way her grandmother’s eyes had gone flat when she said Marionne’s name.

She thought about rehearsal.

Sugar Plum.

Act II.

Authority. Precision. Endurance.

A role that demanded perfection.

A role she could be, because it did not require softness.

It did not require innocence.

It did not require heart.

Just control.

She could do control.

The academy came into view.

The familiar building rose ahead. Tall windows, stone steps worn smooth by decades of dancers entering and leaving with dreams stitched into their spines. The courtyard was already alive with movement. Girls in warm-up sweaters and leg warmers clustered in small groups, laughing softly, stretching, sharing whispers that floated like birds.

Mikasa’s stomach tightened.

Her pulse stayed steady.

The car stopped.

The driver stepped out and opened her door with the same practiced urgency.

“Have a good rehearsal, Miss Mikasa.”

She stepped onto the pavement.

Cold air kissed her cheeks.

The academy doors stood open.

Inside, the faint sound of a piano.

A scale. A warm-up.

A heartbeat.

Mikasa adjusted her grip on her bag strap and started walking.

One step.

Two.

Measured. Smooth.

Her feet knew this path better than they knew rest.

She reached the bottom of the steps.

Lifted her eyes.

Through the glass doors, she saw movement, white skirts, pale tights, bodies in motion. She saw the studio corridor.

And then she heard it.

Not the piano.

Not the laughter.

A girl’s voice, bright and light, drifting from inside.

“…the opening is so delicate. Like you’re just stepping into the dream.”

Another voice responded. Soft, familiar, pleased.

Marionne.

Mikasa stopped.

Her fingers tightened around her bag strap.

Inside, her lungs felt suddenly too small.

Marionne laughed lightly.

Mikasa’s gaze fixed on the doorway like it had turned into something else entirely.

A threshold.

Not into rehearsal.

Into the place she was no longer allowed to be.

Clara begins the story.

Clara is center.

Clara is legacy.

Her grandmother’s voice rose uninvited, sharp beneath the calm surface of her mind.

You were born for Clara.

Mikasa’s foot hovered for the next step.

And did not move.

She stared at the doors.

At the glass.

At her own reflection faintly superimposed over the hallway beyond.

She looked like she belonged there.

She looked like she always belonged there.

And yet

She couldn’t breathe.

Her throat tightened. The edges of her vision blurred just slightly, like her body was warning her.

Weakness is visible.

Visibility is dangerous.

She inhaled slowly.

Control. Control. Control.

Her hands remained steady.

Her posture perfect.

No one would see.

No one would know.

A dancer pushed the door open from inside, stepping out into the courtyard. She paused when she saw Mikasa standing there.

“Oh! Mikasa,” the girl said quickly, polite. A little surprised. “You’re early.”

Mikasa forced the faintest smile.

“I was on time,” she corrected softly.

The girl blinked. “Right. Um—are you coming in?”

Mikasa looked past her into the hall.

Marionne’s laughter again.

Mikasa’s chest tightened.

The girl waited, confused by the pause.

Mikasa’s smile didn’t change.

“Yes,” she said.

Then she turned.

Not abruptly.

Not dramatically.

Simply… turned.

And walked away from the steps.

The girl’s confusion sharpened into uncertainty behind her.

“Mikasa?” she called, a little louder.

Mikasa didn’t look back.

Her footsteps were measured. Silent. Controlled.

As if leaving the academy were as routine as entering it.

As if she wasn’t doing something she’d never done before in her life.

She crossed the courtyard.

The driver, who had remained near the car, straightened when he saw her approaching again.

Concern flickered across his face for half a second before professional composure returned.

“Miss Mikasa?” he asked carefully. “Did you forget something?”

Mikasa stopped a few feet from the car.

Her hands folded neatly again, as if she could fold away the chaos inside herself the same way.

“No,” she said softly.

The driver hesitated. “Should we return home?”

Home.

The estate.

The silence.

The study door closing.

Her grandmother’s voice.

The porcelain cleanly erased.

Mikasa’s throat tightened.

She inhaled once.

“No,” she said again, quieter.

The driver blinked. “Then…?”

Mikasa looked down the street. Paris stretched open, busy and indifferent and alive.

“I’ll walk,” she said.

The driver’s brows drew together. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

A pause. He clearly didn’t know what to do with that. The Azumabito name did not walk alone. It arrived and departed on schedule. It did not wander.

“Mademoiselle, your grandmother—”

Mikasa’s gaze lifted sharply.

Not angry.

Worse.

Cold.

The driver stopped mid-sentence.

Mikasa softened her voice again, because she wasn’t punishing him. She was punishing herself.

“I won’t be long,” she said. “Wait here.”

The driver looked like he wanted to argue.

He didn’t.

“Yes, Miss Mikasa.”

Mikasa turned and walked.

Not toward rehearsal.

Not toward home.

Just… forward.

Her body moved like it had decided before her mind could.

Paris swallowed her quickly.

The farther she walked from the academy, the looser something in her chest became. Not relief, exactly. More like air finally slipping into a space that had been clenched too tight.

She passed a bakery with fogged windows. Warmth and sugar and the smell of butter drifting out each time someone opened the door.

A couple stood arguing quietly on a corner, voices too low to be cruel but too tense to be kind.

A dog tugged excitedly at its owner’s leash, almost dragging them down the sidewalk.

A child dropped a balloon and began to cry, small hands reaching upward as if the sky had personally betrayed them.

Mikasa watched it all with a strange stillness.

None of it was polished.

None of it was controlled.

And yet it kept moving.

People kept living.

She realized, distantly, that her shoulders had dropped.

Her steps were less precise.

Her breathing was… normal.

Not measured.

Not choreographed.

Just breath.

She walked until the academy was far behind her and her legs began to ache the way they always did. Except today, the ache wasn’t from dancing.

It was from running away without running.

She turned down a street she didn’t recognize.

A quieter one.

Less elegant.

More real.

The buildings were older, worn at the edges. The sidewalks uneven. A street musician played something soft and slightly off-key, but his voice was warm enough that it didn’t matter.

Mikasa’s gaze drifted to a café on the corner.

She didn’t know why she noticed it.

Maybe because it looked warm.

Maybe because it didn’t look like it belonged in the world she’d been raised in.

The windows were fogged from heat inside. Warm yellow light spilled onto the street like an invitation that wasn’t trying too hard. A small chalkboard sign outside read something messy and handwritten about pastries.

The smell hit her next.

Coffee.

Sugar.

Butter.

Warm bread.

It smelled like comfort.

It smelled like something that didn’t require permission.

Mikasa slowed.

Her feet paused.

She didn’t mean to stop.

But the bell chimed anyway.

Warmth folded around Mikasa the moment she stepped inside, soft and immediate, scented with espresso and caramelized sugar and something buttery in the oven. It slipped beneath her coat and into her chest, easing something she hadn’t realized was clenched.

She paused just inside the doorway.

The café was imperfect.

The chalkboard menu leaned slightly to one side. The lettering shifted where the chalk had pressed harder, as though written by a hand that didn’t fear inconsistency. A small drawing of a croissant in the corner had been erased and redrawn, the outline darker the second time.

Nothing was symmetrical.

Nothing was curated.

And yet it felt alive.

Behind the counter, Eren forgot how to exist normally.

It’s her.

Not distant under a streetlamp.

Not framed in performance photos.

Here. Real. Close enough to hear the soft shift of her coat when she moves.

She doesn’t look at him immediately.

She studies the room.

Her gaze moves slowly, thoughtfully. She notices the uneven table leg. The way the sunlight pools near the window. The imperfect alignment of the pastry case.

He watches her noticing.

She looks like she’s trying to understand whether she belongs here.

And suddenly, irrationally, he wants her to.

“Hi,” he says.

He means it lightly.

It comes out softer.

She lifts her eyes.

For a moment, he forgets the rest of the café exists.

Her gaze is steady. Dark. Controlled.

But not cold.

There’s something careful in it. Like she has learned to look at the world without revealing too much of herself.

“Hello.”

Her voice is low and even, precise without sounding sharp.

Up close, she looks different than she did in the alley.

Her features are delicate but not fragile. Her skin pale against the warmth of the room. Her posture impossibly straight, even now.

She holds herself like she’s being watched.

Even when she isn’t.

“What can I get you?” he asks, grounding himself in something safe.

“Tea,” she says. “Something simple.”

Simple.

He nods.

“I can do simple.”

He turns to prepare it and nearly knocks over a stack of saucers.

They rattle sharply.

He freezes.

She watches him.

Not with disapproval.

With curiosity.

He steadies the cups, clearing his throat lightly.

He pours the water slowly, overly aware of his hands. The kettle trembles slightly, and he corrects it quickly.

He feels her gaze on him.

Not judging.

Observing.

When he turns back toward her with the cup, she has moved to the window.

Of course she has.

She sits where the light falls.

The sun traces the line of her cheekbone and softens the edges of her expression. Without stage lighting or rehearsal mirrors, she looks almost… unguarded.

He sets the tea down gently.

“Careful,” he says. “It’s hot.”

Her fingers wrap around the cup.

There’s the faintest intake of breath at the heat before she adjusts.

Her eyes lift to his.

Up close, he notices the faint shadows beneath them. The smallest tension at the corners. She looks like someone who hasn’t rested properly in a while.

He wonders why.

He doesn’t ask.

“I just felt obligated to warn you,” he says quietly.

She studies him now.

Really studies him.

His hair is slightly unruly, as though it refuses to lie flat no matter how often he pushes it back. There’s a faint scar beneath his eye, thin and pale, like it has its own story. His posture is relaxed, shoulders loose, one hip slightly angled as he stands.

He doesn’t look rehearsed.

He looks… uncontained.

She takes a sip of the tea.

Warmth spreads slowly through her.

“It’s good,” she says.

Relief flickers across his face before he can hide it.

She notices that too.

“You are concerned with my approval,” she says.

He smiles faintly.

“I’m concerned with not embarrassing myself.”

“You nearly dropped the saucers.”

“They survived.”

“You nearly spilled the water.”

“That survived too.”

Her lips soften slightly.

There is something oddly endearing about the way he does not defend himself.

He doesn’t excuse his clumsiness.

He just accepts it.

She glances toward the counter, then back at him.

“You do not appear uncomfortable in imperfection,” she says.

“I’ve never been good at pretending otherwise.”

There’s no bitterness in his tone.

Just honesty.

He steps away briefly.

Returns with a small plate.

Three pastel macarons arranged with surprising care.

He places them before her.

She looks down.

Then up.

“I did not order these.”

“I know.”

His voice is softer now.

“It’s an apology.”

Her gaze sharpens slightly.

“For what?”

“For the other night.”

The memory surfaces.

The alley.

The smoke curling upward.

The way he crushed the cigarette immediately when she coughed.

She studies him more closely now.

Without the distance of darkness between them.

“You apologized,” she says.

“I did.”

“You extinguished it.”

“Yes.”

“Then this is unnecessary.”

He shrugs, but there’s a faint tension beneath it.

“I didn’t like that I bothered you.”

There it is again.

Simple.

Direct.

She looks at him longer this time.

He meets her gaze.

Doesn’t flinch.

His eyes are brighter than she expected. Green, but not harsh. There’s warmth there. And something quietly observant.

“You do not know me,” she says softly.

“I don’t,” he agrees. “But I didn’t need to.”

The words land somewhere unfamiliar.

She breaks a macaron delicately.

Takes a bite.

He watches her without meaning to.

The way her lashes lower. The way she tastes slowly, thoughtfully, as though she’s analyzing not just flavor but intention.

“It is balanced,” she says.

He exhales quietly.

“Balanced is good.”

“You seem pleased.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

He hesitates only briefly.

“Because you’re still here.”

Her breath catches, just slightly.

She hadn’t realized she was waiting for him to perform.

He didn’t.

He just answered.

She looks at him again.

Properly.

He isn’t classically refined. His jaw is sharp but unpolished. His hands are slightly rough — not manicured, not delicate. He smells faintly of coffee and something warm.

He looks like someone who belongs in motion.

She realizes she has been staring.

“You look different in daylight,” she says quietly.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“Better or worse?”

She considers.

“Less distant.”

He smiles at that.

“I wasn’t trying to be distant.”

Her phone rings.

The sound fractures the softness between them.

Her spine straightens instantly.

The composure returns like muscle memory.

She glances at the screen.

Madame Vivienne.

Her expression shifts — not cold, but contained.

“I must take this.”

“Of course.”

She stands.

Graceful, even in interruption.

“Thank you,” she says softly. “For the tea.”

“And the apology pastry.”

She almost smiles.

“It was… thoughtful.”

She steps outside.

Through the window, he watches her transform.

Shoulders squared.

Chin lifted.

Controlled again.

He feels the absence immediately.

When the call ends, she does not return.

She walks away.

The bell does not chime again.

He approaches her table slowly.

Clears the cup.

Then stops.

A white handkerchief rests beside the plate.

He picks it up.

Soft linen.

Delicate embroidery in the corner.

Mikasa Azumabito.

He looks toward the door.

Then back at the fabric in his hand.

A slow smile spreads across his face.

Not amused.

Certain.

He folds it carefully.

And for the first time that day

He is not nervous at all.

He has a reason to see her again.

————

By the time Mikasa returned to the academy, the warmth of the café had already begun to feel distant like something imagined rather than experienced.

The day had stretched forward without mercy.

Morning became afternoon.
Afternoon slipped quietly into early evening.

Rehearsal consumed everything in between.

The studio smelled of resin and polished wood, the air thick with effort and correction. The piano echoed endlessly off mirrored walls. Madame Vivienne’s voice cut cleanly through every hesitation.

Again.

Higher.

Less stiffness.

Breathe.

Mikasa obeyed.

Her body responded as it always did. Obedient, precise, unwavering.

But somewhere beneath the discipline, something was unsettled.

Between combinations, she reached automatically toward the pocket sewn discreetly into her practice skirt.

Her fingers met fabric.

Nothing else.

She paused.

Checked again.

Still nothing.

A small ripple of irritation passed through her.

The handkerchief.

White linen.
Embroidered.
Carried every day.

She retraced the day in her mind.

The car.
The dressing room.
The barre.

No.

The café.

She had placed it on the table.

Beside the tea.

Beside the macarons.

The realization settled slowly.

He would have seen it.

Her name.

Neatly stitched.

Mikasa Azumabito.

Her jaw tightened slightly.

Why does that bother you?

Because she hadn’t asked his.

That imbalance lingered, subtle but persistent.

She disliked unfinished details.

“Azumabito.”

She moved instantly into position.

The music began again.

This time, the sky beyond the tall studio windows had shifted sunlight thinning into amber.

Hours had passed.

Her body moved on instinct, but her thoughts drifted despite her effort.

Green eyes steady beneath café lighting.
Clumsy hands catching falling saucers.
The quiet relief in his shoulders when she said the tea was good.

She exhaled.

Her arms softened.

Her movements, usually sharp and intentional, became fluid at the edges.

There was less resistance in her spine.

Less bracing.

She wasn’t proving anything.

She was simply moving.

Madame Vivienne did not interrupt.

The studio felt quieter.

When the final note faded, Mikasa held her pose a fraction longer than necessary.

Even Annie noticed.

Rehearsal ended as dusk crept into the sky.

The windows no longer reflected daylight but deepening indigo.

Outside, the city shifted into evening.

Annie tugged her warm-up sweater back on.

“You nearly ran into me during the diagonal,” she said casually.

“I did not,” Mikasa replied.

“You did.”

Sasha appeared beside them, adjusting her bag strap.

“It was very graceful though. Like an almost-collision ballet.”

Mikasa exhaled softly.

“That is not a thing.”

“It could be,” Sasha insisted.

Annie rolled her eyes faintly.

“You look tired.”

“I am not.”

“You checked your pocket three times,” Annie added.

Mikasa went still for half a second.

“I misplaced something.”

“What?” Sasha asked, immediately interested.

“A handkerchief.”

Sasha blinked.

“You’re upset about that?”

“I prefer not to lose things.”

Annie studied her briefly, then shrugged.

“You’ll find it.”

Mikasa nodded once.

“Yes.”

They stepped outside together.

The air felt cooler now. Evening had fully taken hold.

Streetlights flickered on one by one.

The sky was a muted violet, fading slowly toward navy.

Annie adjusted her bag.

“Are you coming to Sasha’s tomorrow?” she asked.

“For what?”

“Her attempt at baking again,” Annie replied dryly.

Sasha gasped.

“It was one time.”

“It was charcoal,” Annie said.

“It was experimental.”

Mikasa almost smiled.

“I will consider it.”

“You say that every time,” Sasha said cheerfully.

“I am consistent.”

“That’s not the same as fun,” Annie muttered.

They walked toward the corner together.

Mikasa’s car had not yet arrived.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Annie said.

“Bring better energy,” Sasha added dramatically.

“I always bring sufficient energy,” Mikasa replied.

They parted at the corner, Sasha waving dramatically, Annie offering a brief nod.

Mikasa remained beneath the streetlamp.

Her car hadn’t arrived yet.

The light pooled softly around her, casting long shadows across the pavement.

She inhaled slowly.

And then—

“Hi.”

Her breath caught.

She turned.

And there he was.

Stepping into the circle of light.

Not leaning this time.

Not careless.

Just standing there.

Holding something white.

Her pulse quickened.

“I think this belongs to you,” he said softly.

He unfolded the linen slightly.

The embroidery caught the lamplight.

Mikasa Azumabito.

Relief flickered across her face before she could hide it.

“You found it.”

“You left it on the table.”

“You came all the way here?”

He shrugged lightly.

“It didn’t seem like something you’d want to lose.”

She stepped closer.

Close enough to see him clearly in the dusk.

The scar beneath his eye.

The way his hair caught the light.

The steadiness in his gaze.

“You could have left it at the front desk.”

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the handkerchief.

Warm.

Neither of them pulled away immediately.

“You were here,” she said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You came after the café?”

He hesitated.

“I stopped by earlier.”

Her brows knit faintly.

“Earlier?”

He held her gaze.

“You didn’t see me.”

A pause.

“See you?”

“I was across the street.”

Her spine straightened slightly.

“You were outside.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

He smiled faintly, almost sheepish.

“Longer than I meant to.”

Her breath slowed.

“You watched rehearsal.”

“Yes.”

“You watched me.”

“Yes.”

There was no shame in it.

No defensiveness.

Just honesty.

Her cheeks warmed slightly.

“You should not—”

“I wasn’t trying to intrude,” he said gently. “I just… stayed.”

She studied him.

“And?”

He stepped closer.

Not overwhelming.

Just steady.

“You were beautiful.”

The word landed softly.

Her breath caught.

He saw the shift in her expression immediately and corrected himself, voice softer now.

“I mean — the way you were dancing.”

She swallowed.

“You are referring to technique.”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“Then what?”

“The way you looked like you weren’t performing for anyone.”

Silence stretched.

“You weren’t proving anything,” he continued. “You just… moved. Like it mattered.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the handkerchief.

No one had ever described her dancing that way.

Not critics.
Not instructors.
Not her family.

Beautiful had always meant precise.

He meant something else.

“You are very direct,” she murmured.

“I don’t see the point in pretending.”

The headlights of her car turned the corner in the distance.

The moment thinned.

She looked at him fully now.

The night softened his features.

He didn’t look clumsy here.

He looked certain.

“You did not tell me your name,” she said quietly.

He extended his hand.

“Eren.”

She looked at it.

Then placed her hand in his.

Warm.

Solid.

“Mikasa.”

He repeated it softly.

And then she said it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Eren.”

The way she said his name 

Carefully.
Deliberately.
Like she meant it 

Something inside his chest melted.

Not dramatically.

Not explosively.

Just… completely.

He felt it.

Physically.

A warmth spreading outward from somewhere beneath his ribs.

He almost forgot how to answer.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” he said, quieter than before.

The car pulled up beside them.

The driver stepped out, opening the rear door with quiet efficiency.

The moment thinned.

Streetlamp light softened across Mikasa’s features.

She withdrew her hand slowly from his.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For returning it.”

“For saying that.”

He smiled faintly.

“You didn’t mind?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

She stepped toward the car.

Paused.

“Balanced macarons,” she added softly.

His smile widened.

“I’ll remember.”

She ducked inside.

The door closed gently behind her.

The driver circled back toward the front seat.

Eren stood there for a second.

Watching the tinted glass reflect the streetlamp.

It would have been enough.

That conversation.

That moment.

But something in his chest refused to let it end there.

Before the driver could fully get into the car

Eren stepped forward.

And knocked lightly on the window.

Mikasa blinked in surprise.

The driver hesitated.

She gestured faintly for him to wait.

The window lowered halfway with a soft mechanical hum.

She looked up at Eren through the dim interior light.

Confused.

Curious.

“Yes?”

He leaned slightly toward the window, careful not to intrude too far into her space.

“You should come by the café tomorrow.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“For what?”

“For the macarons,” he said. “Since you have standards.”

A faint warmth touched her expression.

“And?”

“And,” he continued, a little more serious now, “I’d like to make them properly this time.”

Her gaze lingered on him.

The city hummed faintly in the background.

“You are assuming I will return.”

He smiled.

“I’m hoping.”

That word.

Not expecting.

Not demanding.

Hoping.

She felt something soften.

“I have rehearsal.”

“I know.”

“You were outside.”

He didn’t look embarrassed.

“I’ll work around it.”

She studied him for another second.

The lamplight caught in his hair.

The faint scar beneath his eye.

The confidence that didn’t feel arrogant.

“I will try,” she said.

Not a promise.

Not a dismissal.

Just honest.

His smile deepened softer this time.

“That’s enough.”

He tapped the roof of the car lightly.

A gentle, playful knock.

“Goodnight, Mikasa.”

The way he said her name again

Not formal.

Not distant.

She felt it in her chest.

“Goodnight, Eren.”

The window slid back up.

The driver finally settled into his seat.

The car pulled away slowly.

Mikasa watched him through the glass.

He remained beneath the streetlamp.

Hands in his pockets.

Watching until the car turned the corner.

—————

The moment the car disappeared around the corner, Eren stood there like an idiot.

Grinning.

At nothing.

He dragged a hand down his face.

You knocked on the window.

Who does that?

Apparently you do.

He started walking back toward the café.

The night air felt different now.

Lighter.

He could still hear it.

Goodnight, Eren.

The way she said his name.

Careful.
Soft.
Like she meant it.

His chest felt warm. Full. Almost buoyant.

He exhaled through his nose and tried to compose himself.

Calm down.

You invited her to the café.

You did not propose marriage.

But she said she’d try.

Not maybe.

Not we’ll see.

I will try.

He laughed quietly to himself.

A couple walking past glanced at him strangely.

He immediately straightened his posture.

Neutral face.

Neutral.

It lasted approximately four seconds.

Then the smile crept back.

He tried biting the inside of his cheek.

Didn’t work.

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

Walked faster.

You watched her for two hours.

Two.

Hours.

And you didn’t even notice.

He stopped mid-step.

Two hours.

He groaned softly.

That is insane behavior.

But he remembered the way she moved.

The way she forgot the room.

The way she flushed when he said beautiful.

He physically felt the memory in his chest again.

Oh.

This is bad.

This is very bad.

Because it’s not just that she’s beautiful.

It’s that she said his name like that.

He reached the café door still smiling like someone who had just discovered a secret.

He pushed it open.

The bell chimed.

Niccolo looked up from behind the counter immediately.

“…That was a long break.”

Eren froze mid-step.

Define long.

Niccolo glanced at the clock.

“You’ve been gone for almost two hours.”

Two.

Hours.

Eren blinked.

“I was walking.”

“With a handkerchief?” Niccolo asked.

Eren stiffened.

Armin, who had been sitting by the window with a book, slowly lowered it.

He had the look.

The one that meant he’d been watching the entire time.

“You did not walk for two hours,” Armin said calmly.

“I did.”

“You returned something,” Niccolo added.

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Nothing.”

Niccolo squinted.

“You’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” Armin confirmed, rising from his chair and approaching like a curious scientist.

Eren turned away, grabbing a towel aggressively.

“I’m not smiling.”

“You’re flushed,” Armin continued.

“It’s warm.”

“It’s not.”

Niccolo leaned against the counter.

“Who owns the handkerchief?”

Eren stiffened slightly.

“No one.”

“That’s not how ownership works,” Armin said gently.

“You were very insistent on returning it,” Niccolo added.

“That’s called being responsible.”

“For two hours?”

“I lost track of time.”

Armin’s eyes widened slightly.

“You stayed?”

Silence.

Too much silence.

Eren cursed internally.

Niccolo’s eyebrows shot up.

“You stayed.”

“I was nearby.”

“For two hours?”

“It wasn’t exactly—”

“Whose handkerchief?” Niccolo pressed.

Eren felt heat creep up his neck.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh it absolutely matters,” Armin said cheerfully.

Niccolo crossed his arms.

“You walked out of here like you were on a mission. You came back glowing.”

“I am not glowing.”

“You look like someone who just confessed,” Armin added.

“I didn’t confess anything.”

“Did you?”

“No!”

Armin narrowed his eyes.

“So you talked.”

“Yes.”

Niccolo leaned forward slightly.

“She smiled?”

Eren’s brain short-circuited.

“…Yes.”

Both of them froze.

“Oh,” Armin breathed.

Niccolo blinked.

“She.”

Eren winced.

Great.

Armin’s voice softened dangerously.

“Eren.”

“What.”

“Whose handkerchief.”

“It’s not important.”

“You left for two hours,” Niccolo said slowly. “For a handkerchief.”

“You watched rehearsal,” Armin added casually.

Eren whipped around.

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t need to,” Armin replied.

Niccolo’s eyes widened.

“You watched her?”

Eren rubbed his face.

“I may have… observed.”

“For two hours?” Niccolo repeated.

“It didn’t feel like two hours.”

Armin gasped dramatically.

“Oh no.”

“What?” Eren snapped.

“You’re done.”

“I am not done.”

“Whose,” Niccolo said flatly, “handkerchief.”

Eren clenched his jaw.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It absolutely matters.”

“You’re blushing again,” Armin pointed out helpfully.

“I am not blushing!”

“You are red.”

“I walked!”

“In the cold?” Niccolo asked dryly.

Eren slammed the towel down on the counter.

“Why do you care?”

“Because you disappeared for two hours,” Niccolo replied calmly.

“And came back looking like you swallowed sunshine,” Armin added.

Eren’s ears burned.

You cannot survive this.

Just don’t say it.

Don’t—

“It’s Mikasa.”

Silence.

Immediate.

Total.

Armin blinked.

Niccolo blinked.

“…Mikasa?” Armin repeated carefully.

“Yes.”

“The Mikasa?” Niccolo clarified.

“Yes.”

“The ballet one?” Armin asked.

“Yes!”

Silence again.

Then

Armin let out a small, breathless laugh.

Niccolo stared at him.

“You left work,” Niccolo said slowly, “for Mikasa Azumabito.”

“I returned her handkerchief.”

“For two hours.”

“I lost track of time.”

“You watched her dance,” Armin added softly.

Eren felt his face heat again.

“Yes.”

Niccolo leaned back slightly.

“Eren.”

“What.”

“You are in so much trouble.”

“I am not in trouble.”

Armin grinned.

“You invited her here, didn’t you?”

Eren hesitated.

“…Yes.”

Niccolo burst out laughing.

“You invited Mikasa Azumabito into this disaster?”

“She said she’d try!”

“Oh she said she’d try,” Armin echoed dramatically.

Eren glared at both of them.

“Stop.”

Niccolo smirked.

“You watched her for two hours.”

“I was returning something!”

“And stayed.”

“…Yes.”

Armin softened slightly.

“You like her.”

Eren exhaled.

The warmth in his chest hadn’t faded.

If anything, saying her name out loud made it worse.

“…Yes.”

Niccolo exchanged a look with Armin.

And then both of them smiled in the most infuriating way possible.

“Oh,” Armin said gently.

“This is serious.”

Eren rolled his eyes. Annoyed.

“Hey, Niccolo.”

Niccolo raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

Eren tried to sound casual.

Failed completely.

“Can you teach me how to make your macarons?”

Armin and Niccolo stared at him.

Then smirked.

(What Eren saw)

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.

Chapter Text

The hospital smells wrong.

Not bad. Just wrong.

Clean in a way that feels aggressive. Sterile. Like nothing here is allowed to grow or decay or breathe too deeply.

The sliding doors close behind him with a soft hiss.

White floors.

White walls.

White light.

Too bright.

He moves down the corridor too fast, then forces himself to slow. His boots echo. The sound irritates him. Everything irritates him.

Room 312.

Collapsed.

The word keeps replaying in his head. His hand hovers over the door handle for half a second too long.Then he pushes it open.

She’s awake. Not asleep. Not unconscious.

Awake.

Sitting up slightly against the pillows, a thin hospital blanket folded neatly over her legs. Her brown hair is brushed back but not styled the way she usually keeps it. There’s an IV in her arm. A monitor beside her glows green and steady.

She turns her head at the sound of the door and smiles.

Relief hits him so hard he has to grip the edge of the door to steady himself.

“Mom.”

Carla Yeager’s entire face softens when she sees him.

There it is.

That look.

Like he is still small enough to lift. As if he is still the young boy who ran into her arms after scraping his knee.

“Eren,” she says gently. Not alarmed. Not strained.

Just glad.

He crosses the room in three strides.

“You’re sitting up,” he says immediately, voice tight. “You shouldn’t be sitting up.”

“I wanted to see you when you came in,” she replies. His throat tightens painfully.

“You could’ve waited lying down.”

“I could have but I wanted to” She studies his face carefully.

“You drove too fast.”

“I didn’t want to waste time.”

“You always do when you’re scared.”

“I wasn’t scared.”

She lifts one brow faintly.

“Your hands are shaking.” He looks down.

They are.

He exhales sharply and pulls the chair closer to the bed, sitting down so suddenly the legs scrape softly against the floor. He leans forward, elbows on his knees and just looks at her.

Her skin is pale, but warm. There’s color in her lips. Her breathing is steady.

Alive.

The word echoes in his mind like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

“Nothing too serious” she says. “I stood up too quickly. The room spun then I fainted.”

“You don’t just faint, mom”

“People faint all the time.”

“Not you though.” She smiles softly at that.

“Especially me.” He shakes his head.

“No. Not you.”

Her expression changes then. Softer. Deeper.

“You were worried.” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches for her hand. He doesn’t even remember deciding to do it.

He just does.

Her fingers slide into his instinctively, like they’ve done this a thousand times before.

Her skin is warm and familiar. He presses his thumb lightly against the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse.

Strong.

Steady.

“You scared me,” he says. The words come out lower than he expects.

She tightens her grip gently.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not allowed to do that. Okay?”

“Oh?” she murmurs, amused. “Since when?”

“Since always.”

She lets out a small breath of laughter, but it fades quickly.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He swallows hard.

“I just—” He stops because the next part sounds ridiculous out loud. She waits.

She always waits.

“I thought I was going to walk in and you wouldn’t be awake,” he admits finally.

Her fingers shift, brushing lightly over his knuckles.

“I’m right here.” He nods once.

Too fast.

He reaches up and smooths a strand of hair away from her forehead, fingers careful.

“You look tired,” he says.

“I’m okay.”

“Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“Just a little.”

“Short of breath?” She smiles.

“You sound like your father.” The warmth drains from his face slightly.

“I’m not him.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Her gaze lingers on him.

“You care like him. But you don’t hide it.” He looks away. He doesn’t want to be compared to his father.

Not even gently.

She reaches up slowly and cups his cheek.

Her palm is soft.

“You’ve grown,” she murmurs.

“That’s how time works.”

“I mean it.”

Her thumb brushes just beneath his eye.

“There are lines here now.” He pulls back slightly.

“I’m twenty.”

“You were ten yesterday.” He huffs faintly.

She studies him for a long moment.

“You still run toward things,” she says quietly. He frowns.

“What?”

“When something scares you. You don’t step back. You run straight at it.”

He remembers the tree. The rain. The blood. The way he refused to climb down until she came outside. He remembers her wrapping him in a towel.

“You were angry at me,” he says.

“I was terrified.” He looks at her.

“You never looked scared.” She smiles faintly.

“That was my job.”

The words hit him unexpectedly hard.

He shifts closer to the hospital bed.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says.

“I’m not pretending.” He studies her face again.

Then, he leans forward and presses his forehead lightly against her hand.

He hasn’t done that in years. Her fingers slide into his hair automatically. She smooths it back the way she did when he was small and couldn’t sleep.

“You were so stubborn,” she whispers fondly.

“I still am.”

“Yes,” she smiles. “You are.” He exhales slowly.

“I need you,” he says quietly.

There.

It’s out.

Her breath catches slightly.

“Oh, Eren.”

She brings his hand toward her chest gently.

“I need you too.” She smiled softly

The monitor beside her continues its steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

He adjusts her blanket carefully, tucking it around her arm.

“Are you cold?” he mutters.

“I’m fine.” She watches him fuss for a moment.

“You get that from me,” she says.

He glances at her.

“Being overprotective.”

“I am not overprotective.”

“You drove here like the world was ending.” He opens his mouth then closes it.

She smiles softly.

“You’ve always loved loudly,” she says.

The words settle between them. Eren doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t want to lose that part of himself.

The door opens. The air shifts.

It happens instantly. Like a window closed in winter.

Grisha Yeager steps into the room in a white coat. Stethoscope draped neatly around his neck. Hair combed back precisely. Expression composed.

Professional.

Controlled.

Belonging.

Eren straightens slowly. His hand is still wrapped around his mother’s.

But now—

His fingers curl slightly. Not in comfort.

In defense.

Grisha Yeager steps in. White coat, perfect posture, perfect composure.

His eyes take in the room like a checklist.

Vitals.

IV rate.

Chart.

Then

“Carla.”

And

“Eren.”

Eren stands slowly. Does not release her hand.

“Dad.”

Grisha moves to the bedside.

“How are you feeling?” he asks Carla.

“A lot better.” He checks her pulse and Counts.

Always counting.

“I transferred the case,” he says calmly. Eren’s stomach drops.

“You what?” His voice rises a little confused.

“I will oversee her care.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I do.”

“You’re not her cardiologist.”

“I am her husband.”

“That’s not the same thing.” Grisha’s gaze shifts.

“You forfeited your place in medical matters.”

There it is.

Always that word.

Forfeited.

“I didn’t forfeit anything,” Eren says.

“You abandoned your studies.” Carla inhales sharply.

“Grisha…”

“He had an exceptional gift,” Grisha continues evenly. “Top marks. Precision. Discipline.”

“I hated it,” Eren says jaw clenching. 

“You lacked discipline.” Grisha spoke firmly. Authorative.

“I was suffocating.”

The monitor beeps faster.

Grisha notices immediately.

“You see?” he says quietly. “This is what I mean.”

“What?”

“You have no control.”

“You drugged me,” Eren says.

Carla goes still.

Grisha does not blink.

“They were cognitive enhancers.”

“They made me feel like I wasn’t real.”

“They stabilized you.”

“They suppressed me.”

“You were distracted!” He defended.

“I was eighteen!” Eren stands 

“You were unfocused.”

“I was drowning!”

The word echoes in the sterile room.

Carla’s heart rate jumps.

Beep-beep-beep.

Grisha steps toward the monitor.

“Lower your voice,” he says sharply.

Eren does.

Instantly.

Because his mother’s breathing has changed.

“I left because I couldn’t breathe in your house,” he says quietly.

“You left because you lacked vision.”

“You told me to leave.”

“If you would not commit to medical school, you would not remain.”

“You chose your career over me.”

“I chose structure over chaos.”

“I was not chaos!”

“You were volatile.” The word lands like a slap.

Something inside Eren cracks.

“You want to know why I didn’t want to become you?” he asks quietly.

Grisha says nothing.

Rain.

Then he’s ten again. Back in his room. It was a stormy night. Thunder splits the sky open.

He hears a loud crash from his parents’ bedroom.

He runs.

She’s on the floor.

Breathing wrong. Gasping.

“MOM!”

He screams for his father. No answer.

He calls the hospital.

“Dad— help me! she can’t breathe!”

“What are her symptoms?” Calm.

Always calm.

“Come home!” He begged, crying.

“I am in surgery.”

The rain pounds against the windows.

“I can’t leave, eren” was all he said

The words feel like a door slamming.

“She’s on the floor! Please dad!”

“Call emergency services.”

“I’m scared!” He begged again and again and again.

“Focus, Eren.”

Click.

Dial tone.

He kneels beside his mother. Counts her breaths. Shaking, but holding her hand as if she might disappear the second he lets go

Ten years old.

Alone.

The hospital room snaps back.

White light.

Beep-beep.

Eren’s chest is rising too fast now.

“You weren’t there,” he says.

Grisha’s eyes sharpen.

“I was in the middle for a serious case.” The same old answer, over and over again.

“She was dying!” Eren was now shaking from the emotions he tried to surpass.

“She survived.”

“I was ten!” Silence.

Carla’s eyes are wet.

“You taught me something that night,” Eren continues, voice shaking now. “You taught me that your patients come first.”

“That is my duty.” Grisha answered coldy

“And she is your wife” The words break, not loud.

But broken.

“You told me to focus,” Eren says. “While I was watching her turn blue.” Grisha’s composure cracks.

Barely.

“You misunderstand sacrifice.”

“No,” Eren whispers. “I understand it perfectly.”

The monitor screams faster now.

Beep-beep-beep.

Carla grips his hand weakly.

“Stop please” she whispers. Grisha inhales sharply.

“Calm yourself,” he says. Eren lets out a hollow laugh.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“You always correct the reaction. Never the cause.” Grisha’s jaw tightens.

“You are speaking emotionally.”

“Yes” Eren says.

“And that is your weakness.”

“No.” He steps closer.

“It’s my strength.” He spoke firmly

Silence.

Heavy.

Raw.

“You could have been extraordinary,” Grisha says.

“I am,” Eren replies.

“In what?”

“In not abandoning the people I love.” That lands.

Deep.

Grisha looks at him for a long time.

Then—

“You are still my son.” The words are tight, not warm.

But not empty either.

Grisha turns and leaves. The door closes. The hospital room hums again.

Carla squeezes Eren’s hand.

“You were a child,” she whispers with a hint of pain in her sweet voice. 

___

Eren stays the entire night not because anyone asks him to but because he didn’t want leave.

The hospital quiets in layers.

First the visitors disappear.

Then the footsteps thin.

Then the overhead lights dim into a softer, more artificial glow.

The world reduces to one room.

One bed.

One steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Carla sleeps lightly. Not deeply. Her fingers remain loosely curled around his, even in unconsciousness. As if somewhere in her body she still needs to confirm he is there. Eren sits beside her, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of her chest.

He counts. He doesn’t mean to. He just does.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Every breath she takes feels like a small victory.

Around three in the morning she stirs.

“Eren?”

“I’m here, mom”

Her eyes barely open.

“You should go home, eren” she whispers.

“No.” He answered immediately.

“You have your own place now.” 

“I know.”

“Then rest there.” She insisted. He shakes his head.

“I’ll rest here with you” he answered in aa low voice. She studies him in the dim light, and there’s something fragile in her gaze.

“You always guard,” she whispers. He doesn’t respond because guarding is easier than losing.

She drifts back to sleep.

He doesn’t leave. He stays.

____

Morning arrives in pale grey.

Tests repeat. Conversations happen in hushed tones outside the room. Words like stress-induced and manageable are spoken carefully. It is not catastrophic but it is not nothing.

Grisha handles the discharge with professional efficiency.

Paperwork signed. Instructions delivered. Follow-ups scheduled.

The hospital driver is already waiting at the entrance.

All arranged by grisha 

Carla stands carefully, leaning slightly into Eren’s arm as they walk down the corridor while grisha walks beside them, composed as ever.

In the lobby, Carla looks at him.

“You’re coming home?” She looks at him. Eyes, as if begging for him to. 

“I have rounds. I’ll come home after my shift” he replies evenly.

No apology.

No hesitation.

Work first.

Always.

Carla nods faintly. Disappointment evident but she doesn’t show it for long. 

Eren watches him for a moment. The white coat, the posture, the distance.

He says nothing.

The driver opens the back door of the dark sedan.

Carla looks at Eren.

“Will you come?” Her voice soft

“Of course.” Immediate.

He doesn’t look at his father when he says it instead he turns toward the parking lot where his motorcycle waits.

Black. Slightly worn. Not new. Earned.

He pulls on his helmet and swings onto it.

The black sedan pulls out first. Quiet. Smooth. Leather interior. Climate-controlled comfort. Eren follows behind.

Wind pressing against his chest. Engine humming under him. The city air sharp and real in his lungs.

Eren grew up comfortably.

Private school. Winter coats that were always new. A house that never worried about bills.

Money was never a problem.

His father was respected. Established. There was always stability but stability came with ownership.

Expectation and direction.

Medical school was not a suggestion. It was a path already drawn.

But now he lives in a small apartment. The paint chips in the stairwell. The radiator rattles in winter, he budgets carefully. Pays rent with his own money. Fixes what breaks.

When Grisha tried to transfer money into his account the first time after he left, Eren sent it back.

Every time, after that he eventually stopped.

He will not be funded into obedience. He will not be sponsored into becoming someone else.

The neighborhood shifts as they drive. Tree-lined streets with wider sidewalks he used to ride his bike in. Iron gates he once climb over just to hang out it his friends right after his curfew.

The Yeager house appears at the end of the block. Two stories, dark shutters and the old oak tree where he got that small scar in his eye from. The front yard stretching its branches wide like it never stopped guarding the place.

It looks exactly the same. He hasn’t stood here in two years not since the night he left with a backpack and a fury he didn’t know how to express.

He kills the engine.

The silence after the motorcycle’s hum feels heavy. He removes his helmet slowly. The driver helps Carla out of the car.

Eren steps forward and takes her arm instinctively.

“You don’t have to hover” she says softly.

“I know.” Inside, the house smells the same.

The same laundry detergent. Polished wood. A faint trace of his mom’s perfume lingering in the air.

The entryway rug is still crooked at one corner. The hallway pictures remain untouched. Smiling versions of them.

Before.

Carla pauses just inside the doorway.

“It feels different with you here, eren” she says.

He swallows, it feels different to him too.

Smaller.

And larger.

Like a memory stretched thin over the present.

He helps her to the couch.

“You should rest.” He says

“I’ve been resting.” 

“You need more.” She studies his face.

“You look older.” Her face shifting to something sad

“I am.”

“No,” she says gently. “You look heavier.” He doesn’t argue.

“Stay,” she says quietly not desperate.

Just hopeful.

“Stay for a while.” Two years ago, he left this house because staying meant surrender but now staying feels different.

“I’ll stay,” he says. Relief softens her immediately.

He makes her tea the way she likes it. Light. Warm. Not too strong. He moves easily through the kitchen. Muscle memory guiding him. The drawer where the teaspoons are kept, the cabinet with the white cups, the kettle that whistles slightly too high.

He hands her the cup their fingers brush. She smiles at him like he never left.

They sit together for a while, talk about safe things. The neighbor’s new fence. The oak tree that needs trimming. The weather. After a while, her eyelids droop.

“Go lie down,” he says gently. Walks her to the bedroom. The same hallway, the same door.

She lies down carefully he adjusts the blanket.

Again.

“You don’t need to keep an eye on me,” she murmurs.

“I know.” Still, he stays until her breathing evens out. Until sleep settles fully over her.

Then he steps into the hallwayA and looks toward the end.

His room.

The door is closed, he hasn’t been inside in two years. Before he can think his legs started walking towards it slowly. Each step feels like stepping back in time. He pushes the door open, dust floats in the afternoon light and everything is still there.

His bed. His desk. The books stacked unevenly. The posters on the wall. The small crack in the corner of the ceiling he used to stare at during sleepless nights.

Untouched.

Preserved.

Like she kept it ready. His chest tightens painfully.

She didn’t erase him, didn’t box him up. She left the room breathing quietly in his absence.

He steps inside, the air smells faintly like old paper and wood. He runs his fingers across the desk, dust coats them lightly and then he sees it. In the corner leaning exactly where he left it.

His guitar.

Dark wood. Slight scratch near the base from the day he dropped it rushing to argue with his father.

He crosses the room slowly almost reverently.

Picks it up.

The weight settles into his hands like something that never stopped belonging to him. He sits on the edge of his old bed the mattress dips the same way it always did. He runs his thumb gently across the strings a soft imperfect chord fills the room.

He smiles faintly, it’s slightly out of tune. He adjusts the pegs carefully.

Listening, then strums again.

Clear.

Warm.

Alive.

He closes his eyes.

And plays.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically, just enough to let the sound fill the space.

This.

This is what his father never understood.

Music was never distraction, never indulgence. It was breath.

When the house felt too tight, when expectations pressed too hard, when medical school felt like a cage closing around him. He played.

He remembers the arguments in this very doorway.

“You are wasting time.”

“Music will not sustain you.”

“Discipline builds greatness.”

He remembers gripping this guitar afterward, fingers aching, playing until the walls felt less suffocating. Now, sitting here again, sunlight stretching across the floorboards, dust drifting like suspended time. It doesn’t feel like rebellion, it feels like return.

He moves into a melody he wrote when he was seventeen back when everything felt like storm and pressure. Now it sounds different. More grounded and less desperate.

He lets the final note linger, the silence that follows is gentle.

Not sterile.

Not clinical.

Just quiet.

He rests his forehead lightly against the body of the guitar and exhales. He didn’t choose small, didn’t choose easy. He chose this and for the first time since stepping into the hospital his chest feels steady. Not guarded or defensive, just certain.

He stays longer than he planned. Longer than he admits to himself.

The afternoon light shifts gradually across the living room floor, stretching gold over polished wood. The house settles into its quiet rhythm, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint ticking of the hallway clock, the distant sound of a car passing outside. Eren sits near the window with the guitar resting against his thigh he doesn’t play loudly just enough to let the sound exist.

Carla sleeps for a while. Then wakes. Then drifts again.

He listens for every change in her breathing.

Old habits.

When she wakes for good, it’s later in the afternoon. The sunlight is warmer now, angled differently, softer. She steps into the living room slowly, holding the wall briefly for balance.

He’s up immediately.

“Mom, should have called me,” he says.

“I walked ten steps.”

“That’s enough.” She smiles at him, amused.

“You’ve become very stern.”

“I learned from the best.” She laughs quietly.

“You don’t sound like him.” He relaxes slightly at that her eyes drift to the guitar in his hands.

“You were playing,” she says gently.

“Yeah.”

“For a long time?”

“I didn’t notice.” She moves closer and sits carefully on the couch. He lowers himself beside her, the guitar resting between them she brushes her fingers lightly over the edge of it.

“I used to stand outside your door and listen,” she admits softly. He looks at her.

“You did?”

“You thought you were quiet.” He almost smiles.

“I wasn’t?” He smiles

“No.” Her expression turns thoughtful.

“You were happiest when you were playing.” The words are simple, uncomplicated. They land heavier than criticism ever did.

He swallows.

“I didn’t feel like I was allowed to be,” he says quietly.

She closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t fight for you hard enough.” He shakes his head immediately.

“Don’t.” He stops her immediately. None of this is her fault. 

She studies his face carefully.

“You were brave,” she says softly. “Leaving.” He doesn’t feel brave, he felt desperate but he nods anyway.

They sit there in comfortable silence for a while then they hear the front door opens.

Grisha.

The air changes again. Not sharply, not like before but noticeably.

He steps inside, removes his coat, hangs it precisely in its place. His eyes land first on Carla then on Eren then on the guitar he was holding.

He pauses.

It’s subtle but Eren sees it. A flicker of something unreadable.

“You are not suppose to be out of bed,” Grisha says to Carla.

“I feel better.”

“Do not overexert yourself.”

“I just walked to the couch.”

“You should stay rested for today.” His tone is calm. Measured but less sharp than it was in the hospital. His gaze returns to Eren.

“You stayed,” he says.

“Yes.” A quiet nod.

“That’s good”. The word lands differently this time. Not a correction, not a critique but an acknowledgment. Eren shifts slightly.

“I was going to head back,” he says. Carla’s fingers tighten faintly on his sleeve.

“So soon?” Her voice gentle and sweet.

“I have work tomorrow.” She nods slowly.

Understanding but there’s a softness and longing in her eyes that makes his chest ache.

He stands, adjusts the guitar strap over his shoulder the house feels smaller suddenly like it knows he’s about to leave again.

Carla rises too quickly, he steadies her.

“Easy.” She looks up at him.

“You’ll come again?”

“Yes.”

“Soon?”

“Soon.” She studies him carefully.

“Promise me.” He hesitates, promises in this house once meant obligation but this one feels different.

He nods.

“I promise.” Her hand comes up to cup his cheek the gesture is so familiar it almost undoes him.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” she whispers. His throat tightens.

“I know.”

“Be happy,” she says softly.

He exhales slowly.

“I’m trying.” She pulls him into a hug. It isn’t tight. She’s still fragile but it’s warm. He closes his eyes for just a second, memorizes it. Then steps back.

Grisha stands near the hallway. Watching.

Eren picks up his helmet from the table. He moves toward the door.

“Eren.” He turns.

Grisha stands in the hallway, hands at his sides. For a moment, it looks like he might not say anything at all. Then

“I am glad you stayed with your mother.”

Silence.

“It’s no problem.” A pause. Grisha exhales slowly.

“I wasn’t,” he says, the words are quiet. Controlled. But not detached, eren doesn’t move.

“That night,” Grisha adds. “I should have been.” Silence settles heavily between them.

“I’m glad she had you,” he says finally. It isn’t dramatic, isn’t polished. But it’s honest, it isn’t an apology but it’s not dismissal either. It’s the closest thing to an apology Eren has heard in years.

“Drive safely,” Grisha says. And then, softer—

“Take care of yourself.” Eren studies him for a long moment, he isn’t used to hearing those words without correction attached without a lecture waiting behind them.

“I will,” he says.

He opens the door.

The late afternoon light hits him fully, the oak tree rustles in the wind. He steps outside, doesn’t look back this time not because he’s angry but because he doesn’t need to.

___

The ride home feels longer.

The city is louder now. He feels the weight of exhaustion in his shoulders when he pulls into the alley beside his apartment building, the engine sounds rougher than usual. He kills it. Silence falls hard. He climbs the narrow staircase slowly, unlocks his apartment door. The space greets him with stillness.

Small kitchen. Worn couch. A stack of unopened mail on the counter.

He sets the guitar down gently against the wall not in the corner but within reach. He drops onto the couch the exhaustion hits him fully now.

The hospital.

The house.

The memories.

His father’s unexpected words.

His mother’s promise.

He leans back and loses his eyes.

And then—

A different memory surfaces. A café window, tea instead of coffee. A small, reluctant smile.

“Goodnight, Eren.”

The way she said his name. Soft, unrehearsed.

Mikasa.

His chest tightens differently this time not with grief, with possibility.

He reaches for his phone, opens her contact and stares at her name for a long moment.

She’s probably still in rehearsal. Mirrors. Precision. Music echoing through a studio.

He types.

Deletes.

Types again.

Finally

—

Eren:

Did you survive rehearsal?

—

He stares at it.

Then adds:

—

Eren:

Today was long. I’ll tell you about it when you’re free.

—

He hesitates only a second before pressing send. The message delivers. Three minutes pass, no reply.

He sets the phone on his chest and stares at the ceiling. The apartment hums quietly around him. For a moment, everything feels suspended.

The past.

The present.

The possibility of something new. He exhales slowly and waits.

____

The studio is warmer than usual not in temperature but in pressure.

The air feels thick with effort. Resin ground into the floor, sweat caught in fabric, the faint metallic scent of overworked muscles pushed past comfort. The banners for The Nutcracker hang from the upper walls, faded gold against cream, their embroidered snowflakes catching the afternoon light like quiet witnesses to ambition. The pianist has been playing for hours, the melody now lives somewhere inside Mikasa’s bones. She stands at center.

Sugar Plum Fairy.

Her shoulders lower. Chin lifts. Breath slows.

The first notes rise from the piano, her body answers immediately.

Turn.