🪷⋆˚𝑑𝑢𝑦𝑒𝑒 ⋆˚

Eren and Mikasa come from neighbouring families who live in Shiganshina on properties very close to each other. Their houses are separated only by a small river and a bridge.

Their grandmothers are close friends who always wanted to unite their families. Eren’s grandmother is a viscountess and Mikasa’s grandmother is a baroness. Both women had about three children, but those children married outside the families, so the union never happened.

The viscountess’s third son has a son (Eren) at the same time the baroness’s third son has a daughter (Mikasa). The grandmothers immediately decide to arrange a marriage between the two newborns.

They declare that Eren and Mikasa will marry when they turn eighteen and arrange the betrothal through the children’s parents, who are visibly uncomfortable with the idea but not fully opposed.

Eren and Mikasa grow up together. They are educated together and spend much of their time playing and visiting each other’s homes across the bridge.

They share a close friend, Armin, the grandson of the village church’s vicar. The three of them become very close.

Around the age of twelve, Eren and Mikasa finally understand what marriage means. Eren reacts badly to the idea and says cruel things to Mikasa, including that he would never marry a boring, lice-ridden girl like her.

Mikasa is deeply hurt and stops speaking to Eren. Eren also stops speaking to her, and the distance between them grows.

When they are sixteen, Eren decides—against his grandmother’s wishes—that he wants to join the army. His grandfather, the old viscount, gives him the money to buy a commission.

((A commission is the official appointment as an army officer, granting ranks such as Ensign, Lieutenant, Captain, Major, or Colonel. Buying a commission meant paying money to obtain a rank in a regiment.))

((The system existed so that only men of money or social standing would become officers. Men without money could join as privates and might rise to corporal or sergeant but almost never became officers because those ranks usually required purchasing a commission.))

Eren buys a commission and enters the army as an Ensign. Over the years he rises through the ranks and becomes a captain at the age of twenty-three.

During his years in the military, Mikasa writes letters to him, but Eren never replies. He deliberately ignores them, and eventually Mikasa stops writing.

The next time he receives a letter from her, she informs him that his grandmother is ill and has asked him to come home because there is something important she wishes to tell him. Eren ignores the letter.

Later he receives another letter from his father informing him that the viscountess has died.

Eren returns to Shiganshina, only to discover that his grandmother has already been buried. Her last wish was that Eren should be happy, so she and Mikasa’s grandmother had broken the engagement before her death.

He also learns that Mikasa’s grandmother died a year earlier. The baroness left Mikasa a considerable inheritance, enough to support her for a season with the assistance of Baron Ackerman (now Levi).

Eren celebrates the fact that he no longer has to marry. When he attempts to speak to Mikasa again, however, she treats him with complete indifference.

Eren asks Armin (who is now the village vicar) why Mikasa treats him so coldly. Armin tells him plainly that Mikasa is resentful because Eren never answered her letters.

Eren argues that Mikasa should be happy now that she is free to marry someone she truly loves. Armin reacts sharply and tells him something along the lines of, “And how exactly do you know she doesn’t love you, you jackass?”

Meanwhile, Mikasa begins preparing for her season and attends neighbourhood dances and social gatherings, where she quickly attracts attention.

Eren also attends these dances, since his grandmother had not wanted the household to remain in mourning forever.

At these dances, teas, and gatherings, Eren begins to see Mikasa differently. He notices how beautiful she is, how intelligent she is, how she refuses to be controlled by men, and how capable she seems at everything she does. Slowly, he realises he is falling in love with her.

The realisation makes him miserable. He grows jealous when other men show interest in her.

Armin mocks him for it and says he has no chance of winning Mikasa back. Eren, stubborn as ever, takes that as a challenge and decides he will win her back.

When the season begins, Mikasa travels to Mitras. Eren follows and attends several of the same social events.

During this time, a particular man begins to show strong interest in Mikasa.

One evening at a gentlemen’s club, Eren overhears that man boasting that he intends to marry Mikasa no matter what because he needs her money. He even suggests that if necessary he will ruin her reputation to force the match.

Instead of confronting the man directly, Eren goes straight to Mikasa and warns her about what he heard.

Mikasa rejects the warning and sends him away, telling him he has no right to involve himself in her affairs. She reminds him that he never cared about her before, so he should not pretend to care now.

Eren does not know what to do, but he remains nearby and continues trying to protect her even though she openly rejects him.

Later, Mikasa begins to express doubts about marrying the other man, which prompts the man to put his plan into action.

His method of ruining her reputation is uncertain. One possibility is that he sneaks into her room at night so that people will discover them together. Another possibility is that he arranges a kidnapping.

If it is the kidnapping, Eren rescues her, but the man spreads rumours afterward, damaging Mikasa’s reputation anyway.

Mortified by the scandal, Mikasa decides to return to Shiganshina.

Unfortunately, the rumours spread even there. Because of this, Mikasa asks her father to find her a husband quickly so that the gossip will stop.

Privately, Mikasa’s father approaches Eren. Although Eren behaved badly in the past, he was the one who saved Mikasa, and her father cannot think of a better man to marry her.

Eren sees this as his chance both to save Mikasa and to win her back, so he agrees to marry her.

However, Mikasa remains cold and indifferent. She makes it clear that their marriage was arranged once before, and that is exactly what it is now, nothing more.

How will Eren win Mikasa back? I don’t know, friends, haha!

──✦ Winter Morning: A The Promised Princess drabble

──✦ After the birth: A The Promised Princess drabble

──✦ Lord Eren caressing his wife's face while she falls asleep: A The Promised Princess drabble

──✦ Lord Eren & Princess Mikasa's bath: A The Promised Princess drabble

──✦ Lord Eren & Princess Mikasa goes on a picnic date (early TPP pilot drabble*)

──✦ Actor Eren & Idol Mikasa smut (early CHB pilot drabble*)

──✦ Slytherin prince Eren & Lioness Mikasa: an Amortentia drabble

──✦ Dilf metalhead Eren: A metalhead Eren drabble

──✦ Mikasa and Eren phone sex: A metalhead Eren drabble

* By “pilot drabble,” I mean the fic concept already existed as we know it now, but it was still in its early stages. Because of that, character personalities may differ from what appears in the final AO3 version.

──✦ Bratty Heiress Mikasa & Daddy's right Hand Eren

──✦ One-night stand with Dr jaeger — accidental pregnancy

──✦ Ruin The Friendship — planned pregnancy

──✦ I’ll be the cure — a cabin eremika vignette

──✦ Santa Baby — a 2025 christmas drabble

──✦ Illicit Affairs — a cheating au

──✦ Sugar Baby AU 1 — a sugar daddy eren au

──✦ Sugar Baby AU 2 (smut) — a sugar daddy eren au

──✦ Sugar Baby AU 3 (smut) — a sugar daddy eren au

──✦ Sugar Baby AU 4 (baby hearbeats) — a sugar daddy eren au

──✦ Sugar Baby AU: 2022 Father's Day Special — a sugar daddy eren au

──✦ Mafia predator boss — a mafia eren au

──✦ Mafia predator boss Eren f*cks Mikasa in pub toilet — a mafia eren au

──✦ Mafia predator boss Eren gun sex — a mafia eren au

──✦ Professor Mikasa — a delinquent student eren au

──✦ Rent a Mikasa 1 — a little girlfriend mikasa au

──✦ Rent a Mikasa 2 — a little girlfriend mikasa au

──✦ Rent a Mikasa 3 — a little girlfriend mikasa au

──✦ Eremika partners in crime — a mafia-ish au

──✦ Nosferatu — a vampire eren au

──✦ Delinquent Eren f*cking Catholic Mikasa in the car — a catholic mikasa au

──✦ Mikasa and Eren just had a long night (fluff) — anon request

──✦ Eren making Mikasa beg for his d*ck — anon request

──✦ Eremika breeding kink — anon request

With her commitments for Gucci and Prada finally behind her, there was little left to do in the glittering heart of Lombardy except pack her bags and catch a jet home. A prospect she was, of course, very much looking forward to. Still, fashion week traditions were not so easily escaped. Before leaving, there remained one final obligation, inevitable as ever but not less expected: dinner with one of her closest friends.

So there she was, dressed head to toe in a black Yves Saint Laurent suit, red high heels, and oversized Chanel sunglasses. Waiting, no, anticipating, the arrival of her best friend. A model like her, only relegated to the men’s side of the industry. Eren Jaeger. Or idiot, or stupid, depending on her mood. (Motherfucker and cunt on days when he truly pushed her to the brink of homicide, but that’s for later.)

According to the media, he had been triumphantly acclaimed on the Giorgio Armani runways this season. The praise was well earned, and if Mikasa were honest, painfully overdue. In her opinion, Eren should have been receiving that kind of attention years ago. Yet it had taken nearly a decade in the industry, and only last season, for his name to finally start circulating with the weight it always should have carried.

However, that was not what had her nervous about Eren. Nervous was not usually an emotion he inspired in her. Mild concern and occasional secondhand embarrassment, yes (most of the time). Nervous no. Never. For goodness’ sake, Eren had been her best friend since she was fifteen, which meant more than half of their lives, an alarming statistic she tried not to unpack too deeply because it made everything feel suspiciously serious. They had survived puberty, fame, bad haircuts, awful relationships, and a lot of occasions of Eren thinking he was right when he absolutely was not. 

No, the problem was the proposal she was planning to make to him.

That was the real menace.

That was the real nerves.

So as Mikasa waited for his always delayed best friend, she replayed everything in her head. Every word. Every possible reaction. Every disastrous alternate ending where he laughed, misunderstood, or said something deeply Eren-coded like “are you sick?” She went over absolutely everything, because if there was one thing Mikasa Ackerman did not do casually, it was emotional risk.

She checked her phone for the fifth time since sitting down at the restaurant and sighed. Eren’s chronic disrespect for punctuality was still irritating after all these years, a personal flaw that had somehow survived puberty, fame, and adulthood. Still, she let it go. She always did. At this point, it was less forgiveness and more a lifestyle choice.

And then, just as she was about to text him a sharp ‘where the hell are you?’, the waitress stepped in and the idiot himself emerged from behind her.

Mikasa’s frown disappeared instantly. Not because Eren had finally shown up, late as usual, but because the absolute menace was wearing the exact same outfit as her. Same colour palette. Same silhouette. Same lethal elegance. The only difference was that hers was YSL and his was Armani and, infuriatingly, it fit him perfectly. A perfect match for his brown hair, which reached his shoulders and which, that day, he wore loose, framing his perfectly square face like he had accidentally styled himself into a magazine spread. 

“Cariño,” he said, his voice smooth and sweet, paired with a smile he knew very well how to use. “Were you waiting for me?”

Mikasa could not help rolling her eyes. “I’m always waiting for you.”

His smile only softened, turning warmer, more affectionate, as if her exasperation were part of the charm.

“Because you love me, of course,” he replied, leaning down to kiss her cheek. It lingered just long enough to be noticed, just brief enough to remain technically innocent. Paparazzi, if there was one over there, would have a field day with it. They always did.

She did not pull away. Instead, her hand came up automatically to adjust the collar of his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric, smoothing a wrinkle that did not exist. Muscle memory, really. Years of proximity, of knowing where to touch without thinking.

“You did this on purpose,” she accused, tilting her head back to look at him properly.

Eren grinned. “What, match you? Please. Great minds think alike.”

“You surely saw me earlier.” She chuckled. “Or asked my manager for a picture.”

“I absolutely did not,” he lied badly, sliding into the chair across from her. “I simply woke up this morning and thought, what if I coordinated aesthetically with the most beautiful woman in Milan tonight?”

Mikasa snorted. “You are impossible.”

“And yet,” he said lightly, eyes flicking over her with something dangerously close to reverence, “here we are.”

Eren slid into the seat beside her and the waitress took their orders without blinking. This was clearly not her first encounter with people who looked expensive and slightly unwell. 

As usual, Eren went straight for a martini, loyal to his brand if nothing else. Mikasa, meanwhile, ordered a cappuccino, which was shocking enough to qualify as a personality shift.

Naturally, Eren noticed.

“You are not getting your usual Negroni?” He lifted his eyebrow, with the seriousness of a man who had just spotted a glitch in reality.

Mikasa paused, thinking about what to say, anything that doesn’t lead to the proposal. “I don’t feel like drinking alcohol today, you know?”

He stared at her for half a second, then shrugged, filing it away under a ‘suspicious but not my problem’. He leaned back into the booth and, as always, got too close. Close enough to be familiar. Close enough to be annoying. Close enough that Mikasa had to remind herself why she had agreed to this dinner in the first place and why backing out now would be cowardice, not strategy.

“They are going to love this,” he murmured over her ear. “We just need a kiss—” he leaned in to press his lips against her cheek, casual and criminally confident “—and tomorrow the magazines will be very excitedly announcing that we are having sex again!”

Instead of embarrassment, Mikasa laughed, the sound slipping out easily. “You love when that happens, don’t you?”

Eren nodded, pulling off his Gucci sunglasses with his free hand and then looked at her with his deep green eyes. “I love having sex rumours with you, mi amor bonito.” He kissed her cheek again. “I’m deeply committed to the narrative that we are madly in love and refusing to admit it.”

She huffed. “We are not madly in love.”

“No,” he agreed easily. “Just aggressively codependent best friends with poor boundaries.”

She laughed in agreement. She was right and he was right. They were not in love. Probably never had been. They were friends.

Friends who hugged. Friends who touched. Friends who kissed, occasionally on the lips, but only if the vibe was right and the universe seemed chill about it. Friends who spent more time at each other’s apartments than their own, to the point where landlords could reasonably assume cohabitation. Friends who would make out when they were too drunk or climb into the jacuzzi naked with glasses of sparkling champagne, hugging each other in ways that were, frankly, suspicious. 

But nothing more than that.

Just friends.

Very committed. Very tactile. Very questionably defined friends.

Friends who, for ten years in the industry, had inspired the most bizarre and persistent rumour mill in the country. Some swore they were in a secret relationship. Others were convinced they were secretly married. A more pragmatic group assumed they were simply having sex and calling it a day. All perfectly reasonable theories, honestly.

And maybe their behaviour did not help. They were always draped over each other, borrowing clothes like personal space was a myth, appearing in public looking suspiciously coordinated for two people who definitely did not plan anything. 

But the truth was far less scandalous and far more inconvenient.

It was normal for them. Completely normal. Just one of those things that made sense within the specific ecosystem of their friendship and absolutely nowhere else.

Which was precisely why Mikasa felt the nerves creep back in right before the food and drinks arrived. She did not usually get shy. That was not her brand. Mikasa Ackerman was decisive, controlled, and famously unreadable. She walked into rooms like she owned the air inside them. But this was different. This was not a contract or a career move. This was a want. A deeply personal, terrifying want.

This was the kind of thing that could probably, possibly, catastrophically … ruin the friendship.

Noticing her sudden stillness, because Eren always did notice, he spoke. “You are very quiet.” His knee nudged hers under the table, grounding in the way only long habits could be. “Something’s wrong, bonita?”

Mikasa’s mouth twitched. She stared at the surface of her cappuccino, watching the foam slowly collapse into itself. She inhaled, deep and measured, then exhaled just as carefully, as if controlling her breath might keep the rest of her from unravelling.

It was now or never.

“I was thinking…” her voice trailed off and she needed to mentally push herself one more time. “I have plans.”

Eren blinked once and then smiled. “That sounds dangerous.”

Mikasa huffed. “Be serious.”

“I’m always serious when it’s about you. Especially when you make that face.”

She frowned. “What face?”

“The one where you are about to say something important and you hate that you care about my reaction.”

She rolled her eyes, an old habit installed by Eren himself. “I really have plans.”

His expression softened. “I am listening, mi amor.”

“For my future,” she added, unnecessarily.

“Very clear and attentive, mi vida.”

Mikasa paused, not for effect but because she was gathering her strength. And then, she spilled the beans.  “I want to be a mom, Eren.”

The words sat between them, heavy and fragile all at once. 

Eren froze mid-sip, glass hovering near his mouth, and stared at her after blinking three full times.

“Mamacita?” he said at last, tone unmistakably clueless. 

She ignored his tone entirely and kept going, because backing out now would have been emotional cowardice. “I have been thinking about it all year, honestly. And, well…” She hesitated, huffed softly, then committed. “I think it is time for me. I really want a baby, Eren. I want something that is mine. Not just another phase. Not another trend that expires after three seasons and a press cycle.”

With trembling fingers, she fussed with the handle of her cappuccino cup, suddenly very invested in ceramic physics. “So, well, you are literally the only person I have say all of this and…” She glanced at Eren.

He was still staring at her. Wide-eyed. Unblinking. Like his brain had blue-screened.

Her frown deepened. “What?” she asked, a little sharper than intended.

Eren finally blinked, then shook his head as if remembering he was supposed to participate in this conversation. “A mom? You? I’m not surprised, honestly.”

“Is that a bad thing?” she asked, wary.

He shook his head immediately. “God, no. Not at all. In fact—” He reached for her hand under the table, thumb brushing over her knuckles in a way that was far too familiar to be innocent. “—I think you would be a perfect mom.”

“You think so?” 

“I know so?”

Mikasa smiled. 

“But wait,” Eren said, panic finally deciding to clock in. “H-how are you going to do it?” His expression shifted into something almost grim, like he had just realised he had skipped an entire chapter of the story—her story. “Are you with someone? Like, with someone I don’t know about? Why did you not tell me?”

The questions tumbled out one after another, each one louder than the last, all of them screaming, ‘there is information missing here and I don’t like it, Mikasa.’

Eren kept going, because once Eren entered ramble mode, there was no emergency brake. “I thought we agreed that if one of us was with someone, we would tell each other so we would not get into trouble and—”

“I’m not with anyone, Eren,” she cut in immediately, stepping in before he could build an entire conspiracy board in his head. “I’m all alone and single as you.”

Understanding finally dawned on him and he nodded, like a man who had just caught up to the conversation several minutes late. “So how are you going to do it, huh? Uh, wait. Are you planning on going out partying and just getting pregnant or something?”

“Jesus Christ, no,” she shot back. “I am not that irresponsible.”

“Okay, okay,” he said quickly. “Then adoption? That is a nice gesture.”

“Hm, no. That is actually my plan B. Actually, I froze eggs a couple of years ago, and everything, and…”

She stopped.

Because that was it. That was the exact point where she was supposed to unveil her whole, carefully considered, deeply unhinged plan.

Mikasa looked at Eren, lips parting slightly as she took his hands in hers, committing fully to the moment because there was no graceful exit left.

“I was thinking about a donor,” she said carefully. “You know. Someone who could give me his… swimmers.”

She winced immediately after saying it.

Not because the word itself was scandalous, but because Eren Jaeger’s face did something profoundly unhelpful.

He stared at her.

Then he blinked.

Then he leaned back in his chair, hands still caught in hers, as if distance might suddenly restore oxygen to his brain.

“Swimmers,” he repeated mockingly.

“Yes,” she said, mortified now, cheeks warming despite her best efforts. “I’m aware it’s not the most elegant phrasing. I panicked.”

“Mikasa,” he said slowly, carefully, like he was navigating a minefield while blindfolded. “Are you asking me if I know a guy for the task?”

She frowned. “No.”

“Because I know guys,” Eren continued, nodding as if this were useful information. “Some of them are tall. Some of them are genetically impressive. Some of them are idiots, but still, the genes are there.”

“No,” she repeated, firmer now.

“Because if you want a catalogue, I could probably assemble a short list. We could rate them. Very democratic.”

She squeezed his hands, hard.

“Eren.”

He stopped.

“I’m asking you,” she said quietly. “If you would be the donor.”

The words hung there, unadorned, impossible to misunderstand.

For once, Eren had nothing ready.

His mouth opened, then closed. His brow furrowed. He looked down at their joined hands like he had only just realised they were there, like the contact suddenly carried weight it never had before.

“Oh,” he said.

Then, softer, “Oh.”

The restaurant faded completely now. The clatter of plates, the murmur of conversation, the world shrinking to the space between them and the years stacked invisibly behind it.

“You want me.” His voice was slow, not accusatory. Something between curious and careful. “To help you have a baby.”

“Yes.”

“Like… my swimmers?”

“Yes.”

Eren leaned back fully now, exhaling through his nose, eyes lifting to the ceiling as if negotiating with a higher power that had clearly been drinking on the job.

“Carajo, Mikasa,” he muttered.

Mikasa’s shoulders tensed. “Is that a no?”

“No. No, it is not a no,” he said, letting out a disbelieving chuckle. “You have asked me for many things, bebé. Money. Hugs. Foot massages. Kisses. Emotional support at wildly inconvenient hours. But my DNA?” He laughed harder now. “Fuck, Mikasa.”

Which was not the rejection she had feared and was somehow far more dangerous.

“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, expression shifting. Focused now. Intent. “It is also not a yes in the way you are imagining.”

She frowned. “Eren…”

He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, lowering his voice instinctively despite the privacy of the moment.

“I’m going to give you a baby, Mikasa. But I’m not, under any circumstances, cumming in a glass. For god’s sake, no.” The way he said it should have prepared her for what came next, yet somehow Mikasa still did not brace herself in time. “I’m going to give you a baby, and we are going to make that baby the traditional way.”

“Eren…” This time her voice came out sharper, more urgent, the verbal equivalent of reaching for the emergency brake.

He did not hear her, though. Or he did and chose chaos.

She was always strong, always sturdy, the perfect soldier, as the superiors had never tired of saying. Even crushed by the hand of a titan, with three ribs broken and breath stolen from her lungs, she had recovered with astonishing speed. No one questioned the superhuman epithet she had earned back in basic training.

That was why the sight of her shivering beneath three layers of blankets unsettled him more than any battlefield ever had.

“I’m fine, Eren,” she said, her voice so weak it barely rose above a whisper. “Don’t worry.”

Eren rolled his eyes, tired rather than amused. Mikasa always did this when something hurt. She brushed it aside and endured it in silence. And he, stupid boy that he had been, used to follow her lead. Yes, it’s not that bad, he would tell himself. 

But as he grew older, as the feelings between them became impossible to ignore, he learned to notice when something was wrong with her. Now, one look at her was enough. Her face, pale as morning frost, made his stomach turn, and he was not going to pretend otherwise.

“Don’t start with that,” he said. “You are sick. Very sick. You need to rest.”

“I don’t need to rest. I need to get out of bed and get to work,” Mikasa said, throwing back the blankets and planting a foot on the floor. “There is still a lot to do to get the cabin ready, is there not?”

Well. That much was true.

It had been about two weeks since they started renovating the cabin, after nearly a month spent escaping the army. Much of it was already finished, but important things were still missing. A garden, where they would grow their food. An animal pen, for the livestock they planned to keep.

Mikasa was the obvious choice for the garden. She always was the better choice between the two of them for almost everything. But that did not mean she would be working out in the cold. Not when the freezing temperatures were likely what had made her sick in the first place.

No. Eren was determined. Mikasa would rest today.

“Stay in bed, Mikasa,” he insisted. “The garden can wait.”

“Eren, really—”

“Mikasa.” His voice deepened as he reached the bed. “Stay in bed. I mean it.”

Effortlessly, he guided her back beneath the blankets and tucked them around her, sealing her in with a care that brooked no argument.

“I hate this,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said quietly.

That was the worst part. Not the cold, not the weakness, not even the way her body betrayed her. It was the helplessness. Mikasa had always trusted her strength. To lose it, even for a day, left her unmoored.

Eren reached out before he could overthink it and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. Too warm. Not burning, but enough to make his chest tighten.

“Damn it, you are burning,” he said in a more elevated voice. “It must be a fever.”

She made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a protest. “You worry too much, Eren.”

“Someone has to. You never do.”

That earned him the faintest curve of her mouth. Yet that faint smile faded as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind the familiar line of tension between her brows. Mikasa shifted under the blankets, clearly uncomfortable, clearly unwilling to admit it.

Eren straightened. “Stay there.”

“I wasn’t moving.”

“You were thinking about it.”

She did not deny it.

Eren turned toward the small table by the wall, already half cluttered with tools and scraps of wood. He pushed them aside, set a kettle over the fire, and crouched to feed it another piece of wood. His movements were clumsy and a little too quick, betraying the worry he was trying not to show.

Behind him, Mikasa watched in silence. “You do not need to stop everything,” she said after a moment.

“Yes, I do.”

“Eren—”

“You’re sick, Mikasa,” he said, without turning around. “That’s how this works.”

She huffed softly. “You sound very sure for someone who has never been sick a day in the past ten years.”

“That’s not true.”

“When was the last time?”

He paused as he could not remember. The power of the Attack Titan meant he could not get sick, waste away, or weaken in the ways ordinary bodies did. Mikasa, for all her strength and her remarkable blood, was still more human than he was. 

“See?” Mikasa pointed out, breaking through his thoughts. “You don’t get sick.”

Eren huffed and shook his head. “That’s not the point,” he responded, vaguely. 

The kettle began to heat, steam whispering into the air. Eren found a cup, chipped at the rim, and poured water over a handful of dried herbs he vaguely remembered Hange recommending once in an excursion. He stirred it with the handle of a spoon, scowling at it as if daring it to work.

When he brought it to her, she eyed it suspiciously.

“What is that?”

“Tea.”

Mikasa arched an eyebrow. “That is not tea.”

“It is close enough.” Eren arched an eyebrow back. Oh, this girl was being so stubborn. “You will drink, though”

She accepted it, hands trembling just slightly as she wrapped her fingers around the cup. She took a careful sip, then another, slower one.

“It tastes strange,” she said.

“Good,” he replied. “Means it’s working.”

Mikasa glanced up at him. “You made that up.”

“Obviously.” Eren was all smiles.

Despite herself, she drank the rest.

Eren set the cup aside and pulled a chair closer to the bed, sitting only when he realised he had been standing there uselessly again. He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes never leaving her face.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“But I just woke up.”

“And you’re already exhausted.”

Mikasa closed her eyes, then opened them again. “You’re staring.”

“I’m checking.”

“For what?"

“For… everything.”

That earned him a look, softer than before. “I’m not going anywhere, Eren. I’m here with you.”

“I know,” he said. Then, after a beat, “I just want to be sure.”

Her breathing slowed as the warmth settled in. The tension in her shoulders eased, inch by inch. Mikasa shifted, then stopped, clearly frustrated by her own weakness.

Eren noticed immediately. “What.”

“The blankets are too heavy.”

He leaned forward and adjusted them without thinking, lifting just enough to give her space. His hand lingered at her shoulder a second too long before he pulled it back.

“Better,” she murmured.

Mikasa went quiet after that. Eren thought she had fallen asleep until she spoke again, voice low and rough.

“You look uncomfortable in that chair,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

She did not argue about that. Instead, she lifted the edge of the blanket, just enough to make the gesture unmistakable.

“Come here,” she said quietly. “You can sleep. Just… here.”

Eren froze. “Mikasa, you’re sick.”

“I know.”

“And you need space.”

“I need warmth,” she corrected. “And you’re already here.”

Her hand found his wrist again, gentler this time. He hesitated for exactly one second longer than necessary.

Then he stood, careful not to jostle the bed, slipped out of his boots, and lay down beside her, stiff at first, unsure where to put himself. Mikasa shifted closer without hesitation, resting her forehead against his shoulder.

Mikasa sighed, long and deep, like something had finally settled.

“Better,” she murmured.

Eren stared at the ceiling for a moment, then slowly relaxed, one arm coming up to rest awkwardly at her back.

“Don’t get used to this,” he muttered.

She made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. Her fingers curled into his shirt.

“Go to sleep, Eren.”

But her carefully rehearsed little tale fell apart the moment she started listing her other symptoms at triage. Dizziness. Fainting. Crying over a completely unremarkable cat commercial. And, most damning of all, the small detail that she had missed her period for two months in a row.

That confession earned her a clipboard and a look that suggested food poisoning had officially been taken out back and shot. And now she was here, marooned on the examination table, waiting for the damn doctor, who was apparently unaware that other people had jobs, schedules, and lives they would very much like to return to.

The waiting, she decided, was a form of punishment. A social experiment, perhaps. See how long you could leave a person alone with their thoughts before they started confessing crimes to the sink? Mikasa stared at the stainless-steel basin mounted to the wall, its surface so polished she could see her own reflection in it. 

She was midway through convincing herself that this had all been a gross misunderstanding when the curtain twitched.

A nurse stepped in, brisk and cheerful in the way of someone who had already had this conversation twenty times today and would have it twenty more times before clocking out. She checked Mikasa’s wristband, confirmed her name, and scribbled something on her clipboard with mechanical efficiency.

“All right,” the nurse said. “Dr Jaeger will be with you shortly. He is just finishing up with another patient.”

Mikasa nodded, because nodding was easier than thinking. The nurse smiled, asked if she needed anything, and then disappeared again, the curtain sliding shut behind her with a soft, fabric sigh. Alone, she let herself exhale slowly, until… Laughter floated through the curtain.

It was low and warm. Unmistakably male. And unmistakably unmistakable (if such a thing made any sense). Almost, almost as if she had heard it before…

Mikasa frowned as the laughter echoed in her head, quickly followed by unhelpful flashes of that night of drinking. A mojito, then a caipirinha, then a man far too attractive to be left unsupervised at a bar. And she, of course, flirting with him without a shred of dignity, aided generously by alcohol and the simple fact that she had been just as lonely as he was.

Oh.

Her stomach dropped so abruptly she felt it in her knees.

No.

Absolutely not.

Her body reacted before her brain had time to stage a defence. She slid off the table, shoes scuffing quietly against the floor as she took a cautious step towards the curtain. If she left now, she could still salvage this. She could claim she felt better. She could fake a phone call. She could simply walk very fast in the opposite direction and never speak of this again.

But the curtain opened abruptly before she could even breathe.

“Miss Ackerman?”

She froze mid-step, caught in the act like a child with their hand in a cookie jar.

“Give me a second, and I will start examining you,” he said, his gaze absorbed in the clipboard in his hands.

“Alright,” she replied weakly, and as the doctor went off to wash his hands, she took the opportunity to scan him.

Green scrubs. Stethoscope. Brown chocolate hair pulled back in the same careless way she distinctly remembered tugging loose two months ago pressed against a bar bathroom wall that had smelt faintly of cheap soap and regret.

Oh, it was definitely him.

The realisation landed with the weight of a dropped tray, loud and catastrophic. Mikasa straightened a fraction, her pulse ticking unpleasantly fast in her ears as she watched him scrub his hands at the sink, sleeves pushed up, and movements practised and automatic. He looked absurdly at ease for someone who had just wandered into the most unfortunate coincidence of her whole adult life.

She told herself, briefly and desperately, that maybe he would not recognise her. Maybe she had imagined the familiarity—that bar bathrooms were all the same and that men with chocolate-brown hair and broad shoulders were not exactly rare. 

But then the water stopped running, and while drying his hands, he turned around.

“Alright, miss Ackerman, tell me what’s—”

He blinked.

Recognition crossed his face in slow motion, confusion giving way to something alarmed. For half a second he simply stared at her, as if she were a mirage the hospital lights had conjured to punish him personally.

“Oh,” he said.

“Hi,” she said, hands clasped neatly in front of her, as if good posture might help.

He blinked. Then blinked again, mouth falling open in a way that suggested his brain had briefly left the building. “Uh, hi,” he stammered, and that was all Mikasa needed to confirm that yes, unfortunately, this man did remember her. “I… I did not expect to find you here.”

Mikasa could not ignore the odd note in his voice. “Yeah, well, I did not expect to find you here either,” she said, fumbling slightly, “you know, considering Shiganshina has, what, two hundred hospitals or something…”

“Two hundred and sixteen,” he said absently, then seemed to realise that was not the point she was making. He cleared his throat and straightened, professionalism attempting to reassert itself with varying degrees of success. “One of which I apparently work at.”

“Of course you do,” Mikasa muttered.

There was an awkward pause in which neither of them seemed quite sure what to do with their hands. His hovered uselessly near the clipboard. Hers remained clasped in front of her, fingers laced together so tightly they ached.

“I am Dr Jaeger,” he said at last, as if reciting something memorised under duress. “And I will be examining you today.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Lucky me.”

Something like a laugh escaped him, quick and startled, before he caught it and coughed into his fist. “Right. Yes. Okay. We can do this. Professionally.”

“Sure,” she said. “Professionally.” (How professional they could be after having him inside her one time, she couldn’t say).

He gestured vaguely toward the examination table. “You can sit. Or, uh. Stay standing. Whatever you prefer.”

She sat, because standing made her feel like she might faint or say something she would regret, possibly both. He glanced down at her chart again, eyes scanning the notes with exaggerated focus, as though the paper might offer him guidance on how to survive this encounter with his dignity intact.

“So,” he began, voice settling into a calmer, more even register, “what brings you into the ER today?”

Mikasa hesitated, then sighed. “I feel wrong.”

He frowned slightly. “Wrong how?”

“Off. Unwell. Like my body has decided to freelance without consulting me.”

He nodded, the pen moving as she listed the symptoms. Fatigue. Nausea in waves. Dizziness. Fainting. Crying over things that had no business being emotional events. When she mentioned her missed periods, his pen slowed.

“How late?” he asked.

“Two months.”

The silence that followed was brief but heavy.

“There is a possibility you might be pregnant,” he said carefully, choosing each word like it might explode if handled incorrectly. 

She laughed. It came out sharp and disbelieving. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” she repeated, more firmly, as if volume might make it true. “I am just stressed, Doctor. I work a lot.”

Dr Jaeger looked at her the way one might look at a person who had just suggested the moon was following them home. “Uh, well, yes, stress can cause these symptoms in a woman’s body; I do not deny that. But, ah, uhm… anyway, I have to ask—” he cleared his throat, buying himself a second of courage “—have you been sexually active of late?”

Mikasa nearly laughed outright because, judging by his face, even he already knew the answer. So she spared them both the drama and said, very dryly, “Yes.”

“Alright.” The wretched man wrote something onto his clipboard with the air of someone confirming what the universe had been loudly hinting at and then looked up at her again. “So,” he said, professional to the point of pain, “when was the last time you had sex?”

“Two months ago,” Mikasa said right away, because at this point there was no reason to protect anyone’s feelings, least of all her own.

The effect was immediate and deeply satisfying in the most miserable way. Dr Jaeger’s handwriting stopped. Not slowed, not hesitated. Stopped. He stared at the clipboard as if it had personally betrayed him, then lifted his gaze back to her with an expression that suggested his medical training had not, in fact, prepared him for this specific brand of irony.

“And,” he said slowly, carefully, as if easing his way across thin ice, “was that… recent partner a regular one?”

She finally glanced at him then. His expression was very neutral. Too neutral. The sort of neutrality that suggested a man bracing himself for impact.

“No, it was a one-time thing. And honestly, all he told me was that his name was Eren. At no point did he mention being a doctor.”

Dr Eren Jaeger inhaled. Exhaled. He adjusted his glasses even though they did not need adjusting. “For the record. I do not normally disclose my profession in bars.”

“Of course not,” Mikasa said. “That would be irresponsible.”

Another pause as he rubbed his hand over his face.

“I am going to step out for a moment,” he said, still holding the clipboard like a lifeline. “To, ah. Order a blood test.”

“Great,” she replied. “I love surprises.”

Dr Jaeger sighed loudly, then slipping back into his carefully practiced professional tone, he added, “And just to clarify, regardless of any previous… social interactions between us, Miss Ackerman, I am still your doctor. If the pregnancy is confirmed, I will be the one monitoring it from now on.”