Helene appeared in the doorway, waving her wooden spoon in his direction. "Don't leave them waiting. Let me finish your birthday lunch in peace!"

He begrudgingly stepped away, and before he could even make it properly into the hall, the front door creaked wider and quick footsteps followed.

Carmen stomped in like she had every right to be there — a chill followed her in.

Her cheeks were flushed red from the cold, hair wind-tossed and a little wild, and in both hands she carried a small round tin with faded flowers painted on the lid. She was cradling it with such fierce concentration that Jean thought it must contain something highly valuable.

Behind her was Nora.

Jean caught sight of one eye, a bit of fringe, and one small hand clinging to the back of Carmen's coat like a nervous little barnacle.

Jean blinked. "Uh... hi?"

Carmen marched right up to him and thrust the tin into the air between them.

"Jean," she said, "Mum made biscuits."

Jean just stared at her.

Carmen lifted the tin a little higher, as if perhaps the problem was that he had failed to grasp the full magnitude of the situation.

"For... me?" he asked, genuinely baffled.

"Yes, for you."

From the kitchen doorway, Helene peered out to watch the scene unfold, fondness softening her face.

Jean looked down at the tin. There was a small dent in the side, a patch where the painted flowers had been scratched thin with age. Then he looked back at Carmen's face — the way her brows knit together in solemn determination, like she was handling a live explosive and trusting him not to drop it.

"I... um, thank you," he said, taking it carefully. "But you didn't have to come all this way in the cold just for this."

Carmen looked at him as though he had just said the single stupidest thing she had ever heard.

"Of course I did. It's your birthday." Then, with even greater conviction, she added, "And that is important."

They had only been friends for a few months, which made her sheer certainty all the more bewildering.

Jean's mouth twitched.

For one terrible second, he thought he might laugh — which felt like a dangerous thing to do when Carmen was taking this so seriously.

So he disguised it with a cough.

"T-thanks, Carmen."

She lifted her chin, rose to her full height. "Happy birthday, Jean!" she declared with her whole little chest.

Behind her, Nora gave another small tug on her sister's coat. "Can we please go now?"

Carmen nodded at once, mission accomplished.

She looked absurdly pleased with herself, flashing Jean a toothy grin. "I'll see you later!"

Then she grabbed Nora's hand and turned for the door, towing her younger sister back out into the cold with brisk confidence.

Jean just stood there in the hall, the tin cool in his hands, and watched the Krauser sisters flee.

He couldn't stop the smile tugging at his mouth. His mother had always made sure the day felt special, but he'd never had a friend to act as though the day mattered too.

In the years that followed, being presented with 'birthday biscuits' by Carmen became less a surprise and more an annual certainty.

Jean had assumed that once they joined the Cadet Corps, the tradition would quietly die under the weight of drills, exhaustion, and the army's very limited patience for sentiment.

He was wrong.

~•○●🎂●○•~

By evening, the boys' dorm had slipped into the usual tired disorder of first-year cadets after a long day of drills.

Lanternlight flickered a low amber wash across the room — catching on narrow bunks, rumpled blankets, and shirts shrugged halfway off aching shoulders. The air carried the mingled smell of sweat-damp cotton, scuffed leather, and the faint clean trace of soap beneath it all.

A few boys were still talking across the room in worn-out voices. Others sat hunched over their bunks, peeling themselves out of belts and boots and stretching sore muscles. Someone near the back was already face-down in his blankets.

Jean stretched out on his own bunk in nothing but his trousers, one ankle hooked loosely over the other, arms flung above his head while he listened to Marco talk from the bunk opposite.

"I'm just saying," Marco said, cross-legged and leaning forward, "if you make that face at Commandant Shadis again tomorrow, he might actually kill you."

Jean opened his mouth to defend his case, but the door creaked open before he could. Marco glanced over, his brows lifted, amusement creeping across his face.

Jean frowned, following Marco's gaze. "What are you—?"

Carmen stepped into the room. She paused only long enough to scan the row of bunks — calm and purposeful.

Her gaze passed over Reiner. He had been halfway through pulling on his shirt, but now stood frozen with the fabric bunched uselessly around his forearms.

Then Connie, who made a strangled noise and slapped both hands over his nipples, elbows tucked in tight like a man trying to salvage the last scraps of his dignity.

Bertholdt, already fully dressed in his pajamas, still managed to go red from neck to ear in one swift wave.

Then her eyes landed on Jean.

Recognition sharpened her face at once. She started toward his bunk, and only then did Jean notice the small tin tucked carefully in her hands.

Jean felt a slow dread open up in his chest. He pushed himself up on one elbow. "Carm?"

She reached his bunk, put one knee on the frame, and climbed in beside him with all the casual confidence of someone taking a seat beneath a tree.

Jean stared at her. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Carmen held up the tin between them.

"Birthday biscuits."

For one hopeless second, Jean looked around as if someone might intervene on his behalf.

Marco, naturally, did not offer.

"B-birthday biscuits? Carm, you can't just... bring biscuits in here!" Jean hissed.

"Why not?" she asked, popping open the lid with a quick practiced motion.

"Because—!" Jean spluttered, grasping wildly for any argument that made sense. "This is the boys' dorm. Curfew exists. And half of us are, well—" he gestured vaguely to his own bare front.

Carmen blinked.

Then, as if the state of the room was only just occurring to her, she looked around properly.

Quite a few of the boys were still half-dressed, several making weak attempts to recover.

Carmen looked back at Jean.

"Oh." Her brows lifted slightly. "I see."

She paused, just long enough to give Jean hope that she understood.

"I can take my shirt off too, if that would make you feel better? Then we match."

Marco folded forward laughing.

Jean closed his eyes like he was in the middle of prayer.

"Carmen," Jean said, eyes still closed, "for the love of God, remain dressed."

"Look," she shoved the tin under his nose, "The quicker you eat, the quicker I leave."

The scent hit him at once.

Butter. Sugar. That faint warm sweetness he knew before he even looked.

Jean cracked one eye open.

Inside the tin, tucked into a square of cloth, sat Marta's golden shortbread, the tops dusted lightly with sugar.

His shoulders dropped a fraction.

"You're an evil woman," he sighed.

Jean reached in, and took the top biscuit. It melted the moment he bit into it — soft enough to make the barracks feel gentle for half a second.

Carmen leaned over the aisle and held the tin out toward Marco. "Have one too."

Marco took one, eyes glinting as he did. "I feel honoured."

"You should," Jean muttered through the crumbs.

"Is this something you do this every year? Birthday biscuits?" Marco asked.

Carmen settled more comfortably on Jean's bunk now that the biscuits had been passed out. "Since we were eleven."

Jean shot her a look. "Aren't we getting a bit too old for this?"

"Too old for biscuits? What a deeply stupid sentence." Carmen reached for one herself.

Marco bit into the shortbread, then made a soft approving noise. "These are incredible."

Jean swallowed. "How did you even get these in here?"

"Mum sent them a couple of days ago," she said, wiping crumbs off her bottom lip. "I've been hiding them under my mattress."

Jean's brow arched. "So you smuggled contraband shortbread into military housing."

"Yes."

"And slept on it."

Her brows pinched faintly. "Not directly."

Marco laughed under his breath. "I think it's a nice thing to do."

Carmen glanced over. She lifted her hand and pointed at him. "When's your birthday?"

Jean groaned. "No."

Marco grinned. "Eighteenth of June."

Carmen nodded once. "Right. Consider yourself on the list."

Jean looked between the two of them in disbelief. "Why are we expanding the system?"

"Because," Marco said, brushing crumbs from his fingers, "I'd like to be included in the contraband biscuit network."

"That is not what it's called," Jean said.

"It is now," Carmen said as she shut the lid with a neat little click, and scoffed. "And at least Marco appreciates birthday biscuits. 'Too old,' honestly, Jean."

Before Jean could answer, she set the tin squarely on his bunk between them and slid off the mattress.

She smoothed her shirt and pointed at Marco again, like she was assigning a military duty.

"Make sure he eats the rest."

Marco gave her a mock-serious nod, saluting with two fingers. "Understood, sir."

Carmen looked between them, completely satisfied. Then, as if she had not already caused enough damage, she added, "Happy birthday, Jean!"

And with that, she turned and left — leaving the tin behind like she always did.

Jean watched her go.

Beside him, Marco reached over and nudged the tin lightly with his fingers. "She's a good friend, you know."

Jean looked down at it for a second, then popped the lid back open and reached for another.

"Yeah," he muttered, the corner of his mouth betraying him. "She is."

~•○●🎂●○•~

Birthdays felt quieter when Scout life claimed them.

They felt less like celebrations and more like reminders of absence. Reminders of people who never quite made it to their next one.

Jean hadn't thought he would make it to twenty. It was the reality Scout life had taught him not to flinch from.

But dawn broke over HQ all the same, and as the Scouts mounted up, Connie clapped him on the back hard enough to pitch him forward and announced, to absolutely everyone within earshot, that Jean Kirstein was getting old.

Jean had told him to piss off.

Connie had cackled at that.

Even Carmen, nearby with reins in hand, had cracked a smile.

And that had been the extent of his birthday.

No fuss. No cake. No time for much else. Just another long day on the road — the Scouts setting out to establish a new supply base further out before nightfall.

By the time the work was done, the new base stood in rough timber and hurried labour — hardwood hammered together in a rush before the last of the sun bled out behind the trees.

A raised platform overlooked the camp, its lower storage deck already stacked with supply crates. Wagons had been drawn up on either side, and horses stood tethered nearby in the long grass.

The camp had settled. Fires burned low in shallow pits, bedrolls lay strewn wherever there was space, and soldiers moved through the last quiet business of the night with tin cups in hand. Voices had thinned to murmurs and laughter softened to tired huffs.

Jean sat high above it all on lookout, jacket pulled tight around his shoulders, one knee drawn up. Smoke lingered low in the air, and a cool breeze threaded through the open frame, lifting the sharp scent of fresh wood.

Jean shouldn't even have been up there. It was supposed to be Sasha's shift. But Jean had made the fatal mistake of taking a bet that he could go an hour without complaining. He lasted less than fifteen minutes.

So now he was freezing his ass off at the top of a tower while Sasha, smug as sin, had clapped him on the shoulder and gone, "Happy birthday!"

Twenty sat strangely in his chest.

He could almost remember the warmth birthdays used to carry. His mother fussing in the kitchen like the day needed tending, a full plate of food, a sweet treat before the end of the day.

But birthdays had become hard to separate from the people who never got another one.

Marco was still nineteen.

Marco would never be twenty.

And he was not the only one.

Jean found himself wondering how many of the cadets were fixed there now — forever nineteen, never twenty. How many soldiers were frozen at twenty, never twenty-one.

His gaze drifted toward the distant tree line, dark and looming beyond the reach of the campfires.

Not for the first time, he wondered how many months he had left before his own number stopped too.

Before his thoughts could spiral any further, the ladder behind him creaked softly.

Jean glanced over his shoulder.

A second later — Carmen appeared, peering over the edge, chin just clearing the wood.

The moment he saw her, that familiar quiet warmth moved through him, pushing back the darker edges of his thoughts.

Jean blinked. "What are you doing up here?"

"What are you doing betting Sasha you could go without complaining?" she asked, brows drawn up.

Jean shifted, pulled his legs in and sat cross-legged, like he was settling in to argue this properly. "Look. I went longer than she thought I would."

Carmen just looked at him.

"Jean," she said, "you complained five minutes out from HQ that your left ass cheek was numb."

He crossed his arms and pouted. "It was numb.

That pulled a soft laugh out of her, and she hauled herself up onto the platform.

"Do you want some company?" she asked.

Jean opened his mouth to answer, then stalled.

The lantern beside him caught on her properly, washing her in a low gold glow. Her braid had come loose in soft wisps around her face, and the weariness of the day had sanded her usual sharpness down into something gentler.

Tucked beneath her arm, he noticed the folded wool.

Carmen followed his gaze and drew it out between her hands.

"I, uh, brought a blanket," she said quietly.

Something in him softened further at the sight of it — the last of his tension unwinding.

"You don't have to, Carm," he said gently. "You should go get some sleep. We leave early."

"I know," a hopeful smile touched her lips. "But... you must be cold."

Jean looked at her for a moment, then let out a quiet breath.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I am."

He lifted an arm and tipped his head toward the space beside him. "Come here, then."

Relief flickered over her face, tender and small enough that he nearly missed it.

Carmen stepped in close and draped one side of the blanket across his shoulders first. The weight of it settled over the back of his neck, shutting out the worst of the cold.

Then she lowered herself beside him and tucked into his side with a soft sigh.

Jean caught the loose edge and drew it around them both. As she nestled closer, his arm slipped around her, resting low at her hip while her warmth curled into him.

Her hand settled lightly on his knee, and a second later she let her head come to rest against his shoulder.

"Better?" she asked, giving his knee a careful squeeze.

Jean leaned his cheek against her hair and closed his eyes for half a beat.

"Much."

For a moment, the quiet between them felt easy — the camp below reduced to little more than the occasional huff of horses, the thin chirp of crickets in the dark, and the soft whisper of canvas.

Then Carmen tipped her face upward beneath his cheek. "At least this job comes with one perk."

Jean let out a low, drowsy hum. "Oh?"

"The view."

He followed her gaze.

The sky arched above them in a sweep of indigo so deep it looked almost endless — every inch of it dusted with light. Stars burned across the dark in glittering rivers and small bright clusters, while a thin crescent moon lingered low and pale.

His arm tightened around her by a fraction.

"Yeah," he murmured, "It's... beautiful."

"Do you know anything about them?" she wondered.

"No."

"No?"

"No." His mouth twitched. "I know they're there?"

She gave a tiny, sleepy snort. "Incredible. A mind for the ages."

Jean looked down at her, mouth twitching. "Good thing you didn't come up here for my intellect, then."

Her shoulders shook with a small laugh.

A beat later, her expression shifted with a small, sudden thought. "Oh, I have something for you."

Jean arched a brow, puzzled.

Careful not to let the wool slip too far from around their shoulders, Carmen glanced down into the small gap between them and reached inside her jacket. A second later she drew out a small square tin.

Jean blinked at it. "What's that?"

She looked at him once, then flipped the lid with her thumb.

The faint smell of butter and sugar drifted up between them.

"Happy birthday," she said quietly.

The tin was so small it held only two biscuits, nestled side by side.

For a second Jean just stared.

Then a laugh slipped out of him — warm and completely unguarded.

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing her temple. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

Carmen turned into it, closing that final inch, letting his forehead come to rest against her temple before she muttered, "I wasn't going to let you spend your birthday eating military rations."

She tipped the little tin up toward him.

Jean loosened his grip on the wool just enough to free his hand and took one. The biscuit crumbled softly between his fingers — delicate sweetness bloomed warm on his tongue the second he bit in.

"The rest of them are under your pillow, by the way. You can share them with Connie if you want," she added with a small smile.

Jean shook his head, smile still lingering.

"You know," he said, voice low, "the first time you brought me these, you looked so serious I thought I was supposed to salute."

Carmen frowned faintly. "Well, I was nervous."

"You were?"

Her shoulders lifted in a tiny, sheepish shrug. "I had never given biscuits to a boy before."

His expression gentled at once as his gaze dropped to the tin between them.

"You've never... missed a year," he said, softer now. "Not once."

Carmen tilted her head a little. "Why would I?"

He turned the biscuit absently between his fingers. "I don't know. Life. The Scouts."

A quiet breath left him. "Birthdays don't really feel worth celebrating anymore. It's hard to make much of another year when none of them ever feel guaranteed."

His voice dropped lower. "What if this is my last one?"

Carmen was quiet for a beat.

"That's exactly why I think birthdays matter," she said softly. "Because it means... I got another year."

Jean frowned faintly.

"I got another year of laughing with you, crying with you, growing with you. Another year of having you in my life."

Her fingers traced the lid of the tin. "I think that's worth celebrating."

Her thumb stilled. "And if it were your last, I'd be even more glad I made something of it."

Jean said nothing.

He only watched as Carmen lifted the last biscuit from the tin and snap the lid shut with a quiet click. She took a small bite, sugar dusting faintly at the corner of her lip, then she settled back against his shoulder as naturally as a breath.

Her words settled softly beneath his ribs.

This was what she had been marking all along.

Not just the day. Not just the number.

Through every year and every changing version of them, she had kept finding him with that same quiet truth in her hands.

Another year of returning to each other.

Another year of her beside him.

Another year of belonging to each other in that quiet, unspoken way that had somehow become a kind of home.

And for the first time that day, Jean did not think about where his number might stop.

He thought about the next one.

And the one after that.

And the one after that too.

Without warning, his mind carried the thought somewhere even deeper.

A kitchen filled with morning light. Sugar on the bench.

Her sleeves shoved up, laughing under her breath as she swatted his hand away from a cooling tray.

A smaller hand sneaking in from the other side, thinking neither of them were looking.

Jean went very still.

The image vanished almost as quickly as it came, but not before it left his chest aching with the shape of it.

It was dangerous. Dangerous to think that far. Dangerous to let his mind build something so soft, so ordinary, so permanent in a life like this.

And the worst part was realizing how badly he wanted it.

He shoved the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, barely tasting it.

Heat flooded the tips of his ears all at once. He blinked, a little startled by where his own mind had gone, and his hand gave the smallest involuntary flex at her hip.

He kept his eyes on the tree line, staring into the night like that might somehow steady the direction his thoughts had taken.

Beneath his arm, Carmen moved. He felt her head lift from his shoulder. In the blur of his peripheral, he caught her watching him — soft and knowing, as if she'd seen exactly how far his mind had gone.

Then, she leaned up.

Her lips touched his cheek.

Warm. Impossibly soft.

A gentle, lingering press — like she'd seen him slip somewhere far away and wanted him back here, with her.

Her breath feathered against his skin as she whispered, "Stay with me, soldier."

Jean's blush deepened so quickly it almost hurt. The tenderness in her voice undid him as surely as the kiss had. Warmth flooded his face, bright, humiliating, and lovely all at once.

When his gaze found her — her eyes were deep as the last breath of twilight, with starlight trembling faintly in their depths. The quiet fondness in the way she looked at him anchored him there, and before he could stop himself, a small, helpless smile found its way to his mouth.

Another year.

Another year of birthday biscuits.

Another year with her.

~•○●🎂●○•~

Thank you for reading! 🤎 Happy birthday to Jean! If you liked it please drop a comment, like or share 👉👈

~•○●🤎●○•~

Valentine's Day crept into the barracks the way warmth does after a long winter — slow, tentative, almost afraid it might be chased away.

The decorations appeared in pieces throughout the day. Paper hearts taped up between inspections, edges curling from the walls. Lengths of red ribbon looped over beams and tied off in clumsy bows. Wildflowers with crooked stems and bruised petals tucked into tin mugs, empty jars, even the tops of boots — picked hastily, handled too tightly and cherished all the same.

The instructors noticed. 

Of course they did. Their sharp gazes lingered on every bit of red and pink, every soft rebellion smuggled into place.

Then they turned away.

Just for today.

One day to let love exist without being questioned.

Cadets found reasons to linger — by the water pumps, in hallways between drills, in the sun-baked dirt of the training yard. Conversations stretched longer than they needed to. Hands brushed and didn't immediately pull back. Glances were caught and held for a heartbeat too long, then shyly looked away, smiles betraying what words didn't dare to say.

For a single, fragile day, the barracks remembered how to be gentle.

By evening, the lanterns flared to life, spilling warm gold across the scarred floorboards.

Jean paced like a nervous puppy who had just realized he had too many legs and no idea what to do with them.

Above him, paper hearts finally gave up their grip on the rafters, peeling loose one by one. They drifted down in lazy arcs, bumping against his hair and shoulders.

He ducked from one, scowled at another, and cast a vaguely betrayed look upward — even the decorations were in on a joke he hadn't agreed to.

"Okay, Jean," Marco said gently from the bunk, "you're going to wear a trench in the floor."

Jean froze, he'd only just realized he had an audience. "I'm not—"

"You are," Carmen said, tone teasing but warm.

She and Marco lounged side by side on Marco's bunk, boots off, sharing the last of someone's smuggled trail mix as if they weren't ten minutes from dinner.

Carmen leaned back on one elbow, legs swinging lazily over the edge. "You've done the same five steps twelve times. I counted."

Jean frowned and looked down at the small piece of chocolate, wrapped in foil, clenched tight in both hands.

It was just chocolate.

Not even anything fancy or romantic, just... something. A little square of sweetness to say hey, I see you. I like you. Please like me back.

With a groan, Jean dropped onto the opposite bunk. "Why am I even doing this?"

"Because you like her," Marco said simply. "And you want to show her you like her."

Jean didn't respond.

"She's not gonna bite," Carmen added breezily — then snorted to herself. "Well... not unless Eren tells her to."

Jean shot her a withering look, but it didn't stick. The weight of the chocolate felt heavier somehow — like it knew it was on the front lines of emotional warfare.

Marco hid a laugh behind a cough. "It's just chocolate, man. You'll be fine."

"It doesn't feel like just chocolate."

Carmen tilted her head thoughtfully. "You're right. It feels like you're about to propose. With a snack."

Jean let out a soul-wounded sigh and thunked his head back against the wall, eyes closed as though it could dislodge the feelings in his brain.

The knot in his chest tightened.

The problem with Mikasa was that she was never just alone — not really.

Not in a way that invited approach.

You never caught her lingering in a hallway, or sitting quietly by herself.

She moved like gravity had already chosen her direction — locked in orbit around Eren like a star that couldn't burn for anyone else.

And what was Jean supposed to do with that?

March up in front of Eren, and say, "Hey, uh, I know you've pledged eternal devotion to this guy and would probably take a blade for him without blinking, but... do you want this tiny piece of chocolate that's been sweating in my hand for twenty minutes?"

Right. That'd go over great. Instant romance. No notes.

As if reading his thoughts, Carmen straightened up, brushing crumbs off her lap.

"Okay," she announced. "Here's what's going to happen."

"Oh, good," Jean muttered. "A plan."

"Yes. You need one." She jabbed a finger toward him like she was unveiling a battle strategy.

"You're going to walk down to the mess hall like a normal, functioning human and not someone actively combusting. You'll find Mikasa, and say, 'Hey, I had an extra. Do you want it?'"

She spread her hands, deadpan.

"Easy. Perfect. Flawless."

Marco snapped his fingers, pointing at her like she'd just solved world peace. "Absolutely right."

Jean stared. "That's your big plan?"

"Yes," She said, no hesitation. "Keep it casual. If she takes it — great, you're in. If she doesn't, you eat it later and cry into your pillow. Either way, life keeps moving."

Marco nodded sagely. "Worst case, you end up with chocolate and repressed feelings. Honestly? That's better than no chocolate and repressed feelings."

Jean groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

"Or... unless," Carmen said, eyes glinting, "you'd like me to go give it to her, for you."

"No," he said quickly, heat climbing up his neck at the very thought. "Absolutely not. You'd probably tell her I wrote her a poem or some shit."

"Mikasa might appreciate poetry," she replied, far too innocently.

He lobbed a pillow at her. She ducked with a delighted cackle — then immediately leaned over to nudge Marco's leg with her foot, spurring him into motion.

Carmen stood, stretching her arms overhead with a grin.

"Alright, Romeo. Let's go woo Mikasa."

She bent down to slip her boots on. "We will stay exactly ten paces behind you." She straightened, smirking. "For observational purposes. And to catch you if you faint."

"I'm not gonna faint," Jean muttered, pushing himself up from the bunk, white-knuckling the chocolate like it was a live grenade.

Marco slung an arm across Jean's shoulders, light but steady. "You've got this, mate."

Jean exhaled, shoulders dropping. The foil stopped crinkling in his hands.

They stepped into the corridor together. Above them, the red hearts taped to the dorm doors fluttered in the lantern light — cheering him on like fools who believed in love.

And with Marco and Carmen at his back, he finally held the chocolate a little steadier.

~•○●🤎●○•~

The mess hall buzzed with a peculiar kind of energy that didn't quite belong in a place like this. Too soft, too hopeful, but had muscled its way in anyway.

The air was thick with the usual end-of-day grit — sweat clung to cotton, soap trailed behind freshly scrubbed skin, the heavy comfort of stew lingered in the air. But threaded underneath was something gentler. Something sweet. A whisper of cocoa melting slow in a pot. Sugar warmed just enough to soften.

Jean hovered near the doorway, staring into the room, wondering if it would be easier to just launch the chocolate into Mikasa's lap and sprint.

Across the room, cadets had started to split off in pairs — sharing benches, leaning in close, whispering.

Even the usual frantic clatter of mealtime seemed muted.

Jean caught sight of Hannah sliding something small across the table to Franz — who went scarlet immediately and hunched over like that would somehow make him less obvious.

A few tables over, Krista and Ymir were tucked close, laughing into their hands over some whispered joke. Ymir paused, tucking a loose golden strand behind Krista's ear.

And near the windows, half-lit by lantern glow, Mina sat with another cadet. Someone Jean didn't even recognize. They weren't talking. Just... looking. Quietly caught in each other's gaze like the rest of the world had slipped away.

Jean's jaw tightened.

God, he wanted someone to look at him like that. 

Like he mattered. Like he was the only one in the room.

Then his eyes found her.

Mikasa.

She sat at the far end of one of the longer tables, haloed in lantern light, still as stone but somehow shining.

Eren and Armin flanked her — Armin was speaking with his hands, Eren nodded along, brow furrowed in concentration. But even silent, even unmoving, Mikasa was impossible to ignore.

Jean watched her eyes shift to Eren, and when they did, something softened in her — just enough to make his chest ache.

He inhaled slowly. Something pulled tight behind his ribs. Every instinct screamed abort mission, abort mission!

At a table near the back, Carmen and Marco slipped into their seats, arranging their plates between them and taking slow, innocent sips from their mugs. Then, with absolutely no shame, they both turned and fixed their full attention on Jean.

Carmen propped her chin in her hand and raised her brows. The corner of her mouth pulled up as she lifted her free hand and gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up that involved her entire arm. Marco followed with a double thumbs-up and the sort of earnest, way-too-supportive grin that suggested they hadn't just escorted Jean to his doom five minutes ago.

Jean swore under his breath.

Then he squared his shoulders, gripped the chocolate a little tighter.

His legs moved.

He crossed the hall, heart thumping, the din of the mess hall blurred into a low, distant hum.

Mikasa looked up first. Eren followed a heartbeat later. That did not help.

"Jean?" Eren said, eyebrows pulling together. "What do you want?"

"I, uh—" Jean started.

Mikasa's gaze was on him, steady, unflinching.

He forced his fingers to unclench, lifted his hand, and held the chocolate out before he could think better of it. 

"I had a spare," he said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around strangled. "Do you— uh. Do you want it?"

Armin blinked. Eren frowned.

Mikasa's gaze dropped to the chocolate, then returned to his face. Surprise surfaced in her eyes, breaking through that steady calm for a moment. Her lips parted as if she were about to say something—

Then Eren shifted, nudging Mikasa's shoulder with his. "Hey, Armin," he said a little too loudly, "didn't you say you wanted to go over that formation stuff again before lights-out?"

Armin, bless him, looked torn between backing Jean up and getting swept up in whatever Eren had just thrown at him. "I uh... I did, but we don't have to—"

Eren seized on it. "Then let's do it now. C'mon."

He stood, chair scraping against the floor as he moved. Armin sighed, clearly not finished with his meal, and pushed his bowl away to follow.

Mikasa's attention shifted, as natural as breathing, from Jean to Eren.

"I'll come with you," she said, rising smoothly to her feet.

Jean stood there, hand still half-extended, chocolate dangling uselessly between his fingers.

Mikasa paused.

Her eyes found his. 

For a moment, he thought— maybe, just maybe—

"That's kind," she said quietly. "But you should... give it to someone else."

Then she turned, her dark hair whispering against her collarbone as she followed after Eren and Armin. Without looking back.

The words weren't cruel. 

They were... practical. Distant. Like she'd accepted his gesture, weighed it, and set it aside in favor of the thing that mattered more.

Jean's fingers curled slowly around the chocolate until the foil split with a quiet snap.

He swallowed, throat tight, and forced a crooked half-smile.

"Right," he muttered to himself. "Should've seen that coming."

He shoved the chocolate into his pocket and turned away before he could humiliate himself any further.

~•○●🤎●○•~

Jean lay flat on his back, one arm flung over his eyes, the other resting uselessly on his chest.

The chocolate sat in his pocket. Warm. Misshapen. An accusation

Bootsteps stopped beside his bunk.

"Is he dead?" Carmen whispered.

"Unclear," Marco whispered back. "Poke him and find out."

Jean didn't move. "I can hear you," he muttered into his arm.

Jean reluctantly slid his forearm down just enough to see them. Carmen and Marco stood side by side at his bunk. Carmen with her hands on the bedframe, leaning in slightly, hair spilling wilder than usual. Marco with his arms folded, chin tipped, studying Jean like he was some kind of puzzle.

"Oh good. I was worried rigor mortis was settling in." Carmen said. 

Jean glared. "Why are you still here Krauser? Curfew forget you exist, or are you just committed to getting yelled at in two different dorms tonight?"

Carmen huffed a quiet laugh, her face softening. "I was on my way. I just... came to make sure you're okay." 

Marco leaned a shoulder against the bunk-post, looking down at him. "How bad?"

"On a scale from one to 'I never want to show my face again,' we're hovering around 'please launch me off the Wall.'"

"So... pretty bad?" Marco asked. 

Jean made a strangled little noise. "She told me to give it to 'someone else'. She wasn't even cruel about it. Just... someone else who isn't her."

"Oh. That sucks. I'm sorry, Jean." Carmen said quietly. No jokes. No teasing. 

He let out a breath that trembled on the way out. "What's he got that I don't?"

Marco's brow furrowed. "Jean—"

"I'm serious," Jean pushed, raising both arms in a helpless gesture. "What does he have? He's an idiot half the time and she—" His throat bobbed. "She looks at him like he hung the damn moon."

Carmen eased down onto the bunk, careful not to jostle him. "It's not about what you don't have. It's about..." she began, thoughtfully. "What they already do. That whole situation started way before you walked into that messhall."

"Yeah," Marco added gently "You're not losing to someone 'better'. You're losing to history. That's different."

Jean glared up at the slats above, eyes burning in away he refused to acknowledged. "Still feels like losing."

"Yeah and it sucks." Carmen muttered. "But, it's not because you are not enough. You were... nice, sweet. You thought about her. And Mikasa actually looked surprised. Almost... appreciative. Right, Marco?"

Jean's gaze darted to Carmen. "She did not."

"She did." Marco said with a smile. "For a second, she actually looked at you. You must have missed it because you were sweating so much."

"Great." Jean groaned. "Guess I'm just a damp cautionary tale."

"Hey, could have been much worse. At least you tried, right?" Carmen offered.

He didn't answer. 

The quiet lingered.

Carmen glanced at Marco, who met her eyes — a small, wordless exchange of concern passed between them. Marco's brow furrowed just a little. Carmen's shoulders dropped, and she gave the faintest nod, like she understood something unspoken.

Carmen stood, dragging a hand through her hair. "Well, if I don't get back soon, someone's gonna report me again and I'll be running laps in my socks."

She paused at the edge of the bunk and looked down at Jean. "Don't get down on yourself, Kirstein. Someone out there's gonna love you, sweaty chocolate and all."

Marco hummed in agreement.

Carmen took a few steps toward the door, and tossed a crooked grin over her shoulder. "I mean, I would have loved chocolate," she added. "But I'll just treasure the squashed flower Reiner flung my way earlier."

Jean blinked. "You're joking."

Carmen's laugh rang out, bright and unbothered. She waved as she reached the door. "Goodnight."

"Night, Carmen." Marco called as the door clicked shut behind her.

He glanced back at Jean and gave the bunkframe a tap with his knuckles. "Get some sleep mate. Tomorrow's gonna suck worse if you don't. And— she's right. Someone's gonna see you for who you are."

Jean grumbled and rolled to face the wall, tugging the blanket up over his shoulder. The room sank into a hush, save for the creak of bunkwood and the soft shift of blankets around him. The lanterns burned low, casting lazy amber ribbons along the wall.

Marco's footsteps faded.

Jean closed his eyes.

Someone out there's gonna love you.

Carmen's voice drifted in, uninvited but stubborn.

He sighed, long and quiet.

"...Yeah," he muttered, barely audible. "Maybe."

~•○●🤎●○•~

Years later, Valentine's Day still sucked. 

Jean walked through Scout HQ in the early hours, doing everything in his power not to glance at the red and pink hearts that clung to the walls, scrawled with some half-faded sentiment: Be mine. Yours 4ever. Still alive? Great, let's kiss. 

He had one goal in mind. Coffee. And to not think about the humiliated sting Valentine's Day always dragged up. 

He rounded a corner and a hand slammed into his chest. 

He rocked back a step. "What the fu—"

Sasha stood in front of him like a human barricade, feet planted, eyes narrowed with suspicious purpose.

"There you are," Sasha huffed, like he'd personally inconvenienced her. "Connie, I told you not to let him get this far!"

"I tried!" Connie jogged to a stop, slightly out of breath. "He walks fast when he's brooding—"

"I am not brooding," Jean snapped automatically.

Sasha ignored him. She dug into her pocket, pulled out a folded strip of dark cloth, and shoved it into his hands.

"Blindfold, now."

Jean stared at it. Then at her. "...No."

"Yes," Sasha insisted, curling his fingers around it until he was holding it. "Put it on."

"I'm not tying random fabric around my face because you told me to," Jean argued. "I've survived too much crap to die of whatever this is."

Sasha let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Jean. It's a surprise. A nice one. For once in your emotionally stunted life, can you just cooperate?"

"No."

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder without looking away from him. "If you don't, Connie has been ordered to follow you all day and serenade you into insanity."

Connie perked up immediately. With terrifying speed, he reached into his pocket and yanked out a fistful of crumpled flower petals— he flung them into the air like a man summoning a demon.

"VALENTINE'S!" He sung. 

Petals rained down like a sad, botanical confetti.

Then he cleared his throat with theatrical flair. "Verse one of six!"

"You wouldn't," Jean snarled, eyes narrowing.

"When the wall crumbled, so did my heart...!" Connie belted, with entirely too much conviction. "But your love patched it like military tarp...!"

Jean flinched. "No. Nope. Stop."

"I'd trade my last rations, my boots and my pride...! To hold your hand at sunset on the westside—!"

"Fine, fine, just shut it!" Jean hissed.

 He closed his eyes for a long, suffering moment.

"...I hate this day," he muttered under his breath, ducking his head. He pulled the fabric across his eyes, fingers worked the knot at the back of his head. The world narrowed to darkness and the sound of his irritated breathing. 

"Alright, let's move." Sasha whispered, her hand looping at his elbow. 

Connie whispered back, "Mission: Get Jean laid— commence."

"Connie—!"

"Emotionally!" Connie corrected quickly, "Emotionally, laid."

They marched Jean through HQ.

Sasha kept a firm grip on his elbow, steering him with the grim determination of someone escorting a prisoner. Connie supplied unhelpful commentary the entire way.

"Step. Step. Tiny step. Bigger step. Okay, now there's a wall—"

Jean's shoulder bumped stone. "Connie."

"Nailed it," Connie whispered.

The blindfold turned everything into muffled echo and shifting drafts. Jean tried to track their direction— left turn, right turn, stairs? But it all blurred into the same rhythm of boots on stone and Sasha occasionally yanking him out of the way of something or someone she apparently saw too late.

"Keep going forward." Sasha said. "We've got you."

Somehow, that didn't make him feel better.

They finally slowed. A hinge creaked low with a complaint. Cooler air brushed his face as they guided him over the threshold.

The smell hit him first.

Ink. Old paper. Dust and something faintly chemical. 

Jean frowned under the blindfold. "If this is Hange's office and I end up as part of an experiment, I swear to—"

"Sit," Sasha ordered.

A chair scraped across the floor in front of him. Four hands landed on his shoulders at once and pushed him down before he could protest.

He hit the seat with a grunt. "What's going on?"

"Hands on your knees," Connie said, like he was running a drill. "If you peek, I go straight to verse two."

Jean's jaw clenched. "You remember there are weapons in this building, right?"

Their voices lowered, turning into excited murmurs just out of his hearing.

He caught snippets. A muffled giggle. Then the soft clink of porcelain kissing wood.

Clink.

Clink.

Something was set down in front of him.

Steam brushed his face a second later, warm and fragrant.

Jean drew in a cautious breath despite himself.

Coffee. Definitely coffee. Strong, familiar.

But under it— something else. Rich, edged with onion and herb and something that tugged at a memory so old it hurt a little. His fingers curled against his knees.

No way.

"Okay, let's go— Connie—!" Sasha hissed quietly. 

Footsteps shifted. A laugh stifled. The door creaked again, and their voices bled out into the corridor. 

The room settled around him. Silent. The kind that made him too aware of his own pulse.

"This better not be a prank." Jean muttered, irritation prickling under his skin. "If there is a bucket above my head, I'll end the whole regiment I swear—"

Silence answered him.

And then—

Hands rested gently against his shoulder. Someone leaned in close, close enough that he felt the ghost of a breath against the side of his neck. 

"At ease, soldier," Carmen murmured right by his ear. 

Every hair on the back of his neck stood up. 

Heat flared beneath his skin in a sharp, traitorous rush. Goosebumps chased it a second later. His spine went rigid like his body couldn't decide whether to flinch or lean back into her. 

"...Carm?" his voice came out rougher than he meant to. 

He hadn’t seen her properly in days — just quick crossings in corridors, half-smiles thrown over shoulders before she disappeared around another corner.

The blindfold loosened and fell away.

Jean squinted as light stung his eyes. The world returned in pieces — first the glow of the room, then the warm brush of air against his cheek.

The first thing he saw was Carmen.

She stood beside him, hair slightly mussed, a few strands sticking loose from her braid like she'd rushed to finish it. Her cheeks were flushed, and she twisted the blindfold between her fingers as if unsure what else to do with her hands. Her eyes kept flicking — to him, then somewhere just in front of him, then back again.

His gaze swept past her.

It was Hange's office, alright. Stacks of paper crowded the shelves, ink bottles clustered near diagrams pinned crookedly to the wall. A set of goggles dangled off the corner of a chair like they'd been tossed there in a hurry.

Then he looked at the desk in front of him.

A chipped little vase sat near the center — a few wildflowers drooped over the rim in pale yellows, vibrant purples, and delicate whites with crooked stems. Not perfect, but carefully chosen.

Two steaming mugs of coffee sat opposite on the desk. 

And then—

Two plates.

He leaned forward.

A warm, golden mound rested in its center — folded, slightly cracked, its surface still glistening. A thick red sauce was spooned on top, deep and glossy, studded with specks of onion and something green. The sauce had run just slightly, pooling at the bottom edge like it had been poured with a trembling hand. On the side, a small scoop of vegetables — arranged neatly, like someone had tried to make them look presentable.

The smell hit him fully now.

Cooked tomato. Herbs. Buttery. Onion. Egg.

It knocked the breath from his lungs.

An omelette.

Not just an omelette.

His mother's omelette.

He didn't even realize he was staring until Carmen shifted beside him.

"Uh... surprise?" she said softly, her smile pulling nervous at the edges.

Jean blinked down at the plate.

Then up at her.

"...Wait. What is this?"

Carmen froze, the blindfold still twisted between her fingers.

Her voice kicked up a notch-rushed, breathless.

"Well.... I mean, it's an omelette." Her eyes flicked to the plate, then back to him. "Technically, your omelette. Your mum's been teaching me, but apparently you're, like, really specific about your omelettes? Like... she said you can tell if the eggs are whisked wrong?"

Jean stared.

"Mrs. Kirstein taught me to whisk it in little circles so it got frothy, but not bubbly. Frothy," she emphasized, flustered. "That's where I've been. Trost. Whisking eggs. For a week. So I could give you—" She gestured at the plate, then the flowers, then vaguely at everything.

Her cheeks were burning.

"I asked Hange if we could use their office for breakfast— thought you wouldn't want to be in the mess hall this morning. Hence the..." she waved the blindfold in the air, "...the kidnapping. And the— um yeah."

Jean didn't even blink. His lips parted.

She trailed off, swallowed then drew in a steady breath.

"I know you hate Valentine's Day," she said quietly. "I know why. But it's meant to be about celebrating someone you love. Someone who matters."

"And I just wanted you to know..." Her voice dipped, softer now.

"...that you are loved."

She gave him the smallest smile — shy and hopeful, like she'd just stepped off a ledge and was waiting to see if he would catch her.

"So um... do you...do you like it?"

He didn't answer right away.

Couldn't.

His gaze dropped to the desk again.

The eggs whisked just the way he liked, because she'd taken the time to learn how.

The coffee, black with a hint of sugar, exactly how he takes it.

The wildflowers crooked in the vase, but carefully picked, because she... thought of him.

The sheer amount of care on display — the effort, the thought — the way each thing said over and over again, you matter.

It all burned away that old, familiar ache Valentine's Day always brought.

The one that whispered—

You're never the first choice.

You'll will never be seen.

No one will ever pick you.

But Carmen had.

When he looked back up, she was watching him with that same nervous smile, her hands still fidgeting. And suddenly, he could breathe again.

His voice came quieter than he meant it to, almost like the question had slipped out before he could catch it.

"You did this... for me?"

Her eyebrows rose slightly, as if the question surprised her.

"Of course I did."

Warmth flared in his chest— not just heat, but light. Like something sacred had been lit behind his sternum.

He pushed to his feet before he'd fully decided to move.

The chair scraped back sharply, making Carmen flinch. The blindfold slipped from her grip and curled at her feet. 

"I uh— if you don't like it, I can make something else?" She blurted out. "We can go to the mess hall? Or throw this out the window if you like? It's totally fine. It's no where near as good as what your mum can do. Pretty sure I over did the onions..."

"Carm." He cut in, low. 

He stepped toward her. Reaching.

His hands found her elbows first — fingers curling there, tentative. He paused, eyes searching hers, offering her a moment to pull away.

She didn't.

Just watched him.

Soft. Wide eyed. Awestruck.

Like she was looking at something precious.

Like he was something precious.

Jean's hands rose slowly along her arms, fingertips tracing upward through the fabric of her sleeves.

He dipped his head, just slightly, stepping into her space.

He guided her arms higher as he tipped beneath them, shoulders rolling forward, drawing them around his neck like he was placing himself exactly where he belonged.

A silent, aching request. Hold me now.

Her fingers tightened instinctively in the fabric at his back.

And then his arms came around her — wrapping fully around her waist as he straightened, rising back to his full height and gathering her against him.

Carmen rose onto her toes, chin settling on his shoulder. A soft hum left her, warm and completely content.

The frantic thrum beneath his ribs eased as she pressed closer, holding him tighter.

Jean let out a shaky breath, eyes falling shut. He turned into her, nestling into the curve of her neck like it was the only safe place left in the world.

The familiar scent of lavender clung to her skin, laced with cooking herbs and the salt of sweat. It curled through him, soothing every knot in his body as he breathed her in.

"You should eat," Carmen murmured, almost apologetic. "Before it gets cold."

He gave a small, stubborn shake of his head, breath warm against the slope of her shoulder, lips grazing her skin as he spoke.

"Just... a few more minutes."

He used to think one glance could undo him.

And maybe that had been true — once.

Carmen was never moonlight on still water. She was never distant, untouchable, devastating in her silence.

Carmen was sunlight through frostbitten windows.

She thawed the space beneath his ribs and sparked something radiant in its place.

She wasn't the kind of beauty that undid him — she was the kind that made him whole.

Not a dream. Not a distant hope. Not a maybe.

Here. Real. Warm. Home.

Carmen shifted gently, her fingers threading into the hair at his nape. Her nose brushed the curve of his ear as she smiled.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Jean."

He didn't answer right away.

He just held her tighter.

Because in that moment, between her heartbeat and his, Jean Kirstein realized—

He was deeply and irrevocably, in love with her.

~•○●🤎●○•~

Thank you for reading! Drop a comment or a like if you liked it! 👉👈